I’ll figure it out when I get to the airport and see what my options are.

Chapter Three

Lars nursed the limo along in traffic that barely hit sixty-five kilometers an hour. The twenty-four kilometers between the hotel and airport had shrunk to less than eight, but his speedometer kept drifting left as one emergency vehicle after another sped past him. Every light, every siren, set his teeth on edge. He was certain the chauffeur had called someone by now and reported the shooting incident. Tightening his hands on the wheel, he hoped like hell the glass separating the passenger compartment from where he sat was bulletproof.

Another siren drew closer; lights flared in his rear view mirror, and he loosed a string of curses in German. It was obvious this cop car wanted him to pull over. Lars cut across two lanes of traffic to the accompaniment of blaring horns, and exited onto the shoulder.

He got his wallet, passport, and international driver’s license ready and rolled his window down.

“Sir?” A young, nervous looking man, one of France’s Gendarmerie Nationale officers judging from his uniform, walked to the car’s open window and shifted from foot to foot.

Lars stared at him, waiting, but the cop didn’t say anything else. “Tell me what you want,” he growled and waved his passport, driver’s license, and a business card at the policeman.

“You left the scene of a crime.” Accusation ran beneath the man’s words. Tall and rangy, he had dark hair and pale eyes, lending him an anemic appearance. He scanned Lars’ passport. When Lars decided he’d had it long enough, he snatched it back and handed the cop his business card. The cop started to reach in the window, intent on the passport in Lars’ right hand.

“Not a good idea.” Lars kept his voice mild and dropped his passport on the passenger seat.

The cop drew back, looking cowed. “You left the scene of a crime,” he repeated. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“This vehicle was shot at. One of those wrong place, wrong time things, no doubt.” Lars made an apologetic gesture with one hand. “I was unaware of any crime, certainly not one I had committed. My driver left. I still needed to get to the airport, so I drove.”

“Do you have airline tickets?” the cop asked. Lars shook his head. “What was the rush?” the cop blundered on. “If you didn’t have tickets for a specific flight…”

Lars blew out an impatient breath. Maybe he could stonewall this joker who looked barely old enough to be out of secondary school. “I have my own airplane. My business called. They require my presence in the United States immediately. I—”

“Did you file a flight plan? If so, I’ll need the number.”

“No. I planned to do that when I got to the airport.”

“What type of aircraft?”

“Excuse me?”

The cop narrowed his eyes. “You said you have a plane. What kind is it?”

“Piper Seneca.”

The cop’s frown deepened. “I wasn’t aware they were capable of crossing an ocean.”

What the fuck? Why am I having a conversation about aircraft capabilities in the middle of the night—with a cop? “They can, but not without long range tanks and augmented avionics. I have jets in Heidelberg, but I was considering renting one in Nice to save time.”

“Show me your pilot’s license.” Thinking this was getting stranger by the minute, Lars reached for his computer case, and then remembered it was still in the rear seat. “Keep your hands where I can see them, sir.” The young man’s voice held a slight tremor. Was this the first time he’d ever stopped anyone?

“Fine.” Lars gritted his teeth. “My pilot certifications and log book are in my computer bag.”

“Hand me the entire bag, sir.”

“They’re in the back.” Lars located the button that retracted the glass between the passenger and driver compartments. Twisting in his seat, he retrieved both his valise and computer bag and chucked them on the seat next to him. He activated the electronics to close the glass panel, resisting an urge to shove the hard-sided computer case into the cop’s solar plexus.

Behind the wheel again, he kept a hand on the computer bag but didn’t push it through the window. Something was wrong. No cop worth anything would be taking all the time this one was. Unless he was waiting for reinforcements. “Show me your identification,” he snarled.

“Excuse me, sir?” Something uncomfortable flitted behind the cop’s unnaturally pale eyes.

“Your identification. All cops carry something beyond their badge.”

The man swallowed. He was afraid. Lars smelled it. He’d never shut the engine off. Relying on intuition, he jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The powerful engine sprang to life, and the limo roared down the shoulder. He rolled up the window and merged into traffic that was moving faster than it had been.

“If I was wrong,” he muttered, “I will be in a world of shit.” He pounded a fist on the steering wheel, gratified when a sign flashed past telling him the airport exit was in five kilometers. The man who’d stopped him hadn’t been a cop. He couldn’t have been. No. His job was to delay Lars long enough for others to catch up to him, probably the same bunch who’d shot out the limo’s rear window. Taking his pilot’s license would have been brilliant, since he couldn’t do anything without it. Now that he considered things, he was fortunate he’d taken his passport back.

He activated a turn signal and took the airport exit. He’d ditch the limo in long term parking and that would be that. Like everything else, finding a spot to leave the oversized vehicle took longer than he would have liked. Every minute that passed without a siren reinforced that the man who’d stopped him had been an imposter. If he’d truly been part of the Gendarmerie Nationale, half a dozen cars would have converged on him by now.

Lars scanned the parking lot for threats before getting out of the car and glanced at the limo’s keys, debating. The kindest thing would be to leave them, so he stowed them beneath a floor mat, grabbed his valise and computer bag, and sprinted for the shuttle stop a hundred yards away. People were milling around it, which probably meant he’d be more-or-less safe. Lars shook his head. He didn’t get it. Sure, he’d sidestepped the booby trap in his hotel suite, but it felt as if the dogs of hell were breathing down his neck. Why? It wasn’t as if he’d taken out his target.

His phone vibrated. He fished it from his pocket, punched Answer, and held it to his ear. “Say something,” Garen snapped, “so I know it’s you.”

Lars blew out a tense breath and stopped walking. He was still far enough from the crowd at the shuttle stop, they couldn’t hear him. “It has been a rough couple of hours.”

“No shit. Why the fuck didn’t you do what I told you and get the hell out of Dodge?”

Lars shrugged, realized Garen couldn’t see him, and said, “Since when do we take orders from each other?”

Garen snorted. “We don’t, but you left a hell of a mess. Between the hotel room and the limousine—”

“Yes, well we can hope my airplane is still in one piece.”

“We’ll worry about the Piper later,” Garen cut in. “I’ve paid additional hangar rent for them to keep it two more weeks. Go to Ermstatter International. I’ve arranged for a Gulfstream G280—and a copilot. You depart in,” Garen sucked in an audible breath, “just over an hour.”

Lars chuckled to mask growing annoyance. “Did you also file my flight plan?”

“Now that you mention it—”

“Where am I landing?” Lars batted back irritation. He didn’t need Garen to take care of him, goddammit.

“New York. You have an eight-hour layover in the private pilots’ lounge at JFK, and then you’ll come on into Seattle and we can figure out what to do next.”