Jack hoisted himself up and through to a slanted slate rooftop. He turned and reached back inside and Sara got onto the toilet and grabbed hold of his hands. He pulled her up, paused just long enough to drop his beloved watch through the opening, then quickly closed the hatch.
Down in the street, several more vans and French police cars screeched to a stop in front of the building, uniformed officers piling out, weapons at the ready. Whatever lie they had been told-undoubtedly by MI6-they had swallowed it whole.
The rooftops of Paris were like no place else on earth. For as far as Jack could see in the moonlight there were no flat surfaces, just a maze of slants and protrusions, gullies and pipes and television antennas- visual disorder but beautiful, as if the city had been designed by a mad genius.
Sara got to her feet and started across the slanted roof, gesturing for Jack to follow. But that was easier said than done. She seemed to have a path mapped out, grabbing onto landmarks along the way-a pipe here, a chimney there, the occasional satellite dish-and Jack could only stumble along after her, his head throbbing, trying his best not to slip and fall.
When they were halfway across, the hatch popped open behind them and they heard a shout, the voice familiar “Sara! Sara!”
Coming to a stop, they turned and saw Alain climbing from the hatch as he called to her.
“I had to wipe all the computers,” he said. “The key-tell me you still have the key!”
She patted her pocket. “Yes, yes. Now hurry!”
Alain started forward as a shot rang out behind him. His spine split in a burst of blood, the impact pitching him onto the slanted rooftop. He threw his hands out, scrambling for purchase-more twitching reflex than anything, Jack knew-but then his face went blank and his body flopped and rolled, tumbling over the side of the building into the darkness below.
Sara screamed, moonlit tears filling her eyes-genuine tears-as one of the commandos hoisted himself through the hatch.
Jack put his hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her forward.
“Go! Go! ”
Sara didn’t need further prompting. She turned and continued toward the edge of the rooftop, picking up speed. Jack did his best to keep up with her.
The adjoining building was only four stories high, but Sara didn’t let that slow her down. She leaped onto it without hesitation, grabbing a fat ventilation pipe as she landed. Jack followed, his shoes slipping from under him as he hit the second rooftop. He fell onto his side and nearly went tumbling, but managed to grab Sara’s extended hand, got hold of the pipe, and steadied himself.
Another shot cracked, the bullet ricocheting wildly. Pulling himself upright, Jack got back to his feet and hurried after Sara as she yanked open the roof-access door of the building and disappeared inside. A moment later they were on the stairs, spiraling quickly toward the ground floor. When they reached it, breathing heavily, Sara cautiously opened a squeaking door into a narrow, cobblestone alleyway. She looked, then exited. As Jack followed her outside, she stopped and turned, her eyes still full of tears.
“Give me that bloody watch,” she said, still trying to catch her breath.
“I left it in the bathroom so they couldn’t track us,” he said.
She looked at him suspiciously.
“They were shooting at me, too!” he reminded her.
“Alain was one of my dearest friends,” she said.
“I’m truly sorry,” Jack told her. “But I didn’t set you up, if that’s what you’re thinking. You think I want to see another 9/11? I was had, Sara, just like your agents who died in the bathroom, in the alley. Like you were when they killed Abdal. It happens.”
She looked at him with angry eyes but didn’t seem to have a response. She gestured toward the roof. “They’ll be across soon. There’s a garage around the corner, where Brendan left the van. Let’s hope they haven’t found it.”
She turned and hurried through the alley.
Jack followed her, unable to fathom how any religion, any philosophy, any political goal, was worth what this had already cost.
And it was still just the opening salvo.
They were blasting through the streets of Paris in the Citroen, Sara behind the wheel. She’d found the key in a small magnetic box under the rear bumper, and so far the journey had been uneventful, no sign of anyone in pursuit.
Sara was angry and heartbroken, but had that slightly shell-shocked look that Jack had gotten so used to seeing during his days in Iraq.
“They’re dead,” she said. “Probably every last one of them. All because of that bloody watch. All because I brought you there.”
“Believe me, Sara, I didn’t know about the tracker. How could I? You think they strapped me in that chair for the fun of it? You must have heard my screams.”
“I was out. I didn’t hear anything.”
“Then you’ll just have to trust me.”
“Why should I?”
“The same reason I trusted you, even when you were lying,” he said.
She suddenly crushed the brake, pulling to the side of the road. “Get out of the car!”
“Sara, you’ve got to look past this.”
“Out!”
It killed him to see her in such pain. He sat there a moment, just staring at her, wanting her to change her mind, but she didn’t say another word. Angrily, he opened his door and got out.
She hit the gas even before he had closed the door, blasting down the street on squealing tires, as Jack watched in dismay. But as she approached the intersection she abruptly stopped, the van’s brake lights glowing in the darkness. The horn let out a short, angry blast and then she just sat there, the engine idling.
Jack jogged unsteadily to the van, still not quite having found his land legs after their across-the-rooftop run. He opened the passenger door to find her just sitting there, her eyes clouded, trying her best to keep from crying. One death can produce an anesthetic reaction that allows someone to function through a short period of mourning. But multiple deaths are like a landslide: it controls you. The hardened facade she usually presented was starting to crack and it took everything she had to hold back.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It will be okay if we don’t give up.”
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“I know,” he said.
“It’s what you said. Every time one of us falls I feel it all over again. The loss, the self-doubt, the questioning, wondering what I might have done to foresee this, to prevent it.”
“You’re not a professional. Neither am I. We’re making this up as we go along. Those guys.” He indicated the enemy with a backward jerk of his head. “They have years of training, limitless resources, and vastly superior numbers. It’s amazing you’ve gotten this far.”
His words seemed to cut through the grief and remind her why they were here. She wiped her eyes. The gesture was transformative: he saw the old Sara return.
He didn’t want to intrude on her sorrow but he knew they couldn’t stay here much longer. They needed to get rid of the van. The alert would have gone out and the police would be searching for them. Terrorists on the run, that’s the story MI6 likely fed them. Dangerous extremists who needed to be shot dead on sight.
Still, he sat there saying nothing, suddenly aware that despite knowing her for less than twenty-four hours he’d never felt this way about a woman. Not about Rachel or any of the one-nighters he picked up since the divorce.
And then the sadness seemed to pass. She put her hands back on the wheel.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what they’d do. But I should have anticipated it.”
“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. This is where we are. Do we sit here or do we go and get those sons of bitches.”
“I’m trying to figure out how, ” she said. “The team is gone, the computers. All we have is the USB key, and even if we manage to get the information off of it, it could be worthless.”