Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [48]
Carroll eased himself down into a chair across from Chevron.
“For starters, I’d like to know about the European and Middle Eastern black markets. I need names, places, specific dates. How the black market is structured, the principals involved.”
Chevron cleared his throat. “You have no idea what you’re saying, what you’re asking of me. We are speaking of billions of dollars. We are speaking of participants of a less than savory nature.”
Chevron sat back in his chair and Carroll could see tiny stars of perspiration glistening on his forehead. The impressive black hair seemed to have lost its color. Carroll felt relaxed and confident for the first time since he’d arrived in Paris.
“I’m listening,” he said. “Keep going.”
Just then the oak doors into the executive suite splintered and crashed suddenly.
For one incomprehensible moment Carroll imagined that what had happened on Wall Street was repeating itself in Paris.
Three armed men had appeared from the direction of the bank director’s reception area. Each had a machine gun pistol. In the narrow corridor behind them stood Michel Chevron’s blond assistant.
Carroll didn’t hesitate. He was already diving across the floor. Glass and wood was suddenly splintering, shattering everywhere around him. Automatic machine gun explosions slashed through the previously secure and elegant office suite. Carroll’s heart felt like it had been caught by a wire garotte.
Out of the corner of his eye, Carroll watched Michel Chevron.
The banker suddenly twisted and turned eerily in the air. He was nailed against the wooden wall by a terrifying machine gun volley.
His body arched spastically, then spun away toward the floor. His blue suit was blood soaked.
The assailants switched their attention to Carroll. Hollow-head slugs thudded like hammer blows into the oak-paneled walls around him.
His heart pounding, Carroll lunged forward beyond the heavy drapes, which fanned the air as bullets ripped through the fabric. He smacked himself against the glass door to the terrace and was surrounded all at once by splinters of glass, by snapped pieces of the wooden frame that twisted out of the glass like limbs awkwardly broken …
Sharp needles pierced his neck, his hands. Violent, numbing cold clawed at his face.
He scrambled to his feet, the glass slivers slicing deeper with every movement.
The outside terrace was a long, narrow stone catwalk, sixteen stories above the Paris street. The walkway seemed to stretch around the length of the floor.
Feet pounding the ancient stone, Carroll ran toward the nearest corner of the building.
He could hear deafening gunshots, followed by screams of incredulous terror and agony inside the French bank offices. Machine gun pistols coughed and fired repeatedly, insanely.
French terrorists? The Brigade? Francois Monserrat?
What was happening now?
Who had known he was going to be here?
Bullets suddenly whistled past Carroll’s face, nicking the brooding stone body of a crouching gargoyle.
Behind him and to the left, Carroll registered the direction of the gunfire and quickly glanced back over his shoulder.
Two of the assassins were closing fast. Their leather trenchcoats flapping, they were the kind of European thugs he thought only existed in movies. Furiously, Carroll raised his own gun. He fired, hearing the muted spit of the silencer.
The man in front grabbed his upper chest, then stumbled and fell over the stone wall. He continued down, somersaulting to the street.
“Oh, goddamnit!” Carroll suddenly clutched his shoulder. Blood spread where he’d been shot.
The thick cords of his neck bulged with the concentrated fear of the last few seconds, possibly the final seconds of his life. He felt as sick as he had ever felt. He temporarily lost his breath as he stumbled around the next carved stone corner of the French bank building.
He moved now, no longer fully aware of himself. He wasn’t connected with events taking place. It was all a dream,