Claire took a nap and John decided to do a few pushups. As he was counting fifty-six, his phone rang. He ran to it, afraid that Claire would wake up.

“Yeah?” he said.

“John, listen to this,” Sovann said. “I’ve got access to the archives of several police stations in big cities. Marseille, Lyon, Lille and Strasbourg.”

“Okay,” John said.

“Guess what – there have been murders in those cities with the same pattern. Listen. This one happened in Marseille. Quote. The victim is a woman, attractive, face down. She’s naked. Her hands are manacled in the back with handcuffs. Unquote.”

“The Dark Stallion,” John said. “His signature.”

“Exactly. Same report in the other cities. He’s definitely not a beginner.”

“They have no idea who he might be? No clues?” John asked.

“Not a clue. Case closed every time.”

“Shit. The bastard is good.”

There was a silence.

“It’s the week-end, John,” Sovann said. They both knew what it meant.

“I know…”

“What can we do? He’s going to do it again. We know it!”

John sighed. “I have no idea. Let me think about it,” he said.

John paced around the living room. He couldn’t stand still. They had so much data about him, yet nothing to catch him. So frustrating. He sat down in front of his computer again and went through the list of consultants. He just read the names, one by one.

Nothing.

He decided to take a nap with Claire. When he woke up, he went through the list again. Wrote down the cities where the murders had happened. And then, it became clear. He knew what to do. He grabbed his cell phone and called Alex.

“Alex? This is extremely urgent. Can you get access to the résumés of the consultants on the list?” John asked.

“Sure.”

“Then do it. Now. Call me back when you’re done,” he said before hanging up.

Six minutes later, Alex called back. “Done,” he said.

“Okay, now I want you to eliminate everybody who didn’t work in the following cities. Marseille. Lyon. Lille. And Strasbourg. Call me back when –”

“Wait, wait,” Alex said. “No need to hang up, I’m typing the SQL queries as we talk.”

“The what?”

“The database requests you’re asking me. It’s not that long.”

“Okay. Got it?”

Alex paused for a few seconds, typing on his keyboard and waiting for the result.

“Yeah, done.”

“What do we have?”

“Two results.”

Yes!

“How old are they?” John asked.

He heard Alex typing on his keyboard. “Thirty-nine and fifty-seven.”

“Drop the older one. What’s the name of the other guy?”

“Bourdot. Gérard Bourdot,” Alex said.

I got you, sonofabitch!

John asked for his address and wrote it down on a napkin. Then he sent it to Sovann, along with the real name of the Dark Stallion. He rushed to his bedroom, opened his cupboard, a drawer, and pulled out a Desert Eagle .50, a personal gun he’d bought on the black market. Bigger. More power. Safer. He turned around and looked at Claire. She was still sleeping. He couldn’t leave her alone.

What should I do? Call her mother?

Maybe not a good idea, he decided. If she had to cancel her plans at the last minute, she would make him pay by not allowing him to see Claire anymore. Not a good deal.

His brother was in Canada and his parents lived too far. There was one person, though. He felt terrible about asking her but he had no choice.

“Yes, John,” Cécile said when she picked up.

“Cécile, listen. We found the guy. We’re going to break into his house,” John said.

“When?”

“Today. As soon as possible. Now.”

“Okay…”

There was a short silence.

“Can you come and take care of my daughter?”

Silence.

“Please?”

She kept silent and sighed.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

17

Gérard Bourdot lived in Anthony, outside Paris. His house was located in a very quiet and nice residential area. The neighborhood was mostly white and upper middle class. There was a wall all around his house and a metallic gate. A car sat in the driveway – a white BMW 5 Series. There was also light inside, coming from a screen. A TV or a computer.

A group of four cops was positioned in the backyard, ready to intercept Bourdot in case he tried to run away from behind. Eight men were in the front. Four at the front door, four at the windows. They were waiting for everybody to get in position and for Francis Lefort, leader of the backup team, to give them instructions.

Lefort was a man in his late forties, with gray hair and a mustache. He listened to his radio and nodded. “We’re ready,” he said.

Sovann pulled his semi-automatic pistol from his holster and checked it for the third time. It was cocked and locked. He turned the safety off. “Let’s kick his ass,” he said. “I want to see him naked and on his stomach when we handcuff this son of a bitch. I’ll drop the wax on his back myself.”

John was looking in front of him, his gaze empty. He was holding his gun along his thigh, reviewing everything in his mind one more time. Gérard Bourdot was on both lists of consultants from the two banks and he had also worked in each and every city where similar murders had been reported – but not resolved. He lived in a nice area, had a beautiful house and his car was expensive. He had the right profile. He was the type of man Liliane Genet and Charlotte Bois would date. Everything matched.

“Yeah,” John said. “Let’s drop the whole burning candle on his ass and see if he appreciates it. Let’s go.”

“Go! Go! Go!” Lefort screamed in his radio.

One of the four men at the front door took a step back and then swung forward, thrusting the portable battering ram into the door. One time. Two times. Three times. Four times, before the lock gave in and the door swung open. The cops rushed inside.

John, Sovann and Lefort followed them inside the house, their guns pointing in front of them, ready to shoot. John quickly scanned the living room. There was a dining table with four chairs, a sofa and a TV. Nobody. He quickly walked to the kitchen and saw the backyard team through the window. Nobody in here either. Sovann was checking the toilets and the laundry room. He looked at John and shook his head.

He must be upstairs, John thought. God, please tell me he’s upstairs!

He didn’t hope for very long. A voice coming from above yelled to the whole team, “He’s not here. It’s clear, we checked all the rooms. He left his computer turned on but he’s not here. I repeat, the target is not here.”

Damn it!

“Alright, guys,” John said. “I want you to turn the place upside down. We’re looking for evidence. Anything that can prove he’s a sexual pervert and a murderer. Come on guys, this man is killing our women. We’ve got to stop him!”

John tried to stay calm but deep inside, he was furious. Once again, they were close. Very close. But they were still looking for him. The Dark Stallion lived here but he was outside, on the loose. Maybe he was hunting at this very moment. Maybe somebody was about to die tonight…

The whole team spread out through the house and started looking everywhere. They were in every single room, checking every single corner. But John couldn’t do it. He was boiling inside. Frustrated and helpless. He went outside and took a deep breath. He planted his fists on his hips and looked at the sky.

Shit!

His eyes were closed and he combed his hair with his hand. He grabbed the back of his neck and squeezed hard. He was tense. Pissed. What else could he do? What else was he supposed to do to catch him?

“Hey, man,” Sovann said behind him. He put his hand on his shoulder and handed him a small glass. “Take this. And relax. You did your best, John.”

John opened his eyes and looked at the glass. It was a shot glass. “What is it?” he asked.