“I can do this, Frank,” she said, done pretending to scan the details. “I won’t let you down.”
His hands opened up wide, palms facing the ceiling. “My dear, we’ve had this conversation before. I trust you will do your best. While I would be disappointed to not get at least one of the paintings, it won’t be the end of the world. I’ll survive. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do everything you can.”
She glared at him but managed to keep her temper under control. “You know I will.”
“Good.” He crossed one leg over the other knee and folded his hands again. “You should also know that since this is the final round of this little competition, you are free to use any means necessary.”
“You mean kill her?”
“Well,” he shrugged, feigning innocence. “Honestly, you could have done that all along. Let’s just say that if you do take her out, you’ll get a hefty bonus from my competitor.”
Allyson’s eyes narrowed. It was a sick game these two were playing, and she was starting to like the deal less and less. Sure, she was going to kill Adriana, but now everything was getting cloudy. If she helped Adriana rob the Belgian of the paintings, she could kill the Spaniard and sell off the art for an unbelievable amount. On the other hand, her boss was suggesting that would be a bad idea, something that could cost her no end of trouble. Allyson was typically only motivated by two things: money and self-preservation. Now it was hard to see which path would lead to one or the other and which path would lead to neither.
“My plan is and always has been to take her out. I would have done it before, but I was unlucky. I won’t be unlucky again.”
3
Adriana’s legs pumped hard as she ran, twisting and weaving her way through the flood of people in the train station. The other bodies bumped and jostled her, but her pace barely slowed. There was no question that many irritated Parisians had been left in her wake as she pushed her way through the human tributary.
She’d spotted him at the previous stop, knowing he would be coming home from a morning at his favorite cafe after a night of frolicking in one of the many clubs Paris had to offer. Once she had him in sight, Adriana knew he had to be treated like an easily frightened deer. She’d boarded the train with the plan to follow for now and ambush later. It would have worked were it not for the fact that, at some point, his head turned and just happened to lock eyes with hers through the intersecting train doors. His reaction was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but she noticed it. As soon as his eyes caught a glimpse of her, he continued turning his head as if everything was normal. At the next train stop, though, he shoved his way out the open door and took off running through the subway station toward the exit.
Adriana’s reaction had been immediate. As soon as he saw her, she knew he would attempt to get away at the first opportunity. She’d slipped through the closing subway doors, narrowly getting through before they shut on her trailing leg.
Lester Farrow was a sniveling little stick of a man. Pale, scrawny, and with brown messy hair that reached just past the tips of his ears, he could easily pass for seventeen. Adriana didn’t know how old he was, but she figured at least late twenties, maybe early thirties. His boyish face didn’t help with the appearance of being super young.
She’d met Lester almost by accident. Adriana had been looking for information on a particularly interesting piece that was rumored to have been taken by one of Adolf Hitler’s right-hand men: propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels. Lester was an up and comer in the art black market. He’d finished secondary school in his hometown of London and started university that fall. His interests, however, were always of a more entrepreneurial nature. And it didn’t matter if it was legal or not. So long as the market was good and the money stream flowed, that’s all that mattered. Stolen art seemed to be his niche.
The last time the two met, things had gone badly. Adriana was looking for a lead to a missing Renoir. Unfortunately, someone else was also searching for the lost painting and had tracked her down to the meeting with Lester. A fight ensued, leaving one henchman with a shattered fibula and another one with enough knife wounds to kill an elephant — he died within minutes.
Adriana knew that Lester probably didn’t want to have anything to do with her because of that event. While he turned out fine, there was probably a period of time that he didn’t get much sleep: waking at every little sound, fearful that someone was coming for payback. Adriana knew better. The man she’d killed was the top of the food chain. There would be no repercussions. But Lester was paranoid, which was why he was running from her now and why she planned to follow him quietly until she could get him alone, subdue him, and extract the needed information.
Fifty feet ahead of her, he reached the end of the platform and disappeared around the corner to the left, beyond a sign that read Sortie, the French word for exit. The mass of people thinned as she neared the far wall, and her speed picked up, now uninhibited by the accidental hip and shoulder checks of Parisian citizens.
Adriana remained in excellent shape. Aside from the high physical demands of her hobbies, she maintained a regular exercise regimen. Times like this were part of why that was the case. She was closing the gap between herself and Lester; only forty feet or so remained.
She regained a visual of him as he darted across the street. He narrowly missed being killed or severely injured as a blue Citroën sedan slammed on its brakes and swerved out of the way, clipping a red Toyota in another lane. Traffic came to an immediate stop, and the drivers of both cars jumped out, yelling angrily at the running man. Adriana sprinted by them, jumping through the slim gap between one car’s bumper and another’s hood, never losing pace. Lester veered around another corner to the right, heading toward the Eiffel Tower. She pushed her legs harder, her lungs demanding more air as it came in quick, deep breaths.
Reaching the corner across the street from the Seine, she turned right and nearly ran headfirst into two construction workers in blue jumpsuits. She spun around, keeping her balance upright, and continued the pursuit, only slowed for a second. Ahead, the Eiffel Tower loomed over the city. Even at this early hour of the morning, the elevators were already working. They must have carried maintenance workers because the tower didn’t open for tourists until 9:00.
Twenty feet separated her and Lester. His running style was clumsy, and she knew his legs would be giving out soon. No way had he spent as much time exercising as she had. And his lifestyle, she knew, was far from optimal when it came to nutrition and clean living. From the looks of him, wearing a pair of loose blue jeans, a tight T-shirt, and a ragged jacket, he’d been out all night, just as she knew he’d be. A night of heavy drinking and smoking did not make for a good early morning sprint.
He turned around as he clopped along, the distance between the two of them ever closing. They reached the edge of the park; it would only be a matter of seconds now until she had him. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an Asian tourist with a camera stepped backward, away from an iron fence and right into Adriana’s path. She didn’t have time to stop and ran full steam right into the man’s shoulder, plowing him over and into the ground. His camera tumbled through the air and nearly crashed to the ground, but she reached out and snagged it, her fingers wrapping around the lens, saving it from certain destruction.