Page 68 of French Escapade

Élodie

Ihave no idea who shot Arkady, but I can’t think about it now. I have an emergency to deal with.

The guard we were supposed to neutralize is pointing a gun at Ken, who’s holding a knife.

“Drop your weapon,” Ken yells.

The man laughs. “And you think you’re going to make me?” he asks with a heavy Russian accent.

I don’t think the man has spotted me. I was hidden behind a tree. The night is in my favor.

The problem is that I don’t have a clean shot. I need to move to my right to get him in my line of fire. I could also distract him. But I need to act smart, since I’m pretty sure he won’t hesitate to shoot me if he gets a chance.

I don’t have much time to figure things out, so I start moving. At that very moment, I hear gunshots coming from the other side. They’re coming from Andrea and Jimmy’s zone. Looks like they haven’t been able to do the job quietly, either.

The man facing Ken jumps at the sound, and it’s all my partner needs. He jumps on the Russian man and pushes him down. A shot goes off. The bullet hits a tree trunk.

Ken keeps the other man down. He holds onto his collar, resting his entire weight on him, and hits him in the jaw. The man struggles and lets go of his gun to reach for Ken’s neck. The American manages to free himself from that grip, but loses his hold on the Russian, and the two of them roll to the side.

I come closer to threaten him with my Glock. But first, I kick away his weapon to make sure the guy doesn’t grab it back.

I’m pointing my gun at the guard, but before I get a chance to order him to let go of Ken, I feel cold metal against my temple.

“Cool down, honey,” says a man’s voice. “Drop your weapon.”

Ken is still fighting, but he notices I’m in trouble anyway.

Please do not come to my rescue!I wouldn’t say each man is on his own, but you have to save yourself first like with the oxygen mask on a plane.

I lower my gun and act as if I’m going to surrender.

Most men underestimate me. As far as they’re concerned, there’s no way a woman could knock them out. It would be absurd, right? That’s how I’ve surprised many guys in years past.

I’m not their biggest problem. Their ego is.

I lean forward as if I’m going to put my gun down, and then, when it’s a few centimeters from the ground, I turn around fast. I don’t even have to think about what’s coming next.

A circular kick makes him lose his balance. A few more quick kicks, and the man doesn’t even know what hit him. He’s going down. His body falls heavily against the dry earth. Yet he still finds a way to raise his arm and point his gun at me.

Everything that happens next is like a video on fast forward. A bullet hits his arm. He drops his gun and screams in pain. I shoot.

Once, twice.

The bullets hit him in the chest. His body relaxes, and I remove my night goggles. The moon is bright enough for me to see the dark stain growing on his T-shirt and the open eyes from which life is vanishing.

Someone takes my arm. It’s Ken. “Let’s not stay here.”

His voice brings me back to the moment, the mission. “You’re not hurt?” I ask.

“No. We need to reach the house,” he says, dragging me towards it.

“The guard?”

“Dead,” he answers, without offering more information.

“And…”

“Yeah, I shot your guy.”

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