The Take(41)

Suddenly, the guard was standing in front of her, the barrel of the machine gun prodding her chest. “Let him go,” he said.

The guard was young, maybe twenty years old, but hardened by his time on the streets. She had no doubt he’d hated the police since before he could walk. His finger was inside the trigger guard and he was sweating. Five pounds of pressure—barely more than you needed to tap a letter on a keyboard—was enough to fire a round. His unblinking gaze said he’d shoot her if given the chance.

“Tell him to fuck off,” she said, unsnapping her cuffs from her belt.

Aziz sighed mightily and told the guard to leave them alone.

“But…” the guard protested.

“Leave us,” said Aziz. “Go to my office. Shut the door.”

Reluctantly, the guard lowered the machine gun and walked away.

“Okay,” said Aziz when he heard the door close. “I can help you.”

“Too late.”

“I know this man Coluzzi.”

“Sure you do,” said Nikki. “His name just popped into your head.”

“I bought some merch from him last year.”

“Oxy?”

Aziz nodded. “Like you said.”

“Go on.”

“He was getting a crew together not too long ago.”

“Last year?”

“Last week.”

“He doesn’t work with your people. How would you know?”

“Another guy like him was in, looking to score some weed. Just a key. We smoked a blunt and he mentioned that he was working for this dude. A real smooth operator.”

“Coluzzi?”

“Yeah, that’s the name. I remember now.”

“Of course you do. What else do you remember?”

“That’s it. Coluzzi was getting some of his guys together, used to be part of some gang in Marseille.”

“What were they going to do?”

“No idea. I swear. The guy who told me was high. He probably knew he’d already said too much.”

“So where can I find your friend?”

“I don’t know. He just called me, came by.”

“What’s his number?”

“He uses a burner. I kill my log every day.”

Nikki reached again for her cuffs.

“Wait, wait,” said Aziz. “We hung out once. This bar in the Marais. Full of guys like him from down south. Names like Luca and Giovanni. Leather coats. Gold chains. Too much cologne.”

“Give me your friend’s name.”

“I can’t do that, Nikki. That’s asking too much.”

Nikki opened the cuffs. “Hands in front or in back?”

“Jack. Giacomo’s his real name.”

“Jack or Giacomo who hangs out at a bar in the Marais.”

“Le Galleon Rouge.”

Nikki considered this. It might be true or it might not. She’d never heard of the bar, but then again, she wasn’t one to hang around the Marais. She put away the cuffs. “I’m going to need to take it.”

“Cost me fifty grand.”

“How much is your freedom worth?”

Aziz sat on a box, shoulders slumped, a hand contemplating his bald scalp. Nikki tapped him on the shoulder. Aziz glanced up.

“Which side?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been back here with you too long. Can’t have anyone thinking I’m your friend.”

Aziz touched his right cheek. “Go easy.”

Nikki made a fist and slugged him in the face. Aziz toppled off the box and onto the floor. To his credit, he didn’t whimper.

“That was for my brother,” said Nikki.





Chapter 22



The match between Olympique de Marseille and Paris Saint-Germain was a preseason encounter slated to begin at three p.m. Tino Coluzzi joined the throngs of fans streaming across the grounds toward the Stade Vélodrome. While most were attired in shorts and T-shirts, Coluzzi was dressed in a summer-weight tan suit, a white shirt open at the collar. He didn’t plan on watching the game with the masses. It was his objective to watch alongside the richest man in the stadium: Alexei Ren.

Nearing the entry, he removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. The heat was oppressive, with only the faintest of breezes. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. If he didn’t get into the shade soon, he’d sweat through his shirt. It was not the kind of impression he wanted to make.

The heat wasn’t the only thing making him sweat. He’d had no contact from the American in almost two days. Lying awake in his cramped, low-ceilinged bedroom, doors and windows battered shut, he’d wondered with concern bordering on fear who was coming after him. He didn’t peg the American as someone who would walk away after being betrayed and leave things as they stood. He was coming for the letter.

And so were the Russians.

Coluzzi took this as fact because he would do the same. And he’d be coming with a vengeance.

There was a long line to gain entrance to the stadium. Besides the men and women taking tickets, a healthy contingent of police was standing at or near the turnstiles. Their presence didn’t unsettle him. Crowds at Marseille football matches were known to get rowdy. What did unsettle him were the newly installed cameras perched atop the gates. He was no expert in technology but he knew that the facial-recognition systems implemented at high-profile venues around the country had resulted in several of his associates being arrested.