Page 8 of Duty Preserved

“Rue de Rivoli. Which direction?”

She blinked, then pointed to the left. “Out the door, two blocks that way. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

I was moving before she could ask why. West on Rue de Rivoli put the runner heading straight through my area.

“Hughes, Citadel. I’m on foot, two blocks from Rivoli. I can intercept.”

“Copy, Hughes. Suspect is wearing white sneakers, blue jeans, and a black hoodie. Middle Eastern appearance with a full beard. Use caution. He cut one of our officers during the pickup attempt.”

“Donovan.” Andrew again. “We’re at least fifteen minutes out. You want to wait for us?”

“He’ll be in the wind by then.”

“Don’t get dead. We’re heading your way now.”

“Copy.”

Rue de Rivoli was wide, well-lit, and mostly empty at this hour. A man in a hurry would be visible for blocks. But a man in a hurry who knew he was being hunted would cut off the main road at the first opportunity. Side streets would be their preference. The narrow roads feeding into the Marais. There were covered arcades along the north side where the shadows ran deeper.

I picked a parallel street that would hopefully put me ahead of him if he held his current heading. I cut through an alley between two darkened storefronts, came out on a narrow lane, and positioned myself on the sidewalk.

The smell of my shirt caught me again. Not as bad out in the open, but bad enough.

I looked at my shirt. Looked at the street. And got an idea.

I ran my hands through my hair until it was standing in every direction. Pulled the shirt half out of my waistband. Then I undid my belt and let it hang loose, the buckle heavy in my hand. It sold the look: a guy who’d stumbled into an alley to relieve himself and hadn’t quite put himself back together. And if the knife became a problem, a leather belt with a metal buckle was better than bare hands.

I started shuffling. Slow and deliberately unsteady, trying to keep my breathing even underneath the act. I let my shoulders sag, let my head drop, and drifted into the middle of the sidewalk.

Then a man matching the exact description given rounded the corner. His stride didn’t break. He angled left to blow past me without slowing down.

Please work. Please work.

I let him get within arm’s reach.

Then I dropped the act.

I saw the knife in his right hand as he passed—overhand grip, the blade tucked behind his forearm. He wasn’t hiding it. He just didn’t think he needed it for me.

I grabbed his jacket with my left hand and yanked him backward. His head snapped around, surprised, and his free hand came up to pry my grip loose. That half second of reaching for my hand left his face wide open. I swung the belt. The heavy metal buckle caught him across the face, and he staggered sideways with one hand going to his eye.

He said something in French I didn’t catch and didn’t need to. While he was disoriented, I swung again, this time aiming low, the buckle cracking across his knuckles. He howled, and the knife clattered loose on the cobblestones.

“Au sol!” I grabbed his arm before he could recover. It was one of about five French police commands I knew, but I was pretty sure I’d just butchered the pronunciation of On the ground!

He threw an elbow into my ribs that I felt in my teeth, but his knife hand was empty now and his eye was already swelling shut. I put him face first into the stone wall, pinned his arm up behind his back, and leaned my weight into him.

He spat more French, something that sounded like it would have been creative if I could have understood it, and then he tried to push off the wall. I hooked his ankle, swept his legs out, and laid him out flat on the cobblestones. He landed hard, and the fight went out of him.

I didn’t have cuffs. I didn’t have zip ties. I didn’t have anything except the shirt on my back that had already served one purpose tonight and was about to serve another.

I stripped it off one-handed, keeping my weight on his pinned arm, and bound his wrists behind his back. The knot wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t regulation, but the fabric was damp enough to cinch tight without slipping. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Smelled absolutely awful, but Sarah had inadvertently helped me with the vomit.

I tapped the earpiece. “This is Hughes. Target six is secured. I need a pickup team at my location.”