Destiny Read Free

you to be safe.”
    Clasping the backpack to his chest, Avery looked uncertain.
    â€œI’ll be there,” Annja told him. “In a minute. Now go.”
    Reluctantly, the young man left. In a handful of steps he was out of sight behind the twisting alley walls.
    Threading her tent pole through her belt, Annja turned toward the back wall of the fishing shop. An accomplished rock climber, she skillfully scaled the wall and came to a rest atop the doorway. Turning around so that she faced the alley was difficult, but she managed.
    She took the tent pole in both hands and waited.
    Â 
    H ENRI F OULARD GAZED around the fishing shop. He didn’t see the American woman anywhere. Growing anxious, he trotted to the back of the shop and looked through the displays.
    â€œShe’s not here,” Jean said.
    â€œI see that,” Foulard snapped. At that moment, the cell phone in his pocket rang. He answered it at once. “Yes.”
    â€œDo you have the woman?” Corvin Lesauvage’s tone was calm and controlled. He always sounded that way. But to the trained ear, his words held a dangerous edge.
    â€œNot yet,” Foulard answered. His head swiveled, searching desperately for the woman.
    â€œI want to talk to her.”
    â€œI know. You will.” Foulard pushed through a rack of jackets.
    â€œIf she knows something about La Bête that I do not know, I must be made aware of it.”
    â€œSoon,” Foulard promised.
    â€œDo not disappoint me.”
    Foulard could not imagine anything in the world that he would want to do less. Lesauvage was a violent man with an unforgiving nature. People who crossed him died. Foulard had helped bury some of them in shallow graves. Others he had chopped into pieces and fed to the fish in the Seine.
    The phone clicked dead.
    Replacing the device in his pocket, Foulard turned to the old man whose owlish eyes were narrow with disapproval. Foulard knew the old man was not as annoyed as he was.
    â€œWhere’s the woman?” Foulard demanded.
    The old man gripped the lapels of his vest. “You need to leave my shop.”
    Foulard crossed to the man in three angry steps.
    Reaching beneath the counter, the old man took out a phone. “I will call the police.”
    Without pause, Foulard slapped the phone from the old man’s hand, then grabbed a fistful of his vest and yanked him close. Effortlessly, Foulard slipped the 9 mm pistol from beneath his windbreaker and put the muzzle against the old man’s forehead.
    â€œThe woman,” Foulard repeated in a deadly voice.
    Trembling, the old man pointed to the rear of the shop.
    Rounding the counter, Foulard stomped the phone to pieces. “Don’t call the police. I’m cutting you a break by letting you live. Understand?”
    The old man nodded.
    Foulard shoved him back against the shelves. The old man stayed there.
    â€œShe spotted us,” Jean said.
    â€œYou think?” Foulard shook his head and started for the back door. He kept his pistol in his hands.
    â€œIt’s hard to stay hidden in a town this small,” Jean said as he drew his own pistol. He held it like a familiar pet, with love and confidence.
    â€œLesauvage wants the woman alive,” Foulard reminded him, knowing how his cohort loved to kill.
    â€œMaybe he won’t want to keep her that way for long,” Jean said hopefully.
    â€œShe’s just a television person,” Foulard said. “A historian. She won’t be any trouble. Don’t break her.”
    Jean grinned cruelly. “Maybe we can just scare her a little.”
    Foulard grinned at the thought. “Maybe.”
    Together, they passed through the back door.
    Foulard stood at the doorway.
    Two paths lay before him. He didn’t know which direction the woman went. Avery Moreau should have left him a clue. The boy knew what he was supposed to do.
    â€œShould we split up?” Jean asked.
    Foulard didn’t want