“Get back in the house. George! Call the cops! Hurry!” Murphy screamed, but before George could take a single step. Murphy heard two shots, quickly followed by George falling on the lawn.
“Aghh… my legs…” Murphy heard George cry as the young man rolled over on the grass.
You bastards… you damn bastards!
Murphy watched both remaining men level their weapons at him, and went into a roll, trying to reach the safety of his garage. Gunfire broke all around him. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete driveway.
He felt a burning pain from his leg and knew exactly what had caused it, but he kept rolling, rolling as hard as he could. His elbows and back stung from the roll. Another hit, this time on his left shoulder. The impact lifted him off the ground and nearly flipped him in midair. He crashed against a metal tool chest.
Stunned but conscious, Murphy looked in his right hand, surprised that he still clutched the Colt. He had fired three rounds. Twelve left. He would not go down with a nearly full magazine. He briefly eyed the shoulder wound. Blood gushed out from it. He knew from past war experience the he had maybe a minute or two before he would pass out from blood loss.
The gunfire stopped. The gunmen were out of sight behind the line of bushes, but he knew the general location of the Mercedes. George was wounded but still alive. If I can only keep them away from George…
Murphy aimed at a spot in the bushes where he estimated the Mercedes would be and started firing. His index finger squeezed the trigger, one shot after the other. He developed a rhythm he had not felt in years. He anticipated the Colt’s recoil and kept it trained for shot after shot until it was empty.
Silence.
Murphy set the gun down, and tried to withdraw the second magazine from his pocket but couldn’t. His arms wouldn’t respond. He had overestimated his strength and quickly became dizzy, light-headed. His vision blurred, but he could still see as a translucent figure approached George.
“You? You fucking traitor!” George screamed.
With unbending determination, Murphy inhaled deeply and forced his hand to move, to reach into his pocket. His fingers trembled around the magazine, and he persisted until he got a strong enough grip to pull it out. He set it next to the Colt. He didn’t have much time left. The gunman was now next to George with the weapon leveled at the young man’s head.
Calling upon the last of his strength, Murphy lifted the Colt released the empty magazine, and placed the weapon in between his legs. Then he forced his quivering hand to grab the full magazine and pushed it into the pistol grip. He heard it lock in place and tried to pull on the slide but could not get his hand to do so. Murphy desperately fumbled with the slide and somehow managed to pull it back — too late. He watched in helpless horror as the man fired twice into George’s head. Mother of God, no, no! All the years with the Armed Forces, all the weapons in his garage, and he had failed. George was dead.
With the sound of the Mercedes accelerating down the street, Murphy silently cursed his stupidity as he squeezed the trigger and fired one last time. The weapon fell from his hand. Then everything went dark.
In the back of the Mercedes, and with his pants stained with George’s blood, Roland Higgins tensed as the side window shattered under the impact of a bullet, showering him with glass. His face, neck, and arms stung from multiple lacerations. He felt a numbing pain coming from his left shoulder. For a second he thought he had been hit in the shoulder by the bullet. He covered his bleeding face with one hand and probed the area over his shoulder wound with the other. It had not been a bullet but a large piece of glass.
“Dammit!”
“Are you all right, sir?” asked the driver.
“Son of a bitch! My face, my shoulder… damn!”
“Should I go to a hospital, sir?”
“Ah… no, no. Take me to the — safe house and get some — bandages — oh, damn!”
Higgins breathed heavily and tried to force his body to relax. He had to remain in control in spite of the terrible pain.
Pruett walked into his office and noticed his secretary’s pale face. “What’s the matter, Tammy? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, my!”
“What? What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pruett. I’m so sorry.”
Pruett inhaled deeply. The burning pain in his stomach came back. “What, Tammy? Can you tell me what in the world you’re talking about?”
“It’s about your nephew, sir, your nephew George.”
“What about him?”
“He’s been killed, sir.”
“Wh — what? George? When — when did it happen?”
“Just a few minutes ago, sir. Your sister-in-law just called. There was a shoot-out in front of her house in Bethesda.”
“Call my sister-in-law and tell her I’m on my way there!”
“Yes, sir.”
Pruett ran inside his office to get his car keys and ran back outside. He reached his car in minutes and drove off.
Cameron Stone stood by the front entrance of the hotel dressed in a pair of Levi’s 501s, a white long-sleeved shirt, and a black leather jacket. That, plus the black horn-rimmed glasses he’d picked up at an optical store several blocks away, made him feel a little less paranoid.
“I want to go with you, Cameron.”
“You’ll be safer here, Marie. Trust me. There are a lot of people looking for us. Besides, you don’t have a passport.”
She shifted her gaze toward the Seine. Her eyes filled. “I feel safer with you. I’m scared.”
He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t be. Everything will work out. No one will find you in this hotel. I’ll contact you as soon as I get some help. Remember, don’t trust anybody, not even the CIA. It’s better to play it safe for now until I figure out who can be trusted.”
She took his hands in hers. “This is very awkward for me to say, Cameron, but I’m also scared for you. I care about you. I don’t want to see you getting hurt again.”
Cameron locked eyes with her. They remained like that for several seconds. He rubbed a finger over her cheek and gently brushed off her tears. “I’ll be back. I promise. I’m not one to voice my feelings, but I can tell you that I care about you, too. That’s exactly why I can’t let you come. It’s too dangerous. I’ll be back. You can count on it.” He kissed her forehead gently.
Without another word, Cameron turned and headed down the stairs that led to the street. He looked up and down the Quai Saint Bernard. Street vendors filled the sidewalk, selling everything from miniature Eiffel Towers to cheap reproductions of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
He spotted a taxi and waved it down. The cab stopped a few feet from him. Cameron briefly scanned the street and got in the back seat.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour. Conduisez-moi a l’aeroport Charles de Gaulle.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
The taxi leaped forward. Cameron was pressed against the back seat and closed his eyes momentarily. He had allowed himself to become emotionally involved — a mistake. Feelings and logic didn’t mix well. He had to put Marie out of his mind for now. She was safe.
He reached into his leather jacket and retrieved two manila envelopes. He opened the first one and extracted a half-inch-thick stack of one-hundred-dollar bills. Half of his emergency money. Marie had the other half in the second envelope.
He placed half the bills in his wallet and stashed the rest back in his jacket’s inside pocket. He opened the last envelope. There were three sets of passports and matching driver’s licenses. All American, all his, but under different names. Two sets had been given to him by the CIA as part of his cover. The third was a contingency passport and license he had had made in Mexico by a top counterfeiting artist for a handsome amount of money. At the time he had thought it would be worth it one day. Cameron smiled. He’d been right.