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

Hale rolled his head over to look at him. “Really, kid?”

Duval and his partner kept coming, but the guide with the umbrellas got in their way. The three collided. Clara ran into the bushes—safe, if only for a moment.

The French cops both had guns. Ben had left his in the go-bag, in the woods outside the gate. He needed a weapon.

Ben and Hale stared each other down. The colonel pressed his lips together, pushing out the salt-and-pepper gristle on his chin. “Don’t be stupid, kid. Sensen’s here to protect me, not kill you. Don’t give him a reason.”

They both made their moves. The colonel went for the Glock. Ben chose to use the weapon already in his hands. He thrust his open umbrella into Hale’s chest, stabbing him with the dull point and trapping his hand with the taut black fabric. The umbrella also obscured Hale’s view, and Ben took full advantage. Still pushing, he kicked a heel into the inside of Hale’s knee.

The colonel wouldn’t go down that easy. But Ben didn’t want him to go down. He needed a shield. With Hale off-balance, Ben steered him to the platform’s east rail, cutting off Sensen’s sightline from the FIFA.

Hale fought back. He threw wild punches with his free arm. Ben blocked them all and kept him pinned against the rail. Within seconds, he had a hand inside the colonel’s jacket. He threw a final vengeful punch through the umbrella fabric into Hale’s solar plexus, and backed away, leveling the Glock. He crouched low, still wary of Sensen.

The grimace on his mentor’s face gave Ben a measure of satisfaction.

Both men blinked and squinted in the rain. Hale wheezed. “You said . . . you had intel.”

“Sea Titan Cargo. Valencia, Spain. Behemoth. Jupiter. Take a look.” Ben grabbed the rail and vaulted over.

A shot split the rain-soaked air. Birds and bats launched themselves from every tree. Ben caught the rope of the plank bridge under his armpits, body swinging, desperately holding on to the Glock. He dropped again. Branches whipped at his face. Another shot rang out. This time, glass shattered above. Ben landed with a painful splat in mud and rotting leaves.

“Calix!” Duval and his friend blocked the path to the exit, weapons up. Duval fired.

A broad leaf split to his right, and Ben rolled deeper into the dubious green cover. He felt a tug at his elbow. He swung a left, but pulled the punch when he saw Clara lying next to him in the dirt.

Rain dripped down her face. “You’re in danger.”

“I’m in danger? You’re the one in danger. I left you and that dumb dog in Luxembourg for a reason. Tell me Sensen didn’t order you to stay put.”

“Of course he did, at gunpoint. Come on. We need to go.”

She jumped to her feet, and Ben followed. He pushed her into a crouching run as a trio of bullets sliced the foliage around them. “Why didn’t you listen to him? You never listen. You never stay put.”

“But Sensen came to kill you. This is a trap.”

“My whole life is a trap.”

A plan formed. With all the bullets flying, Ben didn’t have time to hunt for the zookeeper access points hidden in the dome’s concrete foundation, and he didn’t want to. For once, he needed Duval. He grabbed Clara’s hand. “Run!”

They sprinted straight down the path toward the exit, with Ben firing the Glock the whole way. Ten rounds for two opponents might sound like good odds. They weren’t. Ben wished Hale had brought a bigger gun with a bigger magazine.

The zookeeper buried his head, and the French cops split, diving into the bushes. Ben kept shooting to keep them pinned, leaving a trail of cordite and sulfur hanging in the air behind him until the Glock answered his pulls with sickening, empty clicks. He chucked the weapon into a fishpond and pushed Clara ahead through the vinyl.

She went for the double doors, but he steered her back into the entryway’s corner and pressed a finger to his lips.

Clara shot him a glare for all the manhandling.

He mouthed, I’m sorry.

They waited.

Hot air pounded them from a stack of heaters—a flowing barrier to keep all the tropical creatures safe from the alpine cold. In the time compression caused by the adrenaline flowing through his system, it occurred to Ben that his presence had rendered the barrier useless. At least one glass panel had been destroyed in the gunfight, possibly by Sensen. How many birds and bats were now hurtling free into the frigid mountain air?

Duval came through the vinyl first, focused on the exit. Ben let him pass and threw a head-level elbow at the form coming through next. Crack. Duval’s partner screamed.

Ben let the partner fall, gasping and groaning, and wheeled a fist at Duval. The French cop spun, predictably, and caught the back of Ben’s knuckles with his face. A tug-of-war for the gun might send a stray bullet into Clara. Instead, Ben dropped his left fist hard onto Duval’s wrist, and the weapon fell. Ben kicked it away, out of sight beneath the heaters.

A knife came out. Duval was no slouch.

Before Ben could react, Clara moved in and grabbed the Frenchman’s arm. She gave it a twist worthy of the schoolhouse defense course and jammed the knife against the doorframe, knocking it from his hand. Nice. Ben let her do her thing and drummed the guy’s temple with three rapid rights. He saw Duval’s knees buckling.

“Enough,” he said, nodding for Clara to back off. He spun Duval around and locked an arm through both elbows. He needed a shield.

The vinyl rustled. The partner. Too bad. From their limited contact, Ben kind of liked the guy, but he couldn’t afford to let him follow. He kicked backward and heard another scream. He motioned to Clara. “Stay behind me.”

“Why?”

“Sniper.”

“Oh. Right.”

The first bullet came flying the instant Ben pushed Duval through the doors.

44

Sensen’s first