OWN THIS WAY,” Reggie told Shaw. “There’s another exit.”

“The one that lets out down by the villas?” said Shaw.

Reggie stared at him as they rushed along. “How did you know?”

“I can recon. But that door opens onto a public street.”

“And Kuchin knows about it,” said Reggie. “I had to show him that route earlier to convince him to go to the church today. Then I led him to the catacombs instead.”

Shaw said, “Then it’s no good for two reasons.” He looked over at Dominic, who ran bent over, clutching his injured arm. “Are you going to make it?”

Reggie took off her bandanna and wrapped it around the wound.

“I can make it,” Dominic said, grimacing.

Whit eyed Shaw. “What then? We can’t go back unless we want to shoot our way out, and those guys have a lot more bullets than we do.”

Shaw pointed to his left. “That way.”

Whit grabbed his arm. “There’s nothing down there. I checked.”

“At the end of the hall is a hidden door built into the stone. The passage there leads to the old fort.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Whit.

“Through a little history reading.”

“What?”

“Catholic priests often had to run for their lives. Just like we are. Now let’s go!”

They reached the end of the hall, Shaw pulled on a stone set in the lower half of the wall, and a slight gap appeared. He tugged on the section and old hinges creaked as the door swung open. They fled through and Shaw clicked the door shut behind them.

As he led them down a dark, musty passageway Shaw hit some keys on his cell phone and the electronic message flew off. They passed through another door and reached a hall through which sunlight eased in via slits in the stone block far above their heads. They were now in the old fort.

He reached one more door, tugged it open, and they entered a courtyard. The car screeched to a stop in front of them and Whit aimed his gun at the driver.

“He’s with me,” said Shaw, putting a hand on Whit’s arm.

Frank rolled down the passenger-side window and said, “The whole town is going nuts.”

Shaw and Reggie helped Dominic into the backseat and then slid in next to him. Whit jumped in next to Frank, who gunned it, and the car sped off laying black tread down on ancient cobblestone.

“Okay, Shaw, start talking,” said Frank as he maneuvered the car through the narrow streets and down the hill toward where the villas were located.

“Your name is Shaw?” said Reggie, looking at him.

He glanced in the rearview mirror to see Frank staring at him. “They snagged Waller, but his men ambushed them. I was there to help out.”

“Help out?” exclaimed Whit. “We’d all be dead but for you.”

“Well, we still might be,” snapped Frank.

As he finished speaking one of Waller’s men ran out from the doorway that led from the church; it was the same passageway out that Reggie and Kuchin had taken when they’d visited the church the first time. The gunman spotted them and fired. Everyone ducked as the windshield cracked. There was a bump, the man was catapulted into the air by the collision with the car, and dropped to the ground. Frank looked up.

“Hey, Shaw?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you drive?”

“Why?”

“Because the son of a bitch just shot me!”

Shaw saw the blood seeping from Frank’s jacket, pushed the man to the side, climbed over the seat, and took over the wheel. He floored it and then checked Frank, who was slumped over next to Whit.

“How bad?”

Frank fumbled with his shirt and looked. “Missed the belly, think it went through me. Hard to say.”

Whit checked the seatback. “It did. Here’s the slug.” He held it up.

“Hang on, Frank, and tell me where to go,” said Shaw.

“Private strip sixty kilometers south of here. Wings waiting.” He gave Shaw the specific directions and then fell silent, his breathing labored and his face turning gray.

Reggie and Whit took off Frank’s jacket, tore open his shirt, and checked the wound more carefully. Reggie said, “Look in the glove compartment for a first-aid kit.”

There wasn’t one but there was a box of sterilized wipes. She used those to clean the wound and then used strips of Frank’s shirt to help stop the bleeding and to bandage the wound. She sat back. “That’s all I can do for now. He needs medical attention.”

“There’s a doc on the plane,” mumbled Frank. Shaw glanced at him to see the other man’s gaze on him. “Knowing you I figured it was a good idea.” Shaw grabbed an antiseptic pack and tossed it to Reggie. “For your face. Waller got you good with his shoe.”

She cleaned up her face as best she could and then worked on Dominic’s injured arm.

The siren made them all jerk around.

“Cop car right behind us,” said Whit as he stared in the side mirror.

“Shit, there is no way we can stop and explain this,” said Shaw. He floored it.

Five miles later as the sounds of the siren faded into the Provençal countryside, Whit said, “You’re a right good wheelman.”

“Let’s just be thankful they didn’t have the resources out here to do a call-ahead roadblock. Then I’d just be a ‘right good’ prisoner.”

They finally reached the private airstrip. Parked next to the plane was a shimmering black Range Rover. The physician on board the jet cleaned up Frank’s wound and reset Dominic’s bone, holding it in place with two small pieces of wood and lots of medical tape. “He’ll need a cast,” said the doctor. “I don’t have the materials to do one here.”

Shaw helped Reggie bandage her face while Whit watched stonily from a corner of the luxurious cabin. The copilot came back to them. “We’re ready to go wheels up whenever you give the word,” he told Frank as the man slowly sat up, rubbing his arm where the doctor had given him an injection of painkiller.

“That won’t be happening.”

Everyone turned to see Whit standing there pointing a gun. “You two can go,” he said, indicating Shaw and Frank. “But the three of us are gonna take those fresh wheels out there and head on.”

“That’s not a good idea,” said Shaw.

“For us it is,” shot back Whit. “I don’t know who you blokes are, and I don’t want to know. Thanks for the assist, but you go your way and we’ll go ours. No hard feelings, I promise.”

“You guys will never get away,” said Frank, attempting to stand before Shaw put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“I actually like our odds.”

“You’ll need a hostage,” said Shaw. “Because without that, you really have no chance against this guy here.” Shaw pointed at Frank. “He’s got more resources than you can deal with. But he also doesn’t want to lose me. That gives you leverage.”

Whit looked skeptical. “So you want us to take you hostage? That ain’t happening.”

“Then you have no chance,” snapped Shaw.

Whit poked a finger into Shaw’s chest. “Bugger off.”

Reggie stepped between Whit and Shaw. “He’s right, Whit.”

“I’m not taking your lover boy along for the ride just because you—”

Shaw moved Reggie to the side and took a step toward Whit. “You couldn’t even recon a site properly. You let them ambush you and would be dead if it weren’t for me. You said so yourself. Now we have to get out of the country. Without wings we’ll have to go another way. I can do that because I’ve done it a hundred times. Can you?”

Now Whit looked uneasily at Reggie.

Dominic said, “He’s right, Whit, we’re not prepared for this.”

Whit fumed inwardly for a few seconds. “All right, but the first time you try anything…”

“Right, whatever.” Shaw brushed past him heading for the aircraft’s exit door.

“Shaw!” shouted Frank. “You can’t do this. You don’t even know who they are.”

“I’ll be in touch, Frank. Hope you heal fast.”

The others followed him off the plane.

As they climbed into the Range Rover, Whit asked Shaw, “Hey, how did you get away in the first place?”

“With a toilet, a little water, and some elbow grease. And you might want to call somebody to untie your guy after they wake him up.”

“Bloody hell,” said an impressed Whit.

FEDIR KUCHIN’S villa was empty. No SUVs out front, no windows open, no cigar-smoking in the rear grounds. The bags had been packed, battered men gathered up, and they were gone. A phone call had been placed and his private jet had picked him up not at the commercial airport in Avignon but at a corporate jet park. He now looked down at the French landscape from twenty thousand feet as his private plane worked its way up plateaus of calm air to its cruising altitude.

Next to him sat Alan Rice holding an ice pack against his face with another strapped to his right knee. Pascal, and two of the other guards who’d been attacked by the Muslim impersonators, were nursing their own injuries. The man who’d been hit by the car had a broken leg. Kuchin’s mouth and jaw were badly swollen from Shaw’s blow and there were two new empty spots in his gums. He had refused any medical attention, not even Advil. He simply sat in his seat and stared down at the quickly vanishing French terrain.

They are down there somewhere. And they know who I really am.

He flicked a gaze at Rice. “In all the excitement you have not explained how you were able to rescue me, Alan,” he said, his damaged mouth moving slowly.

Rice gingerly removed the ice pack and glanced at his boss. “I followed the woman to the church one night.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t trust her,” he said simply. “That’s why I tested her.”

“Tested her?”

“When I pretended to warn her off. I lied to her and said that you had become infatuated with women in the past. I wanted to see if she would do the rational thing and leave you alone. She didn’t. That, coupled with her late-night excursion, made me even more suspicious. I also didn’t like the way she was playing you off against that other man.”

“So you followed her? But how is it that you were in those catacombs waiting for us?”

“I also saw who she was meeting with that night. I had him followed.”

“You did all this without telling me?”

“I wanted to be sure, Evan. I didn’t want to turn out to be wrong. I am a smart man, meaning I am terrified of you.”

Kuchin leaned back into the leather of his seat. “And then?”

“And then we saw them go into the church and down to the catacombs. When they came back out to get something, we snuck down there and took up position. I was very afraid because they had guns, and I have never even fired one. Witness my poor shot today.”

“You saved my life.”

“I’m glad I could be there for you. Had I known what this was all about I never would have let you go with her to the market today. By the time I realized what was happening it was too late. They were cunning. I assumed the two guards with you would be sufficient, but I was obviously wrong.”

“So I struck you in error earlier?”

“You had every right. I appeared to have overstepped my bounds.”

“I was surprised by that.”

“I’m sure. But I was just trying to protect you.”

Kuchin turned away, stared out at a cloud. “I’m sorry, Alan. I misjudged you. I saved your life, now we are even on that.”

“Well, thank God it ended all right.”

“End? No. This has not ended.”

“You’re going after them?”

“You had doubts?”

“No, no doubts,” Rice said nervously.

“The tall man? Why do I think he was not with them?”

“But he was there.”

Kuchin said, “I think he followed you into the church.”

“Me?”

Kuchin ran a finger along his battered jaw. Talking was painful but he was focused on something else. “You heard what they called me?”

“The name?”

“Fedir Kuchin.”

“Yes. I heard.” Rice put the bag of ice back on his face and tried to breathe normally.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No. I don’t.”

Kuchin was both pleased and disappointed by this. He bent down and removed an object from his briefcase. It was a bag wrapped in plastic. Inside was a gun.

“This is the woman’s pistol that she left in the church. I want it checked for prints but I doubt we’ll be successful there. When I picked it up I probably smudged any that were there. But it’s a relatively new model and we can check for serial numbers on the slider, barrel, and breech face.”

“They probably sterilized it. Used acid or a drill to remove the numbers.”

“You know more about guns than you let on, Alan. Yes, that is true, but there is a thing called microstamping. It uses a laser to imprint the numbers microscopically on the breech face and the firing pin among other places. They are not so easy to remove. If we can trace the gun perhaps we can trace the woman.”

“You really want her, don’t you?”

“The background check we ran on her was obviously flawed. I want you to find out all you can about who she really is.”

Kuchin stopped rubbing his jaw and took out the laptop computer they had found in the catacombs that was the source of the picture show down there. He turned it on and pushed some keys. A few moments later he was staring at graphic images of his work in Ukraine. He turned to see Rice glancing over his shoulder. The younger man quickly looked away. Kuchin finally eased his gaze from the images on the computer and put it away. He retrieved a small book from his bag and opened it. On one page were the beginnings of a sketch. Holding a bit of charcoal, Kuchin’s hand moved across the paper. As he did so, Janie Collins’s face began to more fully appear.