Corsican Death (19 page)

He crawled, keeping away from the doorway, heading into darkness, hearing the sound of the car grow louder and louder. They’re shooting out there, too, he thought I’m in the middle. Can’t go back, don’t even know if I should go forward. No choice. Keep on keeping on.

He crawled, looking quickly over his shoulder, seeing the gunmen in the huge room shift position, hearing them shout to each other..

The MAB 9mm was tight in his right fist, blood coating the dark steel. He didn’t have many shots left, but he was going to make them count, right until you can’t fight anymore. Your life’s at stake. There’s no better reason for fighting.

The narc crawled into darkness.

“Johnny! Johnny!”

The Citroën, back door open, motor running, stopped at the edge of the courtyard, just feet away from a darkened arch of the monastery.

Bolt’s head snapped up. Dinard. That lovable little bastard. Bolt could kiss him.

The narc staggered out of the darkness, gun hand hanging down, arms and stomach still bleeding. Dinard shouted. “Quick, quick!”

Bolt ran to the car, stomach rising and falling with heavy, pained breathing, and in seconds he was inside, lying across the back seat, feeling its softness on his bare skin.

Tires squealed, and the car pulled away, aiming for the open gate, speeding past men and dogs lying still in the moonlit courtyard. The Citroën’s back door flapped wildly, banging against the sides of the bullet-Marced car.

The gate. Men crouched near it, firing at the car. Jean-Paul yelled, “Hold on!” His thick lower lip had disappeared as he gritted his teeth and floored the accelerator again. Come on, old car, just a little bit more.

Bolt, sitting up now, felt air rush through shattered windows and chill his bare back and chest. He gripped the back of the front seat with his left hand, feeling the old car bump, jerk, and still speed, still squeeze out its last energy as though knowing the lives of three men depended on it.

The crouching guards fired, and Roger Dinard stiffened, sat up straight in his seat, and turned to Jean-Paul, slumping on him, mouth open and sucking in air.

“Dinard! Dinard!” Bolt screamed at the slumped fat man, seeing the blood on his chest, seeing the man’s head flop back and forth, from side to side. Dinard, in a pained fog, heard his name as his head slumped forward down to his chest.

Bolt, white-hot hate in him, dived across the back seat and as the car sped through the torn-open gate, its open back door was even with crouching guards spinning around for another shot at it.

Bolt fired again and again, as fast as he could, the orange flames lighting up his twisted, contorted face, magnifying the hatred he felt for Lonzu and his men. The car left the ground, stayed in the air for brief seconds, then came down and spun to the right, straightening out and heading across the valley, toward the highway.

Bolt, turning to look behind him, saw the bodies of the two guards, saw one rise on an elbow, then flop back and lie still. Fuck you where you breathe, the narc thought.

The car kept speeding, back door flapping and banging against the side. Bolt, leaning forward, felt Dinard’s neck with his hand, desperate for a pulse, a sign of life.
Come on, little man, come on.

Jean-Paul turned from the road, his face lined with worry. He shouted, “Is he …?”

The big cop wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

The giant 747 taxied to a stop. A black car pulled up beside it Close behind the car, an airport truck braked slowly, hauling a ramp behind it.

The truck pulled around the car, backing the ramp up to the plane. When the ramp was in place, the plane’s door swung open and a tall, lean black man dressed in brown leather, hat to boots, carrying a brown leather shoulder bag, stepped out, turned and smiled at the stewardesses, who waved and smiled back at him.

When the black man started down the steps, the door was pulled shut. No one else got off. Holding his leather hat down on his head against the early-morning April winds, the black man stepped down the ramp and ran toward the car.

He got inside, and before he could close the door, the car sped off, tires squealing against the concrete runway.

In the back seat of the car, the black man—D-3 agent Kramer—smiled at John Bolt, who turned around in the front seat, holding up both of his bandaged hands. “Hey, John, what’s shakin’? Where you get them hands, my man? Hey, why the change? Anything wrong? Who’s the cat drivin’?”

“Hey, hey, K, cool it. Meet Jean-Paul. French cop and righteous dude. The best. He’s a brother. Look, I ain’t got time to answer everything, but let me tell you this. We’re on our way to catch another plane, and—”

“Right now?” Kramer frowned. Shit, he wanted to see Paris, where Frenchmen had themselves a natural ball. “Hey, my man—”

“K, listen, O.K.? You got company, but you don’t want to meet them. That’s why Jean-Paul here pulled strings and had your plane taxi over here. It’s going down bad. They’re hipped to me
and
they’re waiting for you at the terminal.”

“
They?
”

“Lonzu’s people. They’re waiting to kill you.”

“Oh shit. Oh man. Hey—”

“We’re going to London; plane leaves in five minutes. Alain Lonzu’s due there maybe tonight, early tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything on the way over.” Kramer frowned, biting his lower lip. Man, this was a heavy scene. He wasn’t in Paris long enough to take a pee and somebody was trying to blow him away, and now he was on his way to London. Fuck London. What the hell was going down, Jim?

“Hey, John, hey, man, what’s happenin’?”

“You wouldn’t fucking believe it. I don’t know where to begin, but … Hey, we’re here, we’re at the plane. Jean-Paul will cop your baggage and send it on to D-3 in London.” The car stopped near a waiting plane.

Kramer nodded, eyes on Jean-Paul, who had to be the ugliest-looking dude Kramer had seen all year. Man looked like he been whupped with an ugly stick. But he also looked like the kind of cat you don’t fuck with unless you are tired of living. Kramer, thirty-two, a former schoolteacher in Alabama, and an agent for the past six years, had seen a lot of tough dudes, and the cat behind the wheel qualified. Man got “mean” written all over him.

Bolt turned to the big man. What can you say to a man like Jean-Paul, a man who saved your life, who went down into hell
with
you and
for
you. A fucking shame about his dogs. Sick bastard, whoever did it. God help that dude’s butt when Jean-Paul got to him.

“Jean-Paul, I, Jesus, man, I just don’t know what to say.”

The big ugly man smiled. “Say good-bye, my friend. Besides, French authorities will be glad to see you go.”

“Roger …”

“Is all right. His arm will be stiff, and Edith will be glad. He’s home now, and she can rule him with her cooking. She’s ashamed of what she did.”

“I can understand.” I don’t like it, thought the narc, but I can understand it.

“Tell Roger I owe him. And you, big man, you’re beautiful and you’re the greatest fucking driver in France. I love you, you bastard.”

Bolt leaned over, kissed the ugly man on the cheek, and they smiled at each other. Good-byes are a bitch, thought Bolt, and I’ll never get used to them. “If I’ve got time, after London, I’ll come back, maybe get a few days off.”

Jean-Paul grinned. He hated good-byes. They were more pain than anything else. Why were they necessary?

“Stay alive, Johnny. You worry about that.”

Yeah, thought Bolt. Worry about that. “Hang loose, Jean-Paul.” Bolt turned from the big ugly man and stepped out on the runway, feeling the pain of leaving good friends who might get killed because of the heroin trade.

On board the London-bound plane, Kramer said softly, “That man back there got to be a
down
cat the way you treated him.”

Bolt stared out of the window. “Yeah, yeah. You could say that.” Times two, he thought. Him and a fat little man with a moustache and a chubby wife who cares for him a hell of a lot. Two down cats, righteous as the sun and as much family as a guy in my business is likely to find in this stinking, dope-happy world.

Time to go to work. He turned to Kramer, whose eyes were on Bolt’s bandaged hands. “O.K., brother, you want to know what went down?”

J
OHN BOLT SHIVERED IN
the chilly, damp London night, drawing the collar of his topcoat closer around his neck. Kramer stood beside him, still wearing the street-flashy, pimplike brown leather he’d worn in Paris earlier in the day. Both men were on the deck of the
La Rochelle
waiting for the search to be completed.

The search for Alain Lonzu was being conducted by British bobbies and plainclothesmen. So far, nothing. And it didn’t look as if anything was going to happen in the near future. Alain Lonzu was either hiding extremely well or he wasn’t on the ship at all.

Bolt’s teeth were chattering. London weather was the worst. Always raining, always damp, and at night you could freeze your ass off even in July.

“Got the feeling that lover’s long gone,” said Kramer. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, regretting he didn’t have a topcoat. His topcoat was probably still in Paris with the rest of his luggage.

“We got to go through the motions,” said Bolt. “Ship’s been in less than thirty minutes. Fucking shame it took us this long to get clearance to come on board.”

“Yeah, and even then we got to have these other dudes at our side.”

“It’s their country, K. Be tolerant.”

Kramer shrugged. “Man, they can keep this country. Give me New York, even with all that dogshit on the streets. Give me the Big Apple.”

“Yeah, well, keep your fingers crossed we grab this cat. He’s got a lot to give.”

“And Pepsi’s got a lot to live, or is it the other way around?”

“Who the fuck knows? Jesus, ain’t you cold?”

“Better believe it. Man, let them cats finish up, I’m tired of waiting around here. Shit, it smells down here.”

“It’s the waterfront, the Port of London. What do you expect?”

“Rose petals under my feet and a naked fat woman lying beside me at night. Oh, oh, here they come, y’all.”

Yeah, here they come.

Two bobbies and one plainclothesman walked over to Bolt. The plainclothes guy did the talking. “Sorry, sir. No one by that description’s on board. We’ve searched top to bottom.”

A polite cop, thought Bolt. What won’t they think of next? That English accent of his almost makes crime sound like good, clean fun. The inspector’s name was Castleman, and he had a pink face, a hooked nose, and he smiled politely all of the time. Bolt didn’t trust anyone who smiled like that all of the time.

“Nothing, huh?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Nothing.”

Get it straight, thought Bolt. How could we have missed him? Alain, you bastard, come out, come out, wherever you are. Your big brother lost some men last night, and he’s not one of my biggest fans, but is that any reason for us not to be friends? Come on, give a guy a chance, you cocksucker.

“Uh, this is Captain Girons. Captain Girons, Mr. John Bolt, of the American Department of Dangerous Drugs.” Castleman smiled and held it.

I feel like I’m being presented at court, thought Bolt. Well, now, what have we here?

“Captain—” Bolt began.

Girons interrupted him, speaking accented English. “I have nothing to say. You gentlemen have searched my ship. That is enough. Now, would you kindly leave before things get worse?”

He drew himself up to his full height. In the darkness he was impressive with his full beard and captain’s uniform. Every inch the commander.

“Hey,” said Bolt, annoyance all over his face, bandaged hands held palm-up. “Hear me out, will you?”

“I will not, sir. Good evening, and please leave my ship.” He bowed, offering his hand to Castleman, then to the two bobbies, who shook it as though Girons were a prince of the royal blood. When he offered his hand to Bolt, the narc sneered, but took it anyway, saying in a loud voice, “Thank you, Captain Girons, for nothing at all.”

Turning around, Girons walked across the deck into a small group of his sailors, and seconds later the group broke into laughter, all eyes on the small band of lawmen.

“Fucking garlic eaters,” mumbled Bolt out loud, turning and walking toward the gangplank.

“I beg your pardon?” said Castleman, smiling.

“Yeah,” said Bolt. And it’s none of your business, smiley.

Kramer shook his head. A long way to come for nothing.

In the back seat of the car, Bolt smiled, turning to Kramer. The two D-3 agents up front looked into the rear-view mirror. What the hell was with Bolt, smiling like he had just gotten laid? He hadn’t gotten laid, he had gotten screwed.

“The captain promise to let you steer?” asked Kramer, frowning.

Bolt’s grin was wider. “He shook my hand.”

The narc held up the small piece of paper pressed into his hand by Girons. “The dude shook my hand.”

Kramer grinned. “And you called that cat back there a garlic eater?”

Bolt looked at him in mock horror. “Who, me?”

“Yeah, you, my man. O.K., what’s on the paper?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Bolt, turning the paper left and right to catch the street light. “What’s on the paper? Let me see, here, yeah, some names. Names. Shana Johns. I told you about her, and let’s see what else. Well, well, well. My, my.”

“Oh shit,” said Kramer. “Lemme see that fucking thing.”

Paris.

The zoo keeper ran slowly on old, bowed legs, waddling from side to side, shaking his head. Somebody had just screamed, but maybe it wasn’t anything to worry about. People got locked in here every day after closing, and this place frightened them—the animals, the smell, and all of it coming at them out of darkness. “Aaaiiieee!”

The zoo keeper, whose name was Alfredo, stopped, cupping a hand to his ear, his mouth open, his mind trying to evaluate that scream. This scream tonight was different,
very
different.

Alfredo moved, more of a fast walk than a run. Sixty-nine years old. He was getting too old to do this, much too old.

He reached the lion house, where he thought he heard the scream. Inside, he stopped, eyes going wide, mouth dropping open farther and staying there. Oh, God, Jesus God!