Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,5

just like the video games he played. He was home free.

Then the giant brought up an enormous gun.

Piers ducked and twisted the throttle. The engine screamed and the bike shot forward, into the taxi. With a painful screeching of metal he scraped along the side of the vehicle, gripping the handlebar like a vice and swearing all the way.

The giant’s gun thundered and automatic fire chewed up the bricks in the wall behind him, showering him with dust.

“We’re innocent! We didn’t know the man in the taxi!” Piers yelled, struggling to keep the bike upright. He squeezed the brake, and slid around the front of the car in a cloud of blue smoke, ending up facing the giant. “Don’t shoot!”

The man leveled his gun. Piers ducked lower, pushing his elbows out and losing hold of the brake. The bike pitched up and raced forward, smoke pouring from its rear wheel. He squeezed his knees into the bike desperate to hold on. As he rode past the giant, his outstretched elbow caught the man in the jaw, punching him backward and launching his gun into the air.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry, sorry,” said Piers, but he couldn’t stop the bike.

The bald man threw the girl to the ground and yanked a gun from inside his jacket.

Piers’ knees gave out and he slid off the back of the bike. He hopped along, gripping the handlebars until he finally caught the brake pedal with his foot. The bike toppled forward, wrenching him back onto the seat and flinging his legs out ahead of him. His heel smashed squarely into the bald man’s chest, folding him up and hurling him backward over the police car.

The girl lay curled up on the ground. He brought the bike to a shuddering halt beside her and held out a trembling hand. He had to help her. His voice wavered with his pounding heart. “You … you okay?”

She pulled herself up, swept her bound arms over Piers’ head, and slipped onto the bike behind him.

He unclipped a helmet and held it out for her. As she waved it away, he glimpsed the giant scrabbling for his gun. “No, no. Don’t. We’re innocent. This is just a misunderstanding.”

The girl slid her hand down Piers’ arm and twisted the throttle.

“Noooooooooooo!” screamed Piers.

The bike weaved, its rear tire struggling for grip. The giant swung the gun around toward them. Piers fought to keep his balance as they raced forward. The helmet felt like lead in his hand, and before he could move, it smashed into the man’s face, flooring him.

Piers tossed the helmet and accelerated down the street, the front wheel in the air, the rear pouring smoke, and his heart in his mouth.

Chapter 5

Pierre “Matchstick” Morel gripped the telephone receiver so hard it almost broke. He had gained his nickname partly because of his six-feet, 156-pound frame, and partly because he had a predilection for burning buildings. Usually the buildings of his enemies, and usually while his enemies were in them.

He forced himself to relax his grip on the phone, and breathed out a long hiss through his teeth. “What the hell do you mean, Auguste is gone?”

“There was shooting.”

“Shooting? Who the hell was shooting?”

“Auguste, sir. He went mad.”

“Auguste? If Auguste went mad then there was something bloody wrong. I should never have trusted that fucking dictator. He was there, non?”

“Who, sir.”

“The dictator, you idiot!”

“Oh, yes, him.”

“So, he was there?”

“No, sir.”

“No? You said yes.”

“No, sir. Well, yes, I did say yes, but no. No. No, he wasn’t there.”

“Listen. The fact that you and I share a great-grandfather is the one and only reason I’m not hunting for you with a can of gas. Get it?”

“Right, sir. Yes. Got it. Sir.”

“Good. Now bring me the painting. I’ve already sold it for twice what I paid the dictator.”

“Errrrr, Auguste had the painting, sir.”

Morel rolled his head around, stretching his neck. “So? What’s the problem? Tell Auguste to bring it to me.”

“But, Auguste’s gone, sir.”

Morel stopped rolling his head around. “Gone where? Exactly?”

There was no reply.

“Where the bloody hell has Auguste gone?” he yelled.

“Gone as in dead, sir.”

“Dead!”

“The dictator’s men shot him.”

“Shot him?”

“In a taxi.”

“What they hell was he doing in a taxi?”

“We, er, don’t know, sir.”

Morel breathed out, and regretted his decision not to send more men with more firepower.

“So, where’s my painting?”

“Er . . .”

Morel leapt to his feet. “You don’t know?” he yelled. He gripped the phone so hard his hand trembled. “I can’t believe you screwed this up. I brought you