Without warning

Caitlin rammed the little blue car through a series of gear changes as she threaded a course through a thicker pulse of traffic. Once they’d cleared the moving obstruction, she plucked a couple of paper tissues from a box jammed into the cup holder that lay between them.

‘I didn’t get your friends killed, Monique,’ she said firmly, but quietly. ‘I didn’t pull that trigger. But I took down the assholes who did. They’re avenged, for what it’s worth.’

‘Nothing! It’s worth nothing,’ shouted Monique, as the tears came at last.

‘Fair enough,’ shrugged Caitlin, checking the mirrors for any sign of pursuit as she dialled back on their speed to blend in to the surrounding traffic flow, and began to look for a landmark with which she could place them. She didn’t fancy asking the French girl for anything just yet.

The street had narrowed to just one lane running in each direction. Stunted, leafless trees lined the footpath, which was thick with people hurrying home from work, or out to dinner in one of the many bistros and wine bars that huddled up close together on the ground floors of the old four- and five-storey buildings. Warm, golden light spilled out through their windows, affording brief glimpses of packed tables and bars at which drinkers stood beneath thick clouds of cigarette smoke. For all the cosmopolitan charms, it was all so conventional. Had she been able to drive along here twenty-four hours earlier, Caitlin was certain she would have passed by almost exactly the same scene. Surely the only topic of conversation at those crowded tables would be the day’s news from the US; from the driver’s seat of the stolen Renault, however, she could not tell.

Beside her, Monique was trying valiantly to control her crying, but she had already gone through at least a third of the tissues. The young woman searched inside a pocket for a small flip-top cell phone, sniffling as she tried to key in a number. Caitlin slapped it out of her hands.

‘What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you read your own conspiracy theories? You can be tracked with that thing. In fact…’

She reached over and roughly jammed her hand between Monique’s legs to retrieve the little Samsung.

‘I’m just calling Billy!’ she protested. ‘He can come for me. I don’t want to be alone with you or anywhere near you – whoever you are.’

Monique gasped in shock as Caitlin threw the phone out of the window.

‘It won’t be Billy who comes for you if you make that call, dar-lin’. It’ll be more guys in ties, toting big fucking guns.’

‘You bitch! That was my phone!’ cried Monique, genuinely affronted.

‘No. That was a chip tracking your every movement,’ Caitlin corrected her. ‘And forget about your boyfriend. His phone is being monitored too.’

Caitlin checked her watch. They had been driving for nearly fifteen minutes, more than enough time for their descriptions and the car’s licence plate to have been pushed out over the police nets.

‘We have to change cars, Monique,’ she said. ‘I’m going to pull off the street up ahead at that corner and ditch this ride. I’m gonna ask you to come with me, but I’m not going to make you.’

She allowed herself a brief, measuring glance at her passenger. Monique’s eyes were puffy and tear tracks had washed runnels of make-up from her face. It must have been expertly applied. Caitlin hadn’t even noticed before. Monique was upset, naturally, but she was angry too. Very angry.

‘Why should I come with you? I should go right to the police and report you.’

‘You could do that,’ Caitlin said as she turned the wheel to take them off the narrow street and into an even narrower alleyway. ‘But those men I killed – the men who shot Maggie in the head – they were from your state security service. Secret police, if you like. If you walk into the gendarmes and tell them what happened, your details will go onto their network and within half an hour more guys like that will turn up at the police station and take you away. The cops won’t stop them. But they will stop you leaving if you try.’

‘But why? That is ridiculous.’

Caitlin pulled over, running the Fuego’s wheels up onto the very narrow footpath. It couldn’t have been more than two feet wide. She was glad she hadn’t had to reverse-park. Her head and neck were aching.