Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,4

police car come to a halt and two officers getting out.

Finally, the police to the rescue.

He breathed a sigh of relief until he looked down and saw blood all over his shirt. Shit! He ran his hands over himself. Nothing seemed to hurt. Then he saw the man laid back on the seat, blood pumping from a hole in his shoulder.

“Slow down!” Piers yelled at the driver.

The driver looked back before taking Piers’ advice.

The girl looked up at Piers. “Is he …?”

The man grunted and raised his head. He waved his gun feebly in the driver’s direction. “They … not the police. Keep driving. Don’t stop. No matter what.”

“The guys behind us crashed,” Piers said. “The police are on the scene.”

“They’ll kill the police and get another car. They won’t give up until they get me.”

The sound of an engine screaming grew behind them. The man looked at Piers with an I-told-you-so face. He grimaced as he wrenched himself into an upright position.

Piers kept low and looked to the rear. A police car was gaining on them. The man waved his gun drunkenly and fired.

Now he was in a gunfight with the police?

The police fired back and hit the man. He sank down until his face was level with Piers. His eyes drifted left and right then locked onto the small emblem on Piers’ shirt. He grabbed it, yanking Piers closer, and wedging the gun under his jaw. Piers forced his tongue into the bottom of his mouth as if he could push away the gun.

The man’s lower lip quivered. “Fucking Waterloo.” He shook Piers. “They … they … th—”

His head lolled and his grip on Piers’ shirt was gone in an instant. The gun tumbled to the floor. A dark red stain spread from the center of the man’s chest. His limp body sagged onto the rear seat, slid into the footwell, and slumped against the girl.

She screamed and wriggled out of the gap, her hands flapping at the man. “God, get him off me!”

The driver turned around. “Is he dead?”

Piers saw the taxi veering toward the sidewalk. He wanted to shout, but it was too late. He screwed his eyes shut as the car smashed into an old iron bollard on the side of the road. Piers’ face hammered into the back of the passenger seat. His chest followed, crushing his breath from his body. Pain seared through his hips and shoulders. The girl’s screams filled the car.

The rear of the car lifted off the ground, twisted around and came down onto a line of mopeds and motorbikes. The dead man’s body lurched over Piers. He shoved it aside while the car still rocked on its suspension.

Piers could see the police car screech to a halt behind them. Two men in black suits jumped out, one a giant and the other completely bald. They were shouting, but Piers couldn’t understand what they were saying.

He rolled out of his door. The girl was staring at him, her eyes pleading. He held out his hand. “It’s okay. This way. They’re police. We’re okay.”

“No, no, not the police.” She stared at him, her mouth half open, then hurled herself out of the other side of the car and ran.

The giant barked an order that sounded like Russian and the bald man rugby-tackled the girl, handcuffed her wrists, and dragged her toward the police car.

Piers turned away.

Hell, the dead man was right: they weren’t police. They were the bad guys. They must have been in the car that crashed and taken the police car, like the dead man said. Now they must think he and the girl were involved with the dead guy.

He inched from the car. There was one motorbike left standing, its key dangling temptingly from the ignition switch. He’d never ridden a motorbike before, but he was an engineer, he knew how they worked. The throttle and brake were all that mattered. Surely he could handle that?

He took a deep breath, stepped onto the bike and pushed it forward. The kickstand snapped up and the bike bounced gently on its suspension.

The giant looked in his direction.

Piers smiled as he twisted the ignition key. The bike burst into life with an angry scream. His heart skipped a beat and his hands jerked away from the handlebars as if they were electrified.

Both men stared at him.

“Bonjour,” called Piers.

He dipped the clutch, tapped the bike into gear, and twisted the throttle. The engine revved smoothly. He was surprised how easy it was,