Kaspar glared at her, reached for his weapon but then realized the train rumbling into the station would take his shot away. So he turned and ran. He was trying to cross over.

A train roared into the station. A crowd flowed off the train and another crowd surged on. It was almost midnight but the subway was moderately busy.

She stepped onto the last car. Just before she boarded, she saw Kaspar descend the distant steps in pursuit. She couldn’t see whether he had gotten on or not. She assumed he had. She turned against the wall of the subway car. She wished she had recovered her gun. The empty holster made her feel naked.

The train rumbled along. Why did these Parisian subways have to zigzag like snakes beneath the city? Stations were often only two hundred yards apart.

One stop. Two. She got off and switched cars, trying to throw her pursuer. The train arrived at the Sèvres Babylone station.

She stepped off, stayed in the crowd, and transferred to the Number 10 line going east to the Gare d’Austerlitz, the ancient train station. The 10 would take her to Odéon within two minutes.

She finally started to catch her breath. Under her clothing, her body was soaked. Sweat rolled off her. This train was crowded too. She kept waiting to see if Kaspar would come through looking for her. The doors between the cars were only for emergency use but were unlocked in case emergency use was required.

She took out her phone again. She found Rizzo on the other end.

“Where are you?” he asked.

She told him.

“Still got Kaspar after you?” he asked.

“Probably. I haven’t seen him for several minutes.”

“We’re ready for you,” he said. “When you arrive at Odéon, get off as quickly as possible. You’ll see some musicians playing. Walk toward them as quickly as possible.”

“Where will you be?” she asked.

“Watching,” he said.

In ninety seconds, the train arrived at Odéon.

She stepped out at the south end of the platform. Her ankle continued to kill her.

This station too was busy. But she could hear some street musicians, a small band playing for change in the subways. Accordion, violin, and sax until 1:30 in the morning. Only in Paris. They were at the other end of the platform, about a hundred feet away. It was strange they were playing so late.

She looked in every direction.

She saw no help. She spoke into her phone.

“I don’t see anyone,” she said.

“We’ve got you,” came the answer from Rizzo.

“What do you mean you’ve ‘got’ me?”

“We see you. We’re watching.”

“Who’s watching?”

“Get past the musicians,” Rizzo said.

“I don’t see Kaspar,” she said.

“You must have lost him.”

“I don’t think-”

“He’s behind you!” Rizzo said. “Get moving!”

She turned. Eye contact immediately. His gaze again ran smack into hers simultaneously. She saw him reach for something under his jacket. He was about fifty feet behind her.

“Get moving!” Rizzo repeated. “Get away from him!” barked Rizzo’s voice on the phone.

She had never felt slower in her life. Her ankle wouldn’t obey. She cursed the boots and wished she’d had sneakers. She bumped into a couple that was kissing and the contact nearly knocked her over. Kaspar was gaining.

“I can’t move fast! My ankle!”

“Get past the musicians!”

“I can’t. He’ll catch me first.” The words in her phone barked at her. “Move! Move!” they demanded. “You’ll be safe!”

“Why don’t you shoot him?” she demanded. “Just shoot him!”

“We can’t! Not yet!”

“He’s going to kill me!”

“Keep moving!” Rizzo barked. “Now! Move!”

It was the endgame and she knew it. She zigzagged through the crowd. She had never felt slower in her life. She heard excited voices and she heard the assassin steps behind her. And she heard the music, which got louder and louder as she lurched toward it. How was she going to get out of here? She eyed the sortie, the exit, on the other side of the players.

Kaspar must have drawn his gun because she heard a woman yell and scream. Then there was chaos behind her.

She broke into a final attempt at a run. She edged past people and Kaspar was on the run behind her.

Then her earphone thundered again. “Get down! He’s got a gun!”

She tried to move, but her ankle turned again. She fell and went down hard. She knew she was a goner. She got up and stumbled past the musicians, fell hard again. The musicians stopped playing.

She got past them. The accordion player reached into his pocket. So did the violin player. She saw from the corner of her eye. She tried to stand.

Then she saw what the trap was, what this was all about. Like Anatoli in London, Kaspar had stepped into his own hell on earth.

The violin player raised a black pistol at the same time. The accordion player pulled one out also. Kaspar raised his own weapon and the Métro platform was a flurry of bullets.

The violinist aimed right at Kaspar’s gut and put two shots into him. The assassin staggered for a moment, and his eyes went wide in pain and in the realization that death was at hand. He flailed and fired two shots wildly. Kaspar staggered, his hand snapped back, and he fired his own gun upward instead of downward.

There was a flurry on the Métro platform and bullets rang in every direction.

Alex felt something wallop her hard in the midpoint of the chest, just above the breast bone, at the center where her stone medallion hung.

She saw the accordion player reach forward and put a bullet into Kaspar’s head. Then a second. But she barely saw that, because she felt something wet and sticky on her chest. Blood. She had been hit by a bullet in the midpoint of the chest. The feeling first was numbness, then the pain radiated, as did the shock.

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” was all she could say.

Alex had a bullet wound in the center of her chest. She was bleeding.

Unreal. But she knew how quickly it could be fatal.

She clutched the area. She lay on the ground in shock, wondering how everything since January had led to this time, this place. The pain was spreading now and so was the blood. From the corner of her eye, she could see Kaspar lying on the ground, his skull torn open by a team of assassins.

One of them stayed over her and cradled her head.

“I’m dying,” she said. “I’m dying.” The pain was radiating out from a center point in her chest. Shivers turned to convulsions. She put an unsteady hand to the area where she had been hit. She felt warm wetness, the blood, and the broken pieces of the stone pendant from Barranco Lajoya.

It was surreal. The accordion player-gunman ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and pressed it to her chest. She drifted. Consciousness departed, then returned halfway.

Then there were the sounds of police over her. Her eyes flickered and she didn’t know how much time had passed. She only knew that the musician had disappeared.

Strange faces, noisy men and women in Parisian police uniforms, hovered over her. They barked orders and tried to help. She could no longer understand the language. They worked on her with bandages, tubes, and breathing devices. She felt herself tumbling deeper into shock. Or into something or some place she didn’t understand.

Then everything went from white to black then back to white again, and she was thinking, “If this is dying, it’s easier than I ever thought. Much easier…”

A cloudy painless whiteness enveloped her.

Two minutes later, her heart stopped.