72 Hours. Dana Marton

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       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      With many thanks to Allison Lyons and Denise

      Zaza. And to Susan Mallery for being the wonderful friend that she is.

      Chapter One

       August 9, 21:11

      A good spy had many tools at his disposal. One of them was the instinctual knowledge of when to run. Parker McCall was running for his life, toward the Tuileries on Rue de Rivoli that stretched parallel to the River Seine.

      When he’d been on jungle missions, running for the river was a good idea most of the time, and often the only way out. But right now he was on a street dense with tourists. Jumping into the Seine would do nothing but draw attention to himself and bring the authorities.

      He hated Paris. It was the city that had taken Kate away from him.

      “Excusez-moi.” He slipped between two businessmen deep in discussion, blocking the sidewalk.

      The chase scenes they showed in action movies, where seasoned professionals madly scrambled from their pursuers, knocking over vendor stands and causing all kinds of commotion, were nonsense. When you were hunted, you went to ground. You went quietly, did everything you could to blend in and become invisible, part of the usual tapestry of local life. You ran in such a way that nobody looking at you could tell you were running.

      He glanced at his watch again, deepened the annoyed scowl on his face and smoothed down his tie as he moved briskly through the crowd. He was a businessman late for a dinner. And the throng of people who’d seen hundreds of late businessmen rushing through identified him as such and parted in front of him, paying him scant attention. He was swimming through people and he had to be careful not to cause any ripples. Ripples would be noticed.

      And his enemies were watching.

      He figured at least four men were after him. He had caught glimpses, but mostly he operated by instinct.

      They, too, were professionals. Professional killers who moved through the city the way the lions of Africa moved forward in the cover of the tall grass, in a well-coordinated hunt, invisible until they were but a jump away from their prey.

      “Excusez-moi.” He stepped around a twin stroller and glanced up at the large M sign a few yards ahead—Le Métro, Paris’s famed subway system. He could try to disappear there or go for the Tuileries and see if he could deal with the men in the garden.

      The subway would be packed. This was one of the busiest stations, the one closest to the Musée du Louvre. He could get away without confrontation.

      But he wanted more. Information was the name of the game. And right now, the information he needed was the identity of the man who had sicced his henchmen on Parker. He had too many enemies to take a blind guess.

      Like New York, Paris never slept. Especially not on hot summer evenings. Tourists and locals filled the streets.

      He moved forward and could see the garden at last. He crossed the Avenue du Général Lemonnier and hurried to the nearest entrance. The sixty-three acres of mostly open landscaping that lay before him was enough to make anyone stop in wonder, but he didn’t have the time to enjoy the sight. He planned and calculated.

      The lions that hunted him were hidden in the tall grass. At least he didn’t have to worry about the approaching darkness and not being able to see. They didn’t call Paris the city of light—in addition to love—for nothing. It was lit up СКАЧАТЬ