The Take(3)

The Renault hit a dip as it crossed through an intersection, and Coluzzi grasped the stock of his AK-47 assault rifle. The poplin blazer was gone, as were the Italian driving shoes. He wore the same assault gear as the other men in the car with him. Three blocks ahead, the traffic signal for Porte d’Orléans burned red. Once past it, the prince would join the highway. Coluzzi’s chance would be gone.

“Tighten it up,” he said, placing his right hand on the door handle.

With a burst of acceleration, the Renault came up on the last BMW in line.

Coluzzi put the radio to his mouth. “Take him.”

A moment later, a car identical to his own darted into the street ahead of the first BMW. Red lights flared up and down the line of cars. Brakes squealed. The convoy stopped.

“Ram him.”

Coluzzi braced as his vehicle struck the car at a speed of ten kilometers per hour.

The kill box was established.

Coluzzi pulled the balaclava over his face and stepped out of the car. As he ran up the line of BMWs, another white Renault approached from a side street.

Coluzzi’s men poured from their vehicles. There were twelve including himself. All wore black commando gear, balaclavas pulled over their faces. Like him, all carried AK-47 assault rifles with an extra-long ammunition clip. The men fanned out to surround the convoy, weapons pointed at the idling automobiles. Coluzzi ran to the fifth vehicle and drove the butt of his rifle into the driver’s window. A second blow showered glass over the asphalt.

“Unlock the car,” he shouted. “Everyone out.”

The driver got out, hands held high. Coluzzi forced him to the ground, landing a boot on his back for good measure.

“Out. Now.”

A bodyguard emerged from one of the cars farther back. It was the leader, and his gun was drawn. He moved slowly, unsurely. It was a show of mad loyalty rather than an effort to stop the robbery. One of Coluzzi’s men was on him before he cleared the car and clubbed him with the stock of his weapon. The bodyguard fell to the asphalt like a sack of rocks.

Coluzzi opened the back door. “Your Highness. If you please.”

The prince stepped out, lending a hand for the princess. The two stood, staring at each other, saying nothing.

Immediately, one of Coluzzi’s men climbed behind the wheel and closed the door.

Coluzzi hurried to the next car in line. The sixth, carrying the money. “Out.”

The driver climbed out.

“On the ground.”

The driver lay down.

One of Coluzzi’s men tossed his machine gun into the car and slid behind the wheel.

“My belongings,” said the prince, his eyes shifting to the calfskin briefcase visible in the back seat. “Please.”

Coluzzi returned to the prince. “Leave it.”

“Papers for my work. They are of no value to you.”

Already his men were running back to their vehicles.

Coluzzi shoved the prince away from the car, sunglasses falling to the ground, and the prince shoved back, fighting to go around him. The princess lunged at her husband in a vain effort to stop him. The prince knocked her away, then grabbed Coluzzi’s tunic. “I will find you.”

Coluzzi looked into the prince’s eyes. He saw fire and resolve. They were the eyes of a man accustomed to cruelty and having his way. They were not the eyes of a playboy.

“Excuse me,” he said, using the barrel of his rifle to free the prince’s hands from his person. “I must be going.”

The prince stepped away.

Coluzzi banged a fist on the roof of the prince’s car. The engine revved, then pulled out of line and sped away. Coluzzi jogged to the rear of the convoy and jumped into the Renault. “Allons-y.”

As the Renault accelerated, he looked over his shoulder. The prince and princess stood staring at the space where the cars had been.

Coluzzi wondered if five was still the prince’s lucky number.



Coluzzi threw the empty petrol can into the front seat of the burning BMW and watched the flames lick at the automobiles. His clothing, sunglasses, shoes, socks, even the false mustache he’d been wearing, were inside. Anything that could tie him or his men to the crime would be incinerated.

His phone rang. “Yes?”

“We counted it.”

“And?”

“Six hundred twenty-two thousand.”

“Not bad for a few days’ work.”

“Not bad at all.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Coluzzi returned to his car. The engine was running, and in a moment they were doing a hundred down the farm road. He looked down at the calfskin briefcase and recalled how the prince had so zealously guarded it. He thought of the sallow, fatigued-looking American with his rusty French offering him the job.

“All I want is the prince’s briefcase,” he’d said. “The rest is yours.”

Just then his phone rang. It was the American. He let the phone ring and ring until the call rolled to his voice mail.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

Coluzzi put the satchel on his lap.

“Just drive,” he said.





Chapter 2



Two hundred miles away as the crow flies, another man was contemplating theft.

Simon Riske strode across the lawn of Battersea Park, his fingers tingling with anticipation. Years had passed since he’d done a job of this nature. He wasn’t frightened. He’d practiced for days and his skills remained sharp. If he was anxious, it was because he feared he might like it too much. He’d sworn never to go back.