The passenger doors on all three vehicles opened, and the emerging men each took up positions around my Lada.
One off the front right fender, the second behind the right rear – out of my immediate visual range – the third a few feet from my driver door.
All three were physically fit, wore identical charcoal-grey suits, white shirts, and black ties. All three wore sunglasses.
“How charming,” I thought. “Is this some kind of Earl Stanley Gardner daydream? Maybe if I shout ‘Gertie’ they’ll vanish in a puff.”
The caricature off my driver door took a few steps towards my car. I raised the Walther, pressed it against the window, and aimed it at his head.
As I did so, my friend’s twin companions reached into their open suit coats. I could feel their hands closing around gunmetal.
I was hoping to hold out long enough for the Sûreté to arrive.
I wasn’t sure how I would fare in an encounter with the police, but I was certain my antagonists were less interested in their involvement than I was.
“Mr. Armstrong,” said the man outside my door. “If you shoot me you’ll be dead before you have the satisfaction of seeing me hit the ground.”
I didn’t blink. The Walther didn’t waver. I thought I heard a faint siren calling in the distance.
“Mr. Armstrong. Our time is short.”
With those words the right rear window of my Lada exploded, showering glass throughout the stark interior.
A gas was quickly filling the car; it smelled of almonds and honey.
Before I could feel the pain from the glass striking the back of my head I was enveloped in blackness.
Moses Armstrong. Agent provocateur. I work alone. Some may say I'm a mercenary, but that would imply I care... I am an agent of fortune, a spy, an undercover intelligence office. My past is checkered. I had a wife named Madeilene, a son names Jonas. They were killed. I take lovers, prostitutes, women, blonds, into my bed for succor. I drink heavily, scotch whiskey, alcohol. Some would say I'm an alcoholic. They'd be right, but it's only self-medication. Some have called me Jack Bauer, 24, James Bond, but they have more scruples than me. I'm more like the Joker, Batman and his Dark Knight. I fight against both governments and criminals; against terrorists, terrorism, Muslim fanatics, pirates (Somalis, African, Kenyan, doesn't matter), enemies of justice. I have no friends, excpt the bottle and my cigarettes. I live by night, sleep by day, visit the underbelly of Paris, my current landing place. I am American, lived in London. My fees are high, because I only deal in bodies: blonds and corpses.
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