The Eden Prophecy

CHAPTER 10

Caught flat-footed, Hawker raced after Danielle as she crashed through an iron gate at the rear of the property, sprinted across the road, and angled toward the wide stairwell. The stairs cut an angled cleft in the wall and sloped down toward the river.

She disappeared down the first few steps as Hawker ran across the street, dodging traffic to try to catch up with her.

The sound of more gunfire rang out, and Hawker tore around the wall’s edge and raced down the stairs.

He found Danielle taking cover behind the last pillar of the railing. Someone on the tail end of a speedboat was firing at her as the boat accelerated away, cutting a deep white swath into the calm river.

Hawker stared at the man, wondering if he was looking at Ranga’s killer.

He glanced around. There were no other boats tied up by the stairs except an old dinghy with two wooden oars. That wasn’t going to help.

Hawker looked back toward the road, had one of those thoughts that he should have tossed out as madness, and raced back up the steps looking for a vehicle.

The Seine flowed through the heart of Paris, for the most part completely and utterly walled in. A thousand years of history will do that to a river in the midst of a city. And that meant this particular boat on this particular river could be chased by a car.

Hawker pushed out onto the street, looking for a car. A fast car. Nothing, and then …

He stepped in front of a moving motorcycle, raising his gun.

The rider skidded to a stop.

“I need your bike,” he said.

The rider laid it down without shutting it off and backed away with his hands up.

Hawker shoved the .45 into his shoulder holster and picked up the bike. Throwing a leg over, he jumped on, gunned the throttle, and dropped the red Ducati into gear.

By the time Danielle reached the top of the stairs she had her phone open, trying to get the French police. But the French 911 system seemed to be busy. She looked around, guessing that dozens if not hundreds of calls were being made about the shooting and explosion. It would probably be a minute or two.

She looked around for Hawker and saw a man in a motorcycle helmet without a motorcycle, gesturing madly. Down the road she saw the bike blazing off into the distance.

“Oh hell,” she mumbled. The situation was going from bad to worse.

She hung up the phone and focused in on a rubber-necker in a sedan who’d slowed to check out the burning house.

Reluctantly, and knowing there would be hell to pay, she did almost exactly as Hawker had just done.

Raising her gun, she motioned for the man to step out of the vehicle.

He froze as if it was “the end.”

She waved the gun. “Move!”

He gripped the wheel, petrified.

She exhaled in frustration. “Oh come on,” she said.

“Just get out of the car. I’m not really going to shoot you.”

Finally, the white-haired gentleman opened the door and stepped out. Danielle took his place, tossed the phone on the front seat, and jammed the car into gear.

A second later she was racing down the street, the Seine to her right, Hawker somewhere up ahead, and the sound of police sirens growing in her ears.

Hawker raced along in the Ducati, weaving in and out of traffic. He had no idea exactly where he was going, but the frontage road along the Seine cut back and forth between buildings and mostly mirrored the water’s edge.

A slow-moving truck got in his way and he cut to the inside lane, slicing through the space between two other cars, close enough to reach out and touch both of them had he wanted to.

Shooting out between them, he accelerated further just as the road popped up on a high stretch. From there he scanned the river looking for the boat, catching sight of it about a half mile ahead, hauling ass down the center of the channel. A long white wake stretched out behind it.

Of course, there was one big flaw in his plan. He could follow the boat, but unless the Ducati turned into a Jet Ski, he could not get to it.

He thought of reaching for his phone, trying to shout over the wind that he was the madman who’d just blown up a house and stolen a motorbike at gunpoint, which he was using to chase a speedboat, and politely request backup from the French police. But even in a land where Jerry Lewis was nearly a saint, he guessed that request might not be taken in the light he’d hoped it would. Besides, his French sucked.

Then he saw a chance. A mile or so up ahead, a line of barges sat on the right side of the river. The boat would have to move closer to the left bank and there Hawker would have his chance.

He twisted the throttle and the bike leapt forward.

As she raced through traffic, Danielle was trying to accomplish a great many things. First, catch Hawker before he did anything stupid; second, avoid killing anyone; and third, stay ahead of the French police.

She saw them in the mirror, blue lights flashing, distinctive singsong wail of their sirens ringing in her ears. She kept her foot down on the accelerator and her eyes forward.

She caught sight of Hawker for a moment, far up ahead, but the sedan was neither as fast nor as maneuverable as the Ducati. He was there for a second and in a blink he was gone, just as another police car swerved onto the road beside her and slammed into the sedan.

She pulled away and regained control and edged in front of the offending vehicle.

“Pull over,” she heard from a loudspeaker. “You must pull your vehicle to the curb.”

The road bent sharply to the right; she tapped the brakes, squeezed the police car for space, forcing it to drop back, and then mashed on the accelerator once again. It was a bit late to start acting rational.

She made it half a mile farther before two more squad cars pulled onto the road in front of her.

She tried to shoot the gap between them but they closed it. She swerved to the left to cut around but one of them cut left as well, pinning her against the wall. Another car blocked her way and slammed on its brakes. Danielle tried to stop, but too late.

She slammed into the rear of the police unit. The air-bag fired and the next thing she knew she was at a dead stop, dust and residue from the airbag’s explosive swirling around her.

Disoriented, she tried to get out. The door opened, then hands reached in and grabbed her, dragging her from the car and holding her to the ground.

Up ahead, Hawker continued racing down the road. Out in the river, the speedboat had slowed a bit, its driver apparently unaware that he was being followed. The boat was pulling closer to the left bank and Hawker knew this was his only chance.

Matching his speed with the boat’s, he watched for an opening. He spotted a gap in the stone rail that ran along the river’s edge, angled toward it, and accelerated. Cutting across the grass, he lined up with the opening and pinned the throttle open.

At fifty miles an hour, he hit the gap and the bike launched itself toward the speeding boat. The heavy Ducati began to fall away beneath him and Hawker pushed off it, throwing himself to the right.

He heard a tremendous crunch and then he hit the water behind the boat.

Breaking the surface a moment later, he saw the speedboat floundering, the fiberglass cracked and broken where the four-hundred-pound Ducati had slammed into it, like a stone hitting a paper cup.

Shedding his jacket, Hawker swam toward the boat as it began to go down. There were two men aboard. One appeared injured, maybe unconscious, but the other was getting back to his feet. He spotted Hawker, raised a pistol, and fired.

Hawker dove under the water. Bullets cut white lines through the murk here and there as he swam to a new position. He held his breath until the gunfire stopped and then he cautiously popped up.

The man with the pistol was gone, either hiding or gone overboard himself.

Hawker swam up to the swamped vessel. He slipped his own gun out of the holster, put a hand on what remained of the stern, and looked around.

The boat shifted and tilted, debris floating about. Seat cushions, life jackets, and a few empty water bottles bobbed up and down, but Hawker did not see the gunman.

As the boat began to roll, Hawker grabbed the injured man and pulled him into the water.

A moment later the speedboat flipped over. It remained floating, a few feet of the keel sticking out of the water.

Hawker held on to the unconscious man and kicked away from the boat, swimming backward toward the shore, his eyes still on the boat. No movement. He looked around in all directions, but the gunman had disappeared.