"Synapse" - 9

As I slowly regained consciousness I was increasingly aware of the smell of leather, the awkward twisting of my spine, and the seat belt buckle digging into my hip.

I opened my eyes. I was in the back of a moving car. Well appointed. Paris trees blurred past the windows as they brushed the sky.

Slowly I sat up and looked around. The doors had no controls; no window buttons, no lock buttons, no handles.

There was a piece of glass separating me from the two men seated in the front. Both looked like spy novel mannequins.

I was in the sedan that had followed me. We were moving briskly through a section of Paris I was unfamiliar with.

In front of us was one of the two vehicles that had cut me off. The second was behind us.

Oddly, behind this vehicle was my Lada, driven by one of the three who confronted me in the street. Pretty polite kidnappers, I thought.

I felt for my Walther. It was missing. My flask was still in my jacket pocket; I took it out and downed a couple swallows to help me breathe.

Fishing in my pants pocket I pulled out a pack of cheap Gauloises, removed one with my lips, and lit it with my lighter.

Funny how I was allowed to keep these.

One of my kidnappers turned, flicked a switch, and said, “Please don’t smoke in the car.” His voice was a thin metallic smear.

I pulled a long draw and blew the smoke at his face. It curled as it hit the glass.

“If you don’t like it roll down the windows back here.”

He reached forward, touching a small, red button on the dashboard.

I heard a hiss, the smell of almonds and honey replacing that of leather and cigarette smoke.