The blade, though . . . it ruined the sophisticated feel of the moment.
“In theory, that sounds like a fair deal. But I’m going to have to take a pass,” Jake said, and swiveled the other way, then flinched as cold, sharp metal dug into his forearm. Oh, that hurt like a son of a bitch, and blood spurted out from his arm. “So, the bloody bastard comment? That was literal. Well, so’s this,” he said, then jammed his elbow in the gut of the yellow-toothed guy. Briefly, Jake clenched his fist, tempted to throw a punishing punch. But even though he could easily land one or many, he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. A street brawl would only draw more attention, and right now, he needed less.
As the great Kenny Rogers said, you’ve got to know when to run.
And when to motherfucking sprint.
Six years in the army served Jake well right now as he sped away, lengthening his stride and barreling past a boisterous scarf-and-coat-wearing and espresso-sipping crowd at a café. The sounds of French chatter about work and politics, art and the news, fell on his ears, and not a single person at the café seemed to care that a man was running like a receiver for the end zone, as red leaked from his forearm.
He gritted his teeth. Damn cut smarted.
A siren blared and Jake cursed. He’d have a hell of a time explaining to the French police that he was simply retrieving a stolen item. Officer, I know it sure looks like I made off with this priceless instrument, but in reality, I was stealing it back. Yes, I’m a modern-day Robin Hood. Cops, generally speaking, weren’t the friends of men like him, men who were called when the law couldn’t or didn’t or wouldn’t help. He snapped his gaze toward the sound of the siren. Mercifully, the bleating came from a white ambulance. Well, that was good for Jake, bad for whoever was lying on the stretcher inside.
Up ahead, he spied his goal—a busy boulevard, thick with cars and green taxis. He wondered if his disappearing cabbie had come to hunt for fares here.
From behind, the men shouted at him in English as he ran. The red awning of a butcher shop came into view, and the scent of roast chicken from a rotisserie cart parked outside it drifted into his nostrils.
Smelled fantastic. His mouth watered.
If he were in a movie, he’d yank the chicken grill into the middle of the sidewalk and trip the bumbling men, who’d double over in pain as Jake took off into the sunset, leaving them in the dust while nibbling on a tasty cooked chicken. But life wasn’t a movie. It was full of risks, and it was up to him to get away with this million-dollar object and return it to his client. No return, no pay. Simple math.
He blasted by a gray-haired French woman in a tweedy skirt and knit hat pushing a shopping bag, as he muttered, “Excusez-moi.” Then, mere feet away, he spotted a jewel.
Better than an emerald. Prettier than a pile of greenbacks.
A green taxi.
Passengerless and idling at a red light. He sprinted to the door, grabbed the handle, and slid inside.
The cabbie arched a bushy eyebrow. “Oui?”
Jake gave the address of his hotel in the seventh arrondissement. Then added in French, “Quickly, please.”
“How fast?”
“As fast as you can.”
“It’ll cost you extra.”
“Yes. I know,” he said drily.
The light changed, and the cab peeled away, leaving two Irish Stradivarius thieves in his wake on the outskirts of Montmartre. His breath came fast as he settled into the backseat, slinging the backpack around to his front. Blood from the knife cut drizzled along his skin. Tugging at the waistband of his shirt, he wiped away the blood. The cut wasn’t deep; it was merely a superficial wound.
“You running away from something?” the cab driver asked in French as he tore through side streets toward the Seine.
“No. I don’t run away. I’m returning something to its rightful owner.”
That was what he did.
Several hours later, his forearm was cleaned up, his shirt had been changed, and the seven-figure violin was safe and sound and heading home. He stepped out of the terminal in Florence, greeted by a gleaming black town car and his client, Francesca Rinaldi, with jet-black corkscrew curls and outstretched arms.
“Do you have it?” she asked, breathless.
“I told you I did,” he said, because he’d called her on his way to the airport, telling her he’d tracked it down. For a brief moment on the flight from Paris to Florence, he’d wondered what it would sound like to pluck one of the strings on that violin. He was intrigued, simply because it was a damn Stradivarius and he couldn’t help but wonder if it would actually sound like a dull twang after being manhandled by criminals who thought they could get a cool mill for something that everyone knew was missing, or if it would still sound like some kind of siren song, as it was supposed to.
He didn’t touch it, though. Not his place. Not his job.
“I want to see it,” Francesca said, her eyes wide and eager, her voice desperate and hungry. She placed her palms together, as if praying.
He took off his backpack, unzipped it, and removed the precious object from its special transport. He opened the case and showed her what was inside.
“Oh God, it’s perfect,” she said, relief in her voice, tears streaming down her cheeks, as she reached for the violin. She brought it to her cheek and sighed happily as she cozied up to it. Just as quickly, she tucked it back inside and gripped the case tightly in her arms. Like a mother holding her once-missing baby. Her gaze landed on his wrist. “You have a cut. Did you get in a fight?”