I followed, clambering up the ladder, racing across the truck and sprinting over the canopy. I jumped through the window and my instincts saved me when I sensed movement to my right.
I ducked and rolled as Michel swung a metal floor lamp at me. The heavy base hit the window and shattered the glass. As I got to my feet, he tried to swing it the other way, but I tackled him and he dropped the lamp as we grappled with each other.
We traded blows and ended up on the floor. I blocked his efforts and hit him in the face a couple of times. He rolled away, dazed, and staggered to his feet. I pursued him as he rushed for the door. He flung it open and set off through an open-plan office full of people, who were surprised to see two men engaged in a chase through their previously peaceful workspace.
Michel was bleeding from a cut above his eye and his face looked a mess, adding to people’s unease. They rose from their desks and backed away from him as he darted around the office furniture and headed for the exit.
There were cries and shouts, but no one tackled either of us. I followed the fugitive as he barreled through a green fire door and chased him into a concrete stairwell, bounding after him, as we both leaped down multiple steps at a time.
He reached the landing above the ground floor and I took a gamble, jumping directly from the flight above. My bet paid off when I landed on him, sending him crashing into a wall. He lashed out instinctively with a vicious elbow to my chin, and I saw stars.
Dizzy, I backed off and he punched me in the gut before bolting down the last flight.
I caught my breath and ran after him, racing through the open door, which led into a large reception area.
Michel sprinted past a security guard and yelled something at him in French. The hefty uniformed man closed in on me threateningly while Michel raced through the main doors and ran onto the street.
I didn’t have time to deal with the misguided security guard, so I vaulted the barrier by the reception desk, swerved to avoid his clutches and hurried outside.
There was a sudden blast of sirens further along the street and I was pleased to see two police cars round the corner directly ahead of Michel, but he kept running while the cars drove on, passing him without slowing.
They screeched to a halt a few meters from me and a uniformed officer jumped out of the passenger seat of the leading vehicle. He yelled, “Jack Morgan, you are under arrest. Stop where you are!”
“Wrong guy,” I replied dejectedly, but I slowed to a halt and raised my hands in surrender.
Chapter 40
Mo-bot, Sci and Stéphane Porcher were in a computer room in Marseilles police department in front of three rows of machines set on terminals. There were no windows, and at the heart of the front row was a bank of a dozen screens stacked three high by four wide to create a single massive display. Porcher’s colleague, a gray-skinned man with long black hair that shone with grease, was trying to get the composite display to show a set of video files. Porcher hadn’t introduced them, but Mo-bot gathered the man’s nickname was Tifs and he seemed to have a prickly relationship with the detective.
Stéphane Porcher didn’t move quickly, and neither did his colleagues.
Someone had to physically chase down and apprehend bad guys, but Mo-bot doubted it was Porcher, who seemed cerebral and slightly disconnected from the world, like Hercule Poirot or Columbo. He had an aura of curiosity, as though it was the web of mystery and not the adrenalin of the chase or any strong sense of justice that attracted him to law enforcement.
“What did this guy do?” Mo-bot asked, hoping to move things along.
Porcher held up one palm and nodded at the screen in front of them, indicating that she should be patient.
She rolled her eyes at Sci, who smiled.
Stéphane and Tifs had a sharp exchange of words when the technology refused to cooperate. Mo-bot offered to help but both men ignored her, so she sat back and watched Tifs struggle on while Porcher grew increasingly exasperated.
There were three other tech specialists in the room and Mo-bot caught them all grinning and sharing mocking glances.
Finally, after an excruciating delay, six of the screens came to life and showed footage from different cameras within the precinct. The footage shared the same timecode, so Mo-bot realized she was watching six different viewpoints of the same night.
She knew it was night because she could see streetlights shining through the windows on a couple of the screens. One of the cameras was directed at the main booking hall of police headquarters, which was almost empty apart from two uniformed officers who chatted absently while doing paperwork behind a high counter.
The other cameras showed mostly empty corridors and there were two others aimed on the cell block.
“Watch,” Porcher said, leaning forward and pointing at the screen that displayed the booking hall.
There was a blinding flash that turned the screen white. When the flare died away, Mo-bot saw part of the exterior wall had collapsed and four masked men in body armor were clambering through the breach. They held sub machine guns and opened fire on the two uniformed officers behind the counter. One of the cops managed to hit an alarm before he succumbed to his wounds, and the other screens showed cops running from offices and break rooms into the corridors.
The four assailants moved into the cell block and shot another cop who’d been quick to respond to the alarm.
There was no hesitation about any of their movements and Mo-bot realized these men knew exactly which cell to hit. They primed the door with explosives.
Two cops ran into the corridor nearby and were shot instantly. Mo-bot thought one of them looked a lot like Porcher. She caught his eye and felt his trauma on reliving the moment.
He nodded slowly, as if answering a question. “If it hadn’t been for my colleague, I would be dead.”
On-screen, they saw another police officer dragging Porcher out of the cell block and into an adjacent corridor where cops set to work on a tourniquet to stem the blood streaming from a gunshot wound in his thigh.
In the cell block, the masked attackers stepped away from the door and shielded their faces as the explosive charges detonated. A flak jacket was produced from a holdall and thrown over Roman, who was bustled from the cell like a president under heavy close protection.
Three of the masked attackers formed an arrowhead around him, while the fourth went on point, shooting indiscriminately to clear a path.
The gang ran from the cell block to the booking hall, shot two more officers who’d equipped themselves from the armory, and fled through the breach they’d created.
The jail break had taken less than three minutes from beginning to end.
“Five wounded, four dead,” Porcher told them.
“I’m so sorry,” Mo-bot responded gravely.
“That’s rough,” Sci remarked. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Porcher waved their words away, but his eyes filled and he couldn’t speak for a moment. Mo-bot wondered whether his slightly detached air was a consequence of antidepressant medication. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live with the impact of such trauma.
When Porcher finally found his voice, he said, “We had arrested fifteen men that day. The information about the drug deal they were engaged in came from your American FBI. It was a huge bust for us, and the cells were full. They came only for this one man and left all the others. Why?”
He eyed Mo-bot and she wondered whether he was genuinely expecting her to have the answer.
“It is a question that has bothered me for months,” he went on. “And now you come here looking for him. This was no street dealer.”
“Who were the others he was arrested with?” Sci asked.