Chapter
1
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Paris had lost much of its
charm. Greg Evarts started to express his disenchantment with their favorite
city but decided to keep his mouth shut. There was no reason to dampen his
wife’s enthusiasm.
She
shook her head. “I can’t believe they ruined my city.”
“It’s
not ruined,” he consoled.
“It’s
no longer magical. In my book that’s the same as ruined.”
“Trish,
you don’t really mean that.”
They
were strolling across Pont Neuf to the Sequana restaurant on Île de la Cité
island. Early for their reservation, they detoured into a bastion. Originally,
the series of bastions had been designed so pedestrians could get out of the
way of large carriages. Now they served as observation points to view the River
Seine. They leaned against the stone railing and Patricia Baldwin hooked her
arm through his as they watched the dinner cruise ships float gently up and
down the river. Evening light played off the rippling water and they could hear
faint dreamy music in the distance. It was perfect.
“You’re
right, I didn’t mean it,” she said.
Evarts
smiled and put his hand on her forearm.
“I
do miss the Paris of my college years, though,” she said.
“It’s
still here. You just have to look harder.”
“Greg,
we’ve been looking for two days. So far, we’ve only spotted an echo. The Middle
East attire and the forest of selfie-sticks bother me, but the soldiers are truly
off-putting. How can the most romantic city in the world maintain its
reputation with dead-serious soldiers marching everywhere in urban formations.”
“We’ve
been visiting tourist attractions. Unfortunately, they’ve become targets for
terrorism. You’ve got to admit the district around our hotel is Parisian to the
core.”
“A
pricy hotel in a niche district. That’s not the Paris of my youth.”
Evarts
squeezed her forearm, saying nothing. He didn’t want to argue. Not this
evening. This was their anniversary, and four years of marriage had taught him
that when his wife’s mood turned sour, say nothing, but give verbal or physical
feedback to show he was listening. It worked. She smiled and gave him a kiss on
the cheek.
Originally
built in 1607, Pont Neuf was the oldest standing bridge crossing the Seine and
had a reputation as a meeting place for lovers. Île de la Cité was the birthplace
of Paris and in those early days, the bridge served as the hub of the city. At
that time, it was clogged with vendors, street entertainers, and petty
criminals. Benjamin Franklin found the bridge so seedy that he refused to walk
across it. Now the bridge had been cleared of people earning a living, licit or
otherwise.
It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was
romantic. A picture perfect summer evening in Paris and they were positioned perfectly
to enjoy the twilight. Evarts felt inner contentment.
A
horrific scream. A woman’s. Then a chorus of screams. Men and women. People in
a panic ran toward them. What the hell was happening? Something terrifying! Something
right behind this herd of screaming people. Evarts grabbed Baldwin’s arm and
jerked her to his other side so his body could shield her from the mob. He felt
her pull him away from the charging hoard, but instinct caused him to resist.
He swiveled around to examine the other direction when he heard automatic gunfire
come from the Right Bank.
Damn!
They were in the middle of a terrorist attack.
He
pulled Baldwin below the stone railing.
People
ran. People screamed. Evarts heard glass shatter, horns blasting, and the crash
of metal against metal as cars slammed on their brakes or hit the gas.
Tranquility had instantly turned into chaos.
Soon,
their alcove started to fill with people trying to escape the hail of bullets.
This was a two-pronged attack. One or more terrorists on the Left Bank had done
something to chase people toward gunmen on the Right Bank.
Evarts
thought fast.
If
the gunmen marching across the bridge had plenty of ammunition, they would soon
reach their bastion. He heard three or four automatic rifles. He wasn’t going
to wait to be murdered.
“We’re
going away from the gunfire!” Evarts screamed over the noise.
Baldwin
immediately nodded.
Holding
hands, they scurried around the perimeter of the bastion until they were on the
edge that led toward the Left Bank.
He
waited until he heard the gunfire lighten. At least some of the shooters were
changing magazines.
He
yelled, “Now!”
They
ran as if the Devil himself was behind them. After a couple of strides, Evarts
pulled his wife in a weaving pattern. He was scared. He became more frightened
when he heard all the guns start up again. As he ran, he scanned the bridge in
front of him. People were panicked. They stopped running away from whatever was
behind them but couldn’t make the decision to reverse course. Most fell to the
ground or dove toward one of the bastions. None ran with him. What was he heading
toward?
As
his visibility up the bridge walkway cleared, he gasped. Ahead were two blood
covered men wielding curved swords. He scanned the area between him and the
nearest terrorist. No weapons. Not a rock or brick or even an umbrella. He let
go of his wife’s hand and never broke stride as he picked up a selfie-stick. He
collapsed the stick and ripped off the swivel end as he ran.
The
nearest terrorist charged, screaming.
Evarts
feinted a block with the selfie-stick, but then veered and ducked under the
swing of the sword. He thrust the selfie-stick upward into the throat of the
terrorist. Evarts felt the jagged, broken end dig deeply into the terrorist’s
neck. As both hands went to his throat, the terrorist dropped the sword.
The
second assailant came fast, sword held high for a killing blow. Too fast for
Evarts to pick up the discarded sword. He braced his legs to jump to the side
when he heard his wife yell.
“Arrête
ou je tire!”
The
harsh scream carried all the authority of a policeman. The command to stop
or I’ll shoot worked. The second terrorist turned and started to charge her
until he saw no weapon in her hand.
He
returned his attention to Evarts. Too late. Evarts had retrieved the sword from
the ground and had already begun his swing.
Evarts
used every muscle in his body as he slashed a crosscut against his opponent’s
body. The downward driving force ripped through the upper ribs on a slant and
almost came out at the hips.
He
didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Baldwin’s hand and ran like hell for the Left Bank.
