Pirate

Sam finished his phone call with the hotel manager, who confirmed that the champagne on ice and gift for Remi had been delivered to their suite as ordered. Sam checked his watch, then glanced over at the bookstore, wondering what was taking Remi so long. Knowing her, she was probably having a lively discussion on some obscure topic with the bookseller and that customer who’d walked in shortly after. She’d been excited about the prospect of searching for this mystery book — something she was certain he’d want to add to his collection. But, really, how long could it take to find the thing and pay for it?

Time to urge Remi to shop a little faster or that champagne was bound to be room temperature by the time they made it back. He peered into the window, seeing no one, not even the cat who’d been perched on the books by the door. What he did see was Remi’s purse sitting atop a wrapped parcel on the counter.

Not like her to leave her purse, he thought, and opened the door, the bells jingling as he stepped in. “Remi?”

The shop appeared empty.

“Remi?”

He eyed her unattended purse, then walked through the store, looking down each aisle, finally finding her standing in the doorway of what appeared to be an office or storage area at the back of the shop. “There you are.”

“You’re supposed to wait outside. Remember?”

“Everything okay?”

“I found that cookbook I’ve been searching for. The owner’s wrapping it up for me. Now, leave or you’ll ruin your surprise.”

He stared for a second or two, unable to read anything on her face, her green eyes about as expressive as a poker player’s. “I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Don’t be long.”

She smiled sweetly at him, never moving from the doorway. “I won’t.”

He retraced his steps. The door bells jangled overhead as he opened, then shut, the door, remaining inside the store.

While Remi wasn’t exactly a stranger in the kitchen, she often joked that cook was a noun, not a verb.

Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall her ever buying a cookbook, much less searching for one. Definitely not while they were married.

She was in trouble.

Nice time to be without a gun.

Typically, he carried a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, but they were in San Francisco for fun and so he’d left it on their plane.

Now what? Call 911 and hope the police arrived in time?

Not about to risk his wife’s life, he silenced the ringer on his phone, set his hat on the counter, then quietly began opening drawers, searching for something a little more substantial than his small pocketknife to use as a weapon. He found a folding knife with a four-inch blade. He pulled it open, felt it lock. Decent weight, nicely balanced, point intact, probably used to open boxes, judging by the gumminess on the blade’s edge. Now to get back to that room without being discovered.

He slid his hand into his wife’s purse, found a small makeup bag, and took out a compact mirror. Flipping it open, he wiped the powder residue from the mirror with his pants, then edged his way down the aisle, making sure a row of bookshelves was between him and the door to that storeroom.

“You!” a deep voice shouted.

Sam froze.

“Forget the combination again and you die.”

“Forgive me.” Pickering, the bookseller, Sam figured, as he continued down the aisle. “I’m nervous.”

“Please,” Remi said. “There’s no need to wave that gun around.”

“Shut up! You, old man. Get that safe open.”

“I–I’m trying.”

Sam forced himself to breathe evenly. His wife was in that room, and all he wanted to do was rush in there, save her. But his haste could mean her death. A folding knife against a gunman. It was moments like this he was glad for the weapons-and-security training he’d received during his years at DARPA.

When he reached the end of the aisle, he stopped, used the mirror to peer around the corner.

Light spilled from the doorway of the storeroom onto the gray linoleum floor. Sam kept to the edge, careful not to cast a shadow. Holding the mirror out, he angled it to get a visual into the room.

Relief at the sight of his auburn-haired wife, now seated by a cluttered desk, was short-lived as he angled the compact farther and saw the short, swarthy fellow holding a semiauto to the shopkeeper’s back. The two men stood in front of a large floor safe, the shopkeeper turning the dial. If Sam approached from this position, it put Remi between him and the gunman.

He didn’t like the odds. At the moment, he had no other choice.

C’mon, Remi. Turn. See me…

He rocked the tiny mirror back and forth so that the light caught her face. Unfortunately, she looked away, leaning toward the desk, as an audible click indicated the safe had unlocked. Pickering pulled open the door, revealing a smooth wooden box large enough to hold two bottles of wine.

The gunman stepped closer to it. “What’s in the box?”

“An old book. Just an antique.”

“Put it on the desk.”

He complied, placing the box on the desk near Remi.

Sam grasped the handle-heavy knife by its blade, stepped into the doorway, aimed, and threw.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.