The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (beach read .TXT) 📕

from a northbound train to its southbound counterpart. Any stranger matching such antics is up to no good.

Ben had run a hasty SDR before picking up his file by circling the Louvre. For the post-pickup SDR he took his time. He hopped on the metro at Pyramides, rode the same line in two directions, then walked a meandering route into the labyrinth of old buildings west of Les Invalides. He picked a dead-end alley with no vehicle access, rested his back against the limestone blocks of an old apartment building, and flipped his hand over to check the phone.

The motion brought the screen to life. A little blue box shifted into view.

1 new file: 256 mb

Big file. A new mission? If the Company sent him out again, he’d miss his chance to see Giselle outside of a professional context—or at all, if they didn’t put her on the team. Ben glanced up at the narrow strip of gray sky visible between the buildings. “Thanks, Boss.”

A numbing flash of electricity coursed up his arm. Ben dropped his phone and watched it fall, sparking and popping, to the cobblestones. The screen had gone black. He bent to recover it. “What on—”

A bullet ricocheted off the wall where his head had been an instant before.

Sniper.

Instincts kicked in. Ben stayed low and ran. A second round hit the wall. A third. Flecks of centuries-old limestone grazed his cheeks and neck.

Thought fragments flashed through his mind.

Kids playing tag.

The boy.

The lamppost.

Elvis.

Corrupted file.

Burning phone.

Another round clipped the corner as Ben reached Rue des Archives and turned, breaking the sniper’s sightline. He kept running.

His pickup had been substandard, sure, but not bad enough to send him into a sniper’s crosshairs. He’d done his penance with a long SDR, checking for tails. How could this happen?

He vaulted a stone barrier, landed in a half-controlled tumble on the river walk ten feet below, and sprinted west. None of this made sense, but one crystal-clear thought overshadowed the rest. Ben was blown.

9

Bleach erases. Fire destroys.

Another of Colonel Hale’s pearls of Company wisdom hung before Ben’s vision. Erase biological signatures. Destroy equipment. Slash and burn. Leave nothing for the enemy.

Ben removed his coat to change his profile as he passed under the bridge and came out the other side at a walk. The sniper had shot him from above. A high perch inside a building made post-ambush pursuit a near impossibility. Ben had breathing space, but not much, and he’d have to work fast.

Like Hale said, slash and burn.

Every Company field operative installed a cleaning kit at home base—incendiary cords in the drywall, electromagnets in the computer desk, bags of bleach with explosive squibs in key DNA collectors like the bathroom and bed area. Standard procedure, but Ben had brought the skill and attention to detail of a childhood spent in a cabinetmaker’s workshop to the task. He’d crafted a seamless and invisible system with a trigger linked to a panic function on his phone.

Except the enemy had killed his phone.

He’d need to activate the kit manually. Stopping by the flat on his way out of town might prove deadly, but recovering his go-bag and erasing his life here were both worth the risk.

The sniper had given Ben no chance to go for his weapon. He refused to be caught unprepared twice in the same day. Entering his building’s stairwell, he drew the third-generation Glock 42 from his waistband holster and hid it under the coat folded over his arm.

A blue-haired girl came down the steps, holding a dachshund close to her chest. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Jacob.” Her Slovakian heritage colored her English, which—as she had told Ben when they first met—she spoke better than French. The girl, Clara Razny, knew him by his local cover name Jacob Roy, a wool salesman from Montreal.

Ben didn’t have time for this. “Winter sales route. Lots of stops. Big time of year for wool.” He tried to squeeze past.

She didn’t let him, tilting her head and shoulders to block. Ice-blue eyes looked up into his. “We could get something later, if you like. No need to cook if you’re worn out.” The dachshund lifted its head from her forearm, eyes pleading for the extra evening company.

“Not tonight, Clara. Maybe another time.”

She always asked. He always declined. After this it wouldn’t matter.

“Yes.” Clara set the dog down at the base of the steps. “Another time.”

He almost laughed. She’d never see him again.

At the landing four flights up, the entrance to his floor stood ajar. He nudged it open with a foot, standing to the side. The door let out an awful creak. Ben winced, then leaned to the side to take a peek. Movement. A woman and child walked toward the exit at the hall’s opposite end. He waited until they were clear.

His flat remained locked. Maybe the sniper had acted alone. Maybe whatever agency had taken a shot at him only knew about the lamppost.

Unlikely.

How had they defeated his SDR? How had the sniper gotten into place so fast?

Ben put an ear to the door. He heard a rustle, almost imperceptible, but enough to confirm his fears of a lurking intruder. He laid his coat to the side, let out a long breath, and silently turned his key.

Here we go.

With a stiff bump from his shoulder, the door flew open. He let the Glock lead the charge over the threshold. A flash of black drew his eyes left. Gun? No. A baton. Sparks crackled, burning into the back of his hand. His arm went numb to the shoulder, but still he managed to cling to his weapon.

A gloved hand seized Ben’s shirt and spun him ninety degrees, bringing him nose to nose with the Dutchman he’d faced in Rome—Hagen, according to the whispered conversation he’d overheard at the Pantheon.

“You,” Ben grunted. He tried to raise the Glock. His arm wouldn’t budge. “I thought I killed you.”

Hagen only smiled. He held Ben at arm’s length and raised the baton, ready