To start at the beginning of the story go here. 

I left Lanzo at Petit Motos Moreau but didn’t go inside. I wasn’t sure how his uncle would feel about me and the trouble I kept bringing to his shop and I didn’t want to deal with that iron grip of his. Also, I was pretty sure he’d be on his way to passing out by now.

It was still early in the evening so I took a tram into Old Town. In its plastic hull, there was a certain comfort in the conditioned air, the quiet chatter of the increasing tourist crowd, and the locals who mostly stared at their phones. In that calm pool of mediocrity, I decided the next logical step would be to update Sartre.

This early in the evening the glass domes and doors of the casino were lit only by the marquee. I wasn’t technically wearing my uniform, but the white shirt and black pants I had on were close enough that I decided to use the employee entrance. Sure enough, no one stopped me and the staff I encountered didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary. I saw Thibault, who was quick enough to see something wasn’t quite right, but he just smiled his still broken smile and we passed each other with a friendly, “Bon jour.”

I headed towards the security station and skipped the check-in. The third shift change wouldn’t happen for a bit, so the rooms were quiet, with none of the usual shuffling of casino employees getting ready. In the dark of the back room, I found Jasper at his bank of security monitors with two other professional observers. I tapped each of the others on the shoulder with a hand holding the pack of Marlboros, two sticks pulled out as an offering. Both of them, competent middle-aged men who weren’t looking to change jobs any time soon, stared longingly at the cigarettes with only doubt restraining them.

Jasper came up from the electric haze of the monitors to see me standing there, then reassured his co-workers in quiet French that he could handle things for a few moments. When neither man budged Jasper said something quicker and raised a decibel enough that I could catch, “Gouverneur Nuit.” The two men fidgeted in their seats for a moment, glanced at each other, then took the cigarettes and headed outside.

I offered Jasper a smoke, which he waved away. Having to use the little weasel as a go-between was almost enough to make me wish I had skimped on my own operational security. But I wasn’t even willing to carry the mobile Mitnick had given me, so Jasper was still my best choice for reaching Sartre.

I put the cigarettes away, leaning forward to stare at the monitors. In the glow of the screens, I hovered my bulk over Jasper like some kind of alien craft floating in mid-atmosphere. It allowed me to be heard as I said quietly, “I need to get a message to Sartre.”

Jasper stared up at me, his features rigid, concealing his discomfort at our proximity with disdain. “And?”

I smiled, probably the first genuine smile I had given Jasper, grateful that he was allowing us to skip any preamble. I decided to play nice. “Please tell him,” I stopped, suddenly remembering that I wasn’t entirely certain that Jasper was only working for Sartre. Mitnick had hinted that he had more than one person in the casino on his payroll. Checking my internal machinery, I realized I only cared enough to barely veil what I had to say. “Tell him,” I repeated, “that me and the Idiots are moving forward with the plan.” I let my eyes wander over the screens for a few moments, then added, “We’ll need his help after we’ve secured the package.” Even in the light of the monitors, Jasper’s face brightened at the bit of spycraft dropped into his lap.

That lasted just long enough for me to break away from the monitors. Jasper’s face returned to its usual resting scorn, clearly unhappy at delivering such a short and cryptic message. I repressed an impulsive urge to slap him and kept my calm, adding, “Or you can just tell him I need to speak to him.”

Completely removing himself from the chain wasn’t what Jasper had in mind, though, and he dismissed the suggestion with another wave of his hand. “I will let him know.”

I said thanks and stood, bending the light of the screens around me as I did. Jasper waited until I moved to leave before he said, “The Russians have been searching for you.”

That got my attention. Not wanting to give him any satisfaction, I slowly rotated my battleship bulk back to him. As if I didn’t understand, I asked, “What’s that?”

Jasper was practically leering, but he didn’t waste time trying to lord the knowledge over me. He pointed towards one of the monitors, crisp and clear in its high definition. The live image was crowded with people, either moving or standing at one of the gambling tables. I wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary if it weren’t for Jasper’s incisive eye.

In the background, near one of the casino’s marble columns, was a man who stood out from the formal wear of the high-end gamblers and the gawking of the spectators watching them. The black of his now familiar faux-uniform (black jacket and pants, short cropped hair) made it inescapable that he was of one of the Russians. The monitor rendered a distinct enough picture that I thought I could even spot a tell-tale tattoo.

Whoever he was, he was either very lucky or smart enough to realize that every inch of the casino floor was covered by cameras and he had picked the spot that made him least conspicuous. I squinted my eyes, trying to determine if I recognized him from the backroom party at Mitnick’s, but couldn’t in any decisive way. Trying my luck, I asked Jasper, “How do you know he’s Russian?”

Jasper only chuckled and I had to admit to myself the weasel wasn’t stupid. I conceded the point and tried another question, “How do you know he’s looking for me?”

Jasper’s leer only deepened. “He appeared a short time after you stopped coming into work. He has been searching for something. He continues to search. You are not here.”

That took me a moment to puzzle out, but I had to credit his logic. Weasel or not, Jasper was smarter than I gave him credit. He had inferred a correct conclusion by the absence of something rather than evidence of it. That was a trick I never quite managed.

None of this information thrilled me, though. Remembering I had given Jasper the mobile’s number, I channeled some of my sudden worry into disapproval. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Whether it was a small act of rebellion or just insolence, Jasper smirked at me and my question. “Tu veux quoi? I should call with nothing more than a strange man who does not gamble?”

I conceded yet another point to Jasper, making him grin all the more. As much to distance myself from that as anything else, I straightened up, but couldn’t help adding, “Nice work.”

The banishment of his usual disdain was as close to happiness as I had seen from Jasper, who took the compliment and swiveled on his chair back to the bank of screens. Whatever pleasure approval brought him, it didn’t stop him from trying to gather as much information as he could. “What will you do now?”

I cocked my head at the monitor and gave that some thought. When nothing better arrived, I said, “I guess I’ll go say hello.”

To read the next chapter, go here.

To read the previous chapter, go here.

To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.

To start at the beginning of the story go here.

It wasn’t visible from outside with the bright afternoon sun, but there was a light inside, a single bare bulb that hung in the center of the room. Pushed against the edges of the room’s other three walls were a motley assortment of sleeping bags and blankets. Various food containers, styrofoam coffee cups, and other trash littered much of the rest. It smelled of body odor and marijuana.

The red stripe of his balaclava was the only thing that made Max stand out from the rest of the trash as he stood up from one of the piles. He flicked a cigarette away so it collided with a wall just above the Algerian, showering him with sparks that his mid-afternoon nap allowed him to ignore. Max smiled at Lanzo, glancing at me as he came forward, opening his arms towards the other man for a hug. There was hesitation on both of their parts, a mutual muttering in a language that wasn’t quite French, and eventually an embrace.

As they did this dance, the Algerian and Fatty came to, the latter having been dozing in front of a locked door that faced the embankment and must have led deeper into the facilities. Both of them stood, not saying much, but eyeing me as I still blocked the only exit. Each of them embraced Lanzo in turn, no one’s attention wandering too far from me.

Knowing from our encounter in Simon’s that if things went sideways Fatty would be the most dangerous in the tight space of the hutch, I pointed to him. “There’s a épicerie not far from here.” I pointed up the slope as if we could all see through the walls. “We passed it on the corner. Go see if there’s a first aid kit or something.” From the pocket of the trench coat I pulled out some of the Euros Mitnick had given me, making sure it was obvious to everyone. I peeled bills off of the roll, more than he would ever need for a five-and-dime purchase. I indicated Lanzo’s feet with the cash, “He’s been hurt. I’ll need to stitch him up.”

Fatty glanced between me and the money, greed and an aversion to being ordered around warring on his face. Pretending not to understand what was happening, I added, “What? I didn’t hurt him,” and held out the money.

Perhaps seeking confirmation, he looked to Lanzo who nodded. Fatty snatched the bills from my hand and huffed out. In the same manner, Max nodded to the tall Algerian who followed Fatty out the door.

I moved closer to Max and Lanzo, making sure to catch their eyes before glancing to the other and then back again. I indicated Max and me with a finger back and forth, saying, “We fought, we talked. Now we know each other.” When Max nodded I did the same between me and Lanzo, repeating the words. I noted that Lanzo wasn’t completely committed to the plan we had made in the alley. Or was a terrible poker player. His indecision crawled across his face.

I ignored it, indicating us all in turn with the same finger. “So we’re all friends now, yeah?” Both of the young men glanced at each other, shuffled hesitantly, then nodded with increasing earnestness. I felt like a principal settling a playground brawl.

“Good. So no more bullshit,” that last statement almost always being a preamble to more bullshit. I found an old bucket in one of the trash piles and flipped it over, setting it down next to Lanzo, gesturing from him to it. “Sit down. Take the weight off your foot.” Lanzo shuffled in his doubt, then winced as he placed weight onto the wounded foot. This persuaded him more than I could. He sat on the bucket.

I found a milk crate and sat on it facing him, his back to Max. I gestured to his feet and told Lanzo, “Take off your boot. Let me take a look.” As he struggled to pull it off, I spoke to Max. “Lanzo and I have been talking.”

It was Max’s turn to shuffle, eyeing the back of his friend’s head as he did. He blinked and nodded, but I kept an eye on Lanzo.

“We talked about Mitnick and Sartre. Sartre is tired of Mitnick’s bullshit. His connerie.” I took Lanzo’s boot away from him once it was off, indicating the sock with it. “So he likes your idea of getting Nika away from him.” Even gingerly pulling the sock off caused Lanzo to wince, but the mention of her name got his attention. I grabbed the sock from him before he could throw it on the floor.

I made a show of examining the sole of Lanzo’s foot, continued talking. “She’s obviously important to Mitnick. Important enough that he’ll pay money to get her back.” I wiped some of the blood away from the wound, enough to get a better examination. It was less than an inch long, slightly diagonal, but generally going from his toes to his heel in one gash.

Even with the light bulb, the room was still dim, so I leaned closer to the wound as I spoke. “Sartre has given the OK for us to grab the girl. We’ll hold onto her for awhile, let her think we rescued her while Mitnick goes crazy searching for her. Then, eventually, Sartre steps in, negotiates a price, we send her back and we all get rich.” I stopped examining the foot to stare directly at Max. “That’s your plan, right?”

Max nodded, unwilling to say anything out loud. I couldn’t blame – it would be an admission of having lied to Lanzo, rubbishing whatever lies he had told his friend about rescuing the girl. But I wasn’t willing to let him slither away from this, urging him to speak with widening eyes. Max squirmed for a moment, then acquiesced with a, “Oui.”

At that single pronunciation Lanzo’s eyes blazed, his foot forgotten. In that moment, he could no longer deny that I had told him the truth, that his friends were willing to betray him and his girl for nothing more than short-term gain. Possibly a lot of short-term gain, but nothing more. I had warned him to be ready, to consider what he would do when he learned the truth, but I also knew that there wasn’t anything you could do to prepare yourself for that kind of emotional punch. I saw his cheeks begin to redden and his mouth begin to form very angry words.

So that’s when I stuck my thumb into the hole in his foot. I needed to determine how deep it was anyway, but I could have done it a lot more gently. I did the opposite of that, angling my thumb and its nail for maximum penetration. Instead of spitting angry accusation at his friend, Lanzo howled, gripping the side of the bucket as he nearly toppled over. I kept digging around for a few seconds anyway.

Max jumped at the animal sound, frightened as it bounced around the enclosed space. I took my thumb out, but kept ahold of Lanzo. When his cry became cursing between hard, panting breaths, I said, “Don’t be a baby. I’m just cleaning the wound.”

While Lanzo stared at his foot like it was made of hot iron, I kept Max in place with a hard stare. His surprise was quickly transforming into protective anger, and I could see it being fed by the guilt of betraying his friend. I didn’t want that to get out of hand, so I said, “It doesn’t look too bad. You probably won’t need stitches, just some sutures.” I held the sock to the wound to staunch the bleeding while we waited for Fatty.

I gave it a few minutes to let everyone settle, then went on. “There’s no way we’re getting her out of Mitnick’s. His house might as well be a military compound with all of the men he has around the villa. She has to come out to us.” I stared hard at Lanzo, “That’s where you come in.”

To read the next chapter, go here.

To read the previous chapter, go here.

To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.