And worry, because there was much to worry about just now. He knew he could be shot dead before he made it off the balcony, and he knew that if the man with the line hooked to his vest came to his senses and unfastened the carabiner in the next three or four seconds, Court would plummet to his death. Similarly he understood that if the guy with the grenade on his chest got his shit together and threw the device Court’s way, he’d be riddled with steel shot before he even got over the railing.

He shifted back to his left as more rounds slammed the French door ahead on the right, and he listened to the sound of the Kevlar line that was quickly playing out of its spool in his pack. He knew he didn’t have enough length to get him down to the ground, but the other end exited his pack at the bottom and connected to the body harness under his clothing, and the line was, at least, long enough to get him down a couple of floors.

Court dove headfirst over the balcony railing. Behind him the man on the other end of the Kevlar line had been in the process of trying to get his vest off, but just as he unhooked the first plastic buckle, he launched forward, landed on his knees, fell onto his face, and began sliding towards the doorway, closing on the terrorist with the live frag grenade on his assault vest. This man had himself recognized the danger he was in, and he was in the process of frantically trying to get the grenade off his body.

The grenade detonated, killing the man wearing it, plus another ISIS gunman, and wounding the stunned attacker tethered to Court, along with a fourth ISIS fighter who had entered the living room from the hallway.

And the wounded man on the line slid on towards the balcony.

CHAPTER 7

Court dropped two stories before his harness grabbed him around the crotch and the waist, and then he slowed as the human counterweight in the living room began jolting and sliding across the floor. When the man got caught on the wreckage of the French door, Court stopped completely, still far above the forecourt. He knew it would be faster to cut away the rope than to remove the harness under his clothing, so he pulled his boot knife, took a firm hold of the balcony next to him, and cut his own lifeline away. Court climbed down the rest of the way, using the line attached to Bianca and his feet pushing along the balconies of the lower-floor suites to help him descend.

As soon as he made it down to the forecourt he saw Bianca, only a few yards from him and facing away. She had managed to cut herself free of the rope, but now she just stood there in shock, unable to run for cover.

“Are you okay?” he asked, taking her by the arm and removing the switchblade from her hand. As he spoke he started to lead her out of the line of fire of anyone in the front lobby or above in her suite.

She spun around and punched Court in the chest. He took the blow, and then a second, but he caught her third swing. He yanked her now, pulling her roughly across the forecourt.

“You fucker!” she screamed.

Court looked back up to the balcony, then again at the woman. He pulled her into a side alleyway that led through a neighboring courtyard. “Believe me, I get it.”

Still holding her close, he ran with her through the courtyard, but since she was barefoot and the light was bad they did not run fast. Court carried a tactical light but didn’t want to use it to avoid the risk of being sighted by any high-stepping police who had managed to make it to the scene in the first couple minutes of the action.

He had a car waiting for him on the street that ran along the Square Louis XVI, three blocks northwest of the hotel, and by the time they made it there, the night was filled with sirens and squealing tires.

He checked her eyes as he put her in the car, and he thought she was suffering from shock, but she spoke clearly as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?”

Court didn’t answer. He just started the dark blue four-door and took off towards the north.

A minute later she tried again. Through the tears that came inevitably after the stress and turmoil of the previous five minutes, she said, “Monsieur, where are we—”

“Seat belt.”

“What?”

“Put on your seat belt. Safety first.”

“Are you joking?”

He did not answer, so she did as she was told, fumbling the easy task for several seconds because of her shaking hands. When the lock clicked into place, she sniffed unglamorously. “Monsieur, will you please take me to Charles de Gaulle Airport? I have a flight this afternoon, but I can try to get an earlier—”

He interrupted her. “I’m taking you somewhere safe. You have friends in the city, people who will help you.”

“Friends? From Zuhair Murad?”

Court turned to her as he drove, then looked away. “No, lady, you were not rescued from ISIS terrorists by a dressmaker.”

“Who are these friends, then?”

The man in black pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped a button, placing a call. Bianca looked up to him, obviously hoping to learn something from his conversation about what the fuck was happening all around her, but after a ten-second wait the man simply said, “En route. Quinze minutes.” On the way. Fifteen minutes.

This told her next to nothing other than the fact that, just as he had said, there were others involved in all this.

She wiped tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt now. “Listen. I need you to tell me—”

Court turned to her. “Look straight ahead, out the window, not at me. And stop talking. You are out of danger, for now. That is all you need to know.”

Court could tell Bianca did not want to comply. But he could also tell she was scared. Not just scared because of what she had just survived, but scared of Court himself.

Bianca Medina knew dangerous men, and she would recognize that Court remained a threat to her.

Bianca looked down at the dashboard for nearly a minute before she said, “Thank you, monsieur.”

Court turned to her again suddenly, startling her anew. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it because I like you. I did it because it was my job. Like I said, I know who you really are.”

Bianca just stared ahead. After several sobs she got control over her emotions. “If you know who I really am, then you also know you are in a lot of trouble right now. Many people will come after you. Even here in Paris.”

The man continued looking ahead. “Lady, I really wish they would try.”

* * *

? ? ?

They drove along back streets until they reached the commune of Saint-Ouen, in the Seine-Saint-Denis district, some four miles north of the action on the Rue Tronchet.

The neighborhood was full of immigrants, mostly from North Africa and the Middle East, and in the last few years there had been a massive influx of Syrian refugees. It had little of the charm of the city center; more poverty, more crime. Saint-Ouen was also the home of the Paris flea market, the largest concentration of secondhand furniture dealers on Earth. Throughout a dozen massive buildings the market was open several days a week and brought in buyers from all over the world.

Court’s vehicle was one of only a very few on the road this time of the morning as he turned onto the Rue Marie Curie, and his headlights provided the only illumination when he navigated down a tight alley running off it. Soon he turned through the open gate of a tiny parking lot that ran between two darkened warehouses full of unrestored antique furniture. The gate was pulled closed behind him by a man whom Court could just barely make out in the darkness, and then Court parked the car and turned off the ignition.

He went around the front of the vehicle, helped Bianca out, put a hand on her arm, and guided her through the misty artificial light of the parking lot. No one was watching, but if any spectators had been around, his actions would have appeared chivalrous. Nevertheless, he was certain the young model could feel the frostiness in his grip, because he pulled her along more roughly than he had back at the hotel on the Rue Tronchet. Out here, alone, there was no longer any question of the woman’s compliance. She had overcome her shock, but she wasn’t yet in a frame of mind to put up much resistance to what was going on. She’d do as he said, and she’d go where he pulled her.

Court led Bianca by the elbow through an open door in a warehouse and into a circular stairwell. Halfway up he saw a bearded man lean around from his position at the top of the stairs, looking down. Court drew his pistol and pointed it at the man’s head.

Bianca shrieked with alarm.

Quickly the man raised his empty hands. Court continued climbing, keeping the barrel of his weapon pointed at the man’s face.

“Are you armed?” Court asked in French.

The man pointed down to his waistband. Court let go of Bianca, shifted his pistol to his left hand, then frisked the man with his right. He pulled out a Czech-made handgun, ejected the magazine, and cleared the round in the chamber, racking the slide one-handed by striking the rear sight on his belt. The cartridge bounced down the stairs, and then Court tossed the weapon down behind it and listened to it clank along the steps as it fell.

Court turned the man towards a door and pushed him onwards. “Open it.”