Crossfire

Crossfire is book one of The Crossfire Trilogy

Chapter One

Silence reigned in the industrial district on the outskirts of Paris, abandoned for the weekend. Empty windows watched as a man ran into sight, his blond hair streaming behind him. Though his black clothing covered what appeared to be an athletic body, the man ran in a lopsided way, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side, and his right hand clutching his abdomen.

His legs collapsed beneath him in midstride and the man cried out as he fell onto his injured arm. He struggled back to his feet, glancing uneasily over his shoulder before he continued his headlong flight into the dusk.

Though darkness was imminent, the fleeing man knew night would come too late to save him. The deserted streets confirmed what he already knew, that he couldn’t expect help from anyone. Perhaps it was better this way. He would never forgive himself if innocent people died in the crossfire.

Since escaping the hail of bullets directed at himself and his men, he had run nearly two kilometers. Now, exhausted and weak, he stumbled along on legs that could barely carry his weight. And with every beat of his heart, he could feel more blood pouring out of the ragged exit wounds the bullets had left.

Then, he saw it. A yellow La Poste sign. He knew security gates barred the locked inner doors of the building’s lobby, but the outer swing doors couldn’t lock. The open doors allowed customers to collect their mail from the locked post boxes outside of normal hours.

His clouding vision fixed on the building, the man lurched towards his sanctuary, his boots crunching in the coarse gravel. The post office would afford him refuge, and a chance to fight. Undetected, he could remain there until dark, and then go to the emergency rendezvous.

He fell against the mirrored swing doors, using his momentum to push them open as he cast a final glance over his shoulder. He hung there for a moment, swallowing hard as he tried to still his ragged breathing, listening for sounds of pursuit.

Reassured, he picked a spot about ten feet from the entrance, and sank to the floor, resting his back against the wall, and stretching his legs out in front of him. A moan escaped past tight lips as pain threatened to overwhelm his senses. He pushed the darkness away, gritting his teeth. Pain signaled life, even as it promised possible death. The thought reminded him he had no time to waste.

Awkwardly he removed a Glock 17 semi-automatic from the belt of his jeans. His left arm was useless to him as he tried to reload the gun, but after a few failed attempts, the full magazine slid into the weapon. Feeling a surge of triumph, the man clasped the pistol between his knees and pulled the slide back with his right hand, feeding a bullet into the chamber. He placed the gun on the floor next to him, ready for use. He repeated the process with a second identical pistol, afterwards pushing the weapon back into one of two holsters nestling in the small of his back.

His immediate survival assured, he put his right hand beneath his black leather jacket, trying to assess his injuries. He found his shirt and jeans soaked with blood, but he didn’t have the means, or the energy, to stop the bleeding. Shock had him in an icy grasp, stealing away his resolve. Nausea coiled in his stomach, and he shivered as an ominous chill infiltrated his body.

Fighting his failing senses, he realized he didn’t have the strength to walk to the emergency meeting. His assailants will find him, and corner him, in this cold, dark place. He’ll fight, but save a bullet for his own use, if things start to look hopeless. They’ll never take him alive, not again.

* * * *

Chapter Two

Marcelle stood on the winners’ podium, surveying the expectant faces gazing up at her. She searched the crowd for the face of the person who gave her victories meaning, craving the mischievous wink, the smile full of promises.

Her husband wasn’t there, could never be there again.

This time was always the worst for her, when he wasn’t there to share her triumph. Her face ached as she forced another smile, trying to share the mood of her exuberant fans. She wanted to go home, but knew it was an impossible dream. Once the podium ceremony was complete, there would be the obligatory interviews, where she would tell lies to eager reporters asking inane questions. To win the Carrefour Cycle Classic three years in a row was an exceptional achievement, but she could never tell them her victories made her sad. She could never tell them that every day was a challenge.

Two long years have dragged by since April 2001, when her husband had crashed at the San Marino Grand Prix. Jean-Michel Deschamps, darling of the French crowds, and thrice world champion, had died too young, meeting his fate at nearly 200 miles per hour as the crowd screamed in disbelief and dread.

During his illustrious career, Jean-Michel had twice walked away from spectacular crashes, the only occasions when his phenomenal skills had failed him. It had given rise to a superstitious rumor that he led a charmed life, and even she had started to believe it. At the age of thirty-two, he had been riding the crest of the wave, sure to capture the world title for the fourth time in eight years.

The Mayor of Paris brought Marcelle’s attention back to the present as he offered her a massive gold cup. She schooled her face into a warm smile and accepted the trophy, kissing the tall Frenchman on each cheek.

The young victor kept her speech short, thanking her team, her team manager and her sponsors. She spoke fluent French, and the crowd cheered. Everybody loves a winner, and Marcelle looked like one. She was lean and strong, with slim hips and tight buttocks attesting to the many hours she spent honing her body. Her legs were long and tanned, perhaps too muscular for a woman, but perfect for one of the top female cyclists of all time.

People often stared at her, as if a mere glance wasn’t enough to satisfy their curiosity. The source of their fascination came from the contrast between her tanned skin and her light gray eyes. Dark gray rings circled each iris, and in the right light, only the rings were visible. Most people found this mesmerizing, if somewhat creepy.

Marcelle knew people stared, and cultivated long bangs that she could flick forward to hide her eyes whenever she felt the need. Her shiny hair hung halfway to her shoulders, and the color was impossible to duplicate in a salon. The base color was dark honey blonde, but the sun had bleached many strands until they became gold, white blond and strawberry blond.

Certainly, the rest of her face warranted a second look. Her skin was flawless, her teeth regular and gleaming white, and her rosy lips held an unspoken promise for those who cared to fantasize about their softness.

But her trademark easy smile and cheeky dimples was just a memory in the minds of those who knew the young widow before her husband died. Some claimed they occasionally caught a glimpse of the woman she used to be, but most agreed she had lost the light that used to shine from within her.

Marcelle was the picture of health as she raised the cup above her head in triumph. The gesture was for the benefit of the press photographers only. She hugged the two women who had come second and third. At a slender five foot eight, she was an attractive contrast to their more muscled bodies. Of course, she wore the rainbow jersey of the current world champion, a jersey she had made her own.

~ . ~

An hour later, Marcelle had freed herself from the reporters and autograph hunters. In the change rooms, she pulled on her tracksuit and sneakers, foregoing a shower in her haste to get home. Hefting her heavy trophy and her kitbag, she made her way towards her car, a racing red Ferrari Testa Rossa, a present from Jean-Michel.

The bus had left with the rest of the team, along with her racing bikes and equipment, so she was free to drive straight home. There she planned to relax in a warm tub to soothe her aching muscles. The Ferrari let out a joyous roar as she turned the ignition key and pumped the throttle.

She shifted the car into gear, thinking about the huge apartment waiting for her, empty without Jean-Michel. Though they had often been apart for weeks because of busy racing schedules, this was different. The future looked bleak to the young widow as she threaded through the early evening Paris traffic. Monday loomed, the start of another week. The thought provoked a deep sigh.

Now that the heat of competition had died down, she could feel tendrils of ice growing in her chest again. In the beginning, when her grief had been raw and new, she had welcomed the ice, had craved the insulation it gave her from the agony of loss.

But as the months passed by, the ice turned out to be an enemy. Soon it had taken over, threatening to choke the life out of her as it crushed her lungs and froze her heart. The ice filled her with a persistent feeling of fear, telling her she was one half of a whole, and wouldn’t survive alone. She never told anyone about the ice, because it sounded crazy, even to her own ears.

The logical side of her mind told her there was no ice, and that the icy numbness of shock she had felt after Jean-Michel’s death had turned into dread, which had manifested as a cold chill in her body. The desperate fluttering she sometimes felt in her chest, and the difficulty breathing, was most likely a panic attack, when the anxiety became too much.

Her logical mind told her so, but she preferred to give it a name, and imagine the ice was an outside force that invaded her body. It was easier to focus on the ice than on the pain that shredded her insides into mincemeat.

Only in competition and training could she generate enough heat to melt the ice, allowing her to breathe freely. Sometimes fire melted the ice during the night, when she dreamed of Jean-Michel, and the fire that consumed him. She had come to recognize the fire as symbolic of her guilt, and in her dreams, the fire burned her until she woke from the sound of her own screams. Those were her two realities, fire or ice, neither of which eased her mind.

~ . ~

Marcelle decided to pick up her mail on the way home. She didn’t want her home address to be common knowledge, so she rented a private box at a small post office near the outskirts of Paris. It coincided most often with her regular route home, which was why she had chosen it.

After parking near the entrance, she directed a worried glance at her quiet surroundings, wondering if she should rather come back during business hours. She decided against it, jogging over the gravel towards the mirrored doors. It would only take a minute.

She hurriedly entered the lobby after shoving open the swing doors, but had gone only a few steps when her right foot hooked on something. The speed of her passage allowed no time for recovery. She sprawled headlong onto her belly, skidding over the smooth tiles with outstretched arms, feeling something hard digging into her hip.

She jumped to her feet, alarm bells jangling in her brain, the adrenalin rush rendering her breathless. What? Where? Who?

Nobody pounced on her.

She saw the dark outline of a man sitting against the wall. His outstretched legs had tripped her. He seemed unaware of her presence, and as if to reiterate the fact, toppled over to the side, coming to rest with his face against the tiles.

She waited, holding her breath. Nothing more happened, and in the silence, she could hear the man’s labored breathing. Clearly, he needed help. She expelled her breath and moved towards him. Her left foot collided against something, sending it skittering a few feet forward. She bent down and picked up the object. The gun’s grip was slippery with blood, and she grimaced at the uncomfortable sensation, holding it between thumb and forefinger. More cautious now, she crept towards the fallen man.