The Paris Betrayal James Hannibal (free ereaders TXT) 📖

side, close to the path. But she saw them before the blast, not after.” He shifted his gaze to Renard. “She saw Calix using some kind of remote control.”

Duval had not met any jogger. He had not debased himself by canvassing for witnesses in years. But her imaginary statement tweaked the narrative to fit his objective.

Renard dutifully recorded every word in his notebook. “Name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your witness. The jogger.” The sergeant held his pen poised at the ready. “I need her name.”

“She wished to remain anonymous.”

“But, Capitaine—”

“She wants to stay out of it, Renard. Is this so much to ask in exchange for her help? Attribute her observations to the caretaker. One witness is all we need in this case.”

Chatter interrupted them from the radio on Renard’s belt. The sergeant snapped his notebook closed and answered. After a few moments of discussion, he lowered it again. “Chaville’s lieutenant says his units are spread thin. He wants us to call in reinforcements from Le Chesnay and Versailles.”

“They’re not available.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

“But we have not even checked.”

Duval picked up the damaged mirror and held it before his partner’s face. “Look what he did to you.” He shoved it closer, making sure Renard saw the dirty tape across his nose and the yellowed circles under his eyes in the shattered reflection. “That is Calix’s work, or have you forgotten?”

Renard swallowed, shaking his head. “I have not forgotten.”

“Then do you want some shoddy municipal police force to catch our man? Or do you want to be the one to bring him in?” He let the mirror fall to the grass. “You and me.”

Renard signaled his agreement by relaying Duval’s message over the radio. No reinforcements. When finished, he asked a hesitant question. “Capitaine, the jogger’s statement about Calix and the remote control is important. If the caretaker can’t confirm it, won’t we need her for the trial?”

Duval turned away again to watch the firefighters battle the blaze. “There’s not going to be any trial.”

24

A sniper’s primary defense is concealment. Stay hidden. Remain a ghost. Be the bogeyman. His second defense is distance. The shooter with the longer reach usually wins. The smart shooters choose to live in places offering plenty of both. What’s a sniper when he’s at home? In a word—deadly.

Ben left the trail and walked uphill through the tall pines, aware of every dry needle that snapped under the weight of his steps—aware each step might be his last.

À vos risques et périls.

At your own peril.

He knelt, one leg at a time, and stretched his body out to crawl the last five meters to the top of a low ridge. Slowly—ever so slowly—he pushed a couple of rocks aside to improve his view.

A canted valley ran left to right before him, descending and widening to the west to offer a commanding view of Luxembourg’s lower hills. To the east, the valley narrowed and climbed until its two ridges met in a level hilltop where a chalet stood, once an old ruin like the castle on the road below. On Ben’s last visit, Sensen had described a three-year effort to restore the chalet stone by stone, including its square tower. The Peugeot’s arrival at the graveyard had likely triggered an alarm. By now, Sensen would be lying in his tower, finger on the trigger.

With his gaze, Ben traced an imaginary line up the valley to the chalet. Four hundred meters, the most dangerous quarter mile of his life. He checked the western sky. Almost time.

Keep moving.

He slid his body over the ridge, heading about a third of the way down before turning east and crawling along the downrange side of a fallen log. Running along the ridgetop among the bare trunks of the pines, silhouetted against the sky, would have been suicide.

Splinters of rotting bark showered Ben’s neck, sending him into motion before the sound of the gunshot caught up. He rolled right, pressed up to his feet, and ran. “That didn’t take long.”

He sprinted for a bear-sized boulder, but a second shot split the rock face and steered him the other way. Ben had no choice but to dive headlong into a muddy furrow. He lay there, arms covering his head, waiting for the echoes to quiet.

When he dared to breathe again, Ben noticed an olive drab box lying in the furrow with him, not much bigger than a deck of cards. A camera box? Maybe. A mine? Not Sensen’s style. Other than a splatter of mud from Ben’s dive, the box looked unmolested by the forest. It hadn’t been there long. Inching closer, he saw cursive writing on the top, in black Magic Marker.

Open me.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Ever since his phone went haywire in Paris, Ben had been fighting the feeling he’d fallen down a rabbit hole. This confirmed it.

Curiosity bested his caution, and he picked the thing up, willing it not to explode. Inside, he found a wireless earpiece and a note.

Wear me.

Ben wiped his fingers clean on his sleeve and pressed the device into his ear. “Hey there, Willy.”

A slug lodged itself into the furrow’s edge, inches above Ben’s shoulder, followed by the crack of the weapon almost four hundred meters up the valley. “Don’t call me Willy.” Sensen spoke impeccable English, barely tinted by a German accent. “You know I hate it.”

“Yeah, I know. Nice trick with the box.”

“Thank you.”

“How many did you place?”

“Just the one. You’re so predictable.”

Another gunshot reminded Ben to keep still. “I placed the box the day I arrived home from Paris. I’ve been waiting for you ever since. You came up the valley, I drove you into that mud. Easy.”

“So, why am I still alive?” Ben pressed his body deeper into the mud, scanning what little he could see of the forest. No escape routes. “You can’t expect me to believe Paris was a legitimate miss.”

“Not a miss. A message. You’re cut off, Calix. Leave. Go home. But first, answer a question. What did you do?”

Cut off. The Company had