Paris
The Crime Beat
Episode 6: Paris
A.C. Fuller
Contents
Important Note to the Reader
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Author Notes, December 2019
About the Author
Other Books By A.C. Fuller
About Gary Collins, Consultant on THE CRIME BEAT
Important Note to the Reader
The Crime Beat is a nine-episode novella series, designed to be read in order and in its entirety. Although each episode tells a complete portion of the story, the nine novellas—read together—weave one unforgettable tale. Flip the page for the complete series list.
Thanks for reading,
-A.C. Fuller
The Crime Beat: Complete Series List
Click the image to reach the series page for The Crime Beat, or find individual titles below. Prior to the spring of 2020, some of the later episodes may be on pre-order.
Episode 1: New York
Episode 2: Washington, D.C
Episode 3: Miami
Episode 4: Las Vegas
Episode 5: London
Episode 6: Paris
Episode 7: Tokyo
Episode 8: San Francisco
Episode 9: Los Angeles
1
Thursday
“General Ki, the shot was not possible. C'était impossible.” The Shepherd pressed the phone to his ear, eager for a reply. He looked out the window. Snow fell softly, piling on the frozen lawn in front of the École d'économie de Paris across the street. The tracks of five men had left a path leading into the famed Paris School of Economics.
One of the five men had been his target. The target he’d failed to kill.
He ran a hand down the barrel of the custom-made, .50-caliber rifle in his lap, petting it like a cat to give him comfort. A gust of wind blew through the small opening in the window and he shivered. “General Ki? Are you still on the line?”
General Ki spoke. “The target is inside?”
“Oui. As far as I know. He entered moments ago. There is movement on the fifth floor.”
“Through windows?”
“Précisément.”
“Is there a shot?”
“No.” The absurd modern architecture of the École d'économie de Paris blocked all lines of fire. The building had colorful, narrow windows, set at odd angles that left no clear view into the building. That’s why The Shepherd and his brothers had planned the shot as they had. The annual Christmas Eve brunch gathering of economic heavyweights never had much security. Until today. Around the world, men like David Fontes were afraid, and with fear came extra protection. “What do you suggest, General?”
While The Shepherd waited for a reply he mentally recited the words. An international brotherhood, united by General Ki for a singular mission: to end the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom. He felt no shame in failing General Ki. There was mutual respect between them. Not enough for The Shepherd to proceed on his own, but enough to report what had happened honestly and reassess the situation. He was a soldier awaiting the next command. But the long silence on the line worried him. Another icy breeze snuck through the window and he raised his jacket collar against the cold.
General Ki said, “Tell me exactly what happened.”
The Shepherd explained. As expected, the limousine had been traveling south on Boulevards des Maréchaux and turned right on Rue de la Tombe-Issoire. That’s when everything went wrong. His target hadn’t slipped out of the limo onto the sidewalk and walked the thirty feet to the entrance. Instead, two men had gotten out, each holding a large umbrella. Then two more men, also with umbrellas. The four men stood close together near the rear door. The snow had come fast, landing on the four umbrellas covering the four men. Further obscuring the shot was a large tree strung with Christmas lights that stood near the parked car. David Fontes had exited the limo and hustled into the École d'économie de Paris, a man on either side of him, plus one in front and one behind. Only the lower portion of his legs had been visible. “C’était impossible,” The Shepherd concluded.
“We can’t deviate from the schedule. Security will only grow tighter.”
“What would you have me do? There is simply no shot.”
“Did you bring backup?”
A black duffel bag sat next to him. “Oui.”
“Then you know what to do.”
The Shepherd considered as he glanced again at the blur of movement behind the colorful windows. “It’s too uncertain.”
“You’ll have to go in.”
A twinge of annoyance bubbled up within him. He’d argued for a different location, and he’d been right. Damn modern architecture. As ugly as it was pretentious, and now it had cost him dearly. France really was going to hell. “I go in, I may not come out.”
General Ki said nothing.
The Shepherd thought. That morning, he’d felt the first twinge of doubt when reading a new theory about the nine murders that had spread online. It had made its way onto French TV and, as he’d packed his duffel bag, he’d listened to the report. His cause was just and right, but that didn’t mean others weren’t benefiting from it as well. “The theories on the Internet, on TV. They are false?”
“All of them. False. I think you refer to one in particular.”
The Shepherd was on high alert for a change in General Ki’s tone, but the voice-modifier made his words sound similarly warped and tinny. “Oui.”
“False. Ibo Kane was one of the targets we considered. Hardly a mastermind. The reporter behind those lies will be, well…”
The Shepherd knew a threat when he heard it. He’d read the article, but hadn’t checked the byline. If General Ki said he was coming for the reporter, then he was. And if he was coming for the reporter, there could be truth to what she’d written. But nevermind. Whether or not there was truth to it, David Fontes deserved to die. “If I don’t make it out, will you call my mother? I’m supposed to be there for church and Christmas dinner.” Their tradition was a late dinner after Christmas Eve church services. Roast turkey with chestnuts, oysters, foie gras, and cheeses. For dessert, Bûche de Noël—rolled chocolate sponge cake.
“I will.”
“You’ll take care of her?”
“I will.”
Then it was decided. He’d storm the building. “I am The Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”
“Thank you, Shepherd.”
The line went dead.
He stashed the phone in the duffel and pulled out binoculars, training them on the fifth floor of the building across the street. The largest conference room. The colored glass revealed movement, but no faces. He guessed there were seventy or eighty people inside, including the four security guards who’d lead David Fontes in under the umbrella shroud.
There was no security at the front entrance. It made sense. This was a college of economics, not a bank or high-value target. The four flights of stairs were empty. Most of the school was on break. Security cameras monitored the stairwell landings, but he doubted extra security had been added. Had the head of the World Trade Organization been leading a gathering of world leaders in Geneva, or even participating in a regular council meeting, things might have been different. But this was a celebratory
Christmas Eve brunch. The four umbrella guards had been deemed enough.
He cracked the door and peered down a long hallway that dead ended and turned right. He’d seen the blueprints. After the turn, the hallway continued for ten meters before reaching the meeting room.
Once he made that turn, he’d be committed. He let the door close and crouched on the stairwell landing, duffel bag in his lap.
He pulled out two handguns, a Glock 19 and a Beretta 93R. Two different weapons with two slightly different purposes, but using the same 9mm rounds. The Beretta was the older of the two, and the lesser weapon, but he was fond of it for no other reason than nostalgia. The first five or ten years protecting presidents had been some of his happiest. After leaving the Groupe de sécurité de la présidence de la République, he’d purchased the gun used for only fifty francs. It was a twin of the service pistol he carried during his fifteen years of service in the GSPR. Back then, he’d been Augustin Gustave Berger. Frenchman, patriot, hero, and he’d served France by protecting four presidents. Each had a code name, and he’d addressed them humbly at the time. When he’d been dishonorably discharged for posting negative comments about the French president on an Internet message board, everything changed. He now knew the men he’d once protected as François, Jacques, Nicolas, and Emmanuel. They were the men who’d given France away to Europe.
He’d argued with General Ki that the last of these men, the current president of France, should be one of their targets, but the general had rebuffed him. Too risky. The president was a puppet—better to focus on the leaders who pulled the strings behind the scenes. The men and women to whom he is beholden.
He stuck the Beretta in his belt and pulled a smoke grenade from the bag. He put on goggles. He left the duffel bag in the stairwell and cracked the door again. Still clear. Glock 19 in his right hand, held inconspicuously at his waist, he strode into the hallway.
After only a moment, the sound of heavy footsteps startled him.
He spun on his heels. Guards. The plan was already going to shit. But they weren’t real police. Just losers in uniforms.
“Qui êtes vous?” one asked.
The other guard’s eyes widened as he noticed the Glock, then shifted his eyes to the smoke grenade.
The Shepherd had two options. He could bolt for the corner and make it out of sight, but they’d likely be right on his heels. If they had the guts to follow him, they could shoot him in the back before he made it to the double door. Then again, only one of the two guards had a gun.
Even if he made it into the conference room before they reached him, they could cause problems. But if he dealt with them now, he’d be giving himself up. The shots would be heard in the meeting hall and he’d lose the element of surprise.
The guard on the left decided for him. He had no weapon, but he did have a radio. A kid of no more than twenty-five, he grabbed his radio with a trembling hand and raised it to his mouth as The Shepherd raised the Glock. He waited for the security guard’s hand to reach his mouth, hoping he’d reconsider. Time stopped in the moment before he depressed the call button. The Shepherd met his eyes, shaking his head slightly as if to say, Don’t do this.
As the guard touched the radio button with his finger, The Shepherd fired.
The high-velocity hollow point round knocked the kid back. A single shot through the heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The other guard was older, with ruddy cheeks and a round face that made him resemble a dumpling. He didn’t reach for his gun. The Shepherd guessed that he never had. Instead he took off down the hall and The Shepherd shot him in the back. He took a few strides forward and fired another round into the back of his head to be sure.
Noise erupted from the meeting room. He turned and jogged down the hallway, pulling the pin from the smoke grenade as he rounded the corner. Ten meters ahead, the double door swung open. Two of the umbrella guards stepped out. One reached for his weapon.
The Shepherd lobbed the grenade underhanded, leaping to the right as he did. He hit the wall with his right shoulder, aiming the Glock as he fell to the ground. The canister rolled to their feet, releasing gray smoke that rose around their bodies. As they disappeared, he shot six times into the smoke, aiming for the spots where their chests had been.
A woman screamed, then two heavy thuds sounded. He’d dropped them.
He pushed himself up and darted through the smoke. He dropped the Glock and pulled the Beretta from his belt.
He had to shove one of the dead guards out of the way to get through the double door. Inside, people screamed and ran for the emergency exit on the far side of the hall. His eyes moved to the stage, where the other two umbrella guards stood on either side of a short, black-haired man. His target. They had him by his elbows, practically lifting him off the floor as they rushed across the stage.
The one on the right was larger; The Shepherd dropped him with a double-tap in the back. The other one turned and got a bullet in the forehead.
The target turned, hands up. “You cannot do this.”
Around him, people streamed toward the exits. The Shepherd had taken out the four guards who’d led Fontes in. He doubted any Econ students or professors would try to be a hero. He’d enjoy this one. “David Fontes, for your role in selling out the workers of France, I condemn you to die.”
He aimed and pulled the trigger. Click.
Nothing happened.
He fumbled with the weapon. The spent casing hadn’t ejected after his last shot. The slide was half open with a half-seated round. An instant of panic overwhelmed him before his training took over. He tapped, racked, and cleared the malfunction in less than a second.
Not fast enough.
When The Shepherd looked up, Fontes was on his knees holding a gun. He’d rolled behind the motionless body of the larger of his two security guards. Before The Shepherd could fire, a bullet hit his chest. It felt like a hard shove, followed by the most intense, searing pain he’d ever experienced. He looked down. Blood appeared through his white shirt. He heard a sucking sound, air leaving his lungs.
He fell back and crumpled to the ground, blinking furiously through the pain as Fontes jumped down from the stage and pushed for the exit.
The Shepherd’s vision blurred. He rolled onto his belly and closed his left eye, trying to focus on the black suit. The black hair. I am The Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.
The screams around him faded. The world closed in to a square patch of black, his target’s suit, and an oval patch of black, his target’s hair. Using a last gasp of strength, he clicked the selector switch on the 93R to three-round burst. He pulled the trigger.
Two bursts did the job.
David Fontes hit the floor. The shots had connected with his upper back, probably hitting a lung. Or both lungs. He’d die slowly over the next five or ten minutes.
The Shepherd rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He moved into the lights.
When he closed his eyes, the lights stayed with him, filling his mind. He was the light, had been the light all along.
It was odd. He didn’t feel one way or another about accomplishing his mission. He’d thought it would feel different.
As the light filled his whole body, he wondered whether General Ki would take care of his mother, as promised.
2
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it.” Cole shook her head slowly. “I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for internet mobs digging up old information.”
Warren leaned his head against the window of the train and let out a long sigh. “It’s not proof. Just another theory.”
The world outside had gone dark when the train entered the Chunnel. Now they were two-hundred feet beneath the surface of the water, halfway between London and Paris. The train offered good wifi, so Cole had spent the last hour reading every reaction to her Ibo Kane story. There were a lot of them. Articles and research were appearing faster than she could keep up
with. One theory in particular, hatched by a blogger named 1-Der, had struck a chord.
“It’s proof,” she insisted. “General Ki is Ibo Kane. The Ki is his online name. His initials, backwards. IK. KI.”
“Might be, but—”
“No,” Cole interrupted. “Read.”
She handed him her phone, open to an article about Kane’s first social media company, SmartFace, which had grown huge in the mid-2000s before Facebook eclipsed it. “His screen name was Ki back then, too. People get attached to their early online personas. He thought all evidence was erased when SmartFace went belly up, but… obviously not.”
Warren glanced at the article. “The Internet is forever.”
Cole looked out the window, trying to pick out seams in the dark tunnel walls. She imagined the weight of the water above them—the Strait of Dover—pressing down and shattering the tunnel. If that happened, she’d drown like a rat. A new article about her theory appeared every few minutes online. Next to the shootout at the École d'économie de Paris, it was the number one trending story in the world. Even some TV networks had picked up her theory, though most had yet to vet it. A worldwide manhunt for Martin Price was underway. As far as she knew, Ibo Kane was not yet being investigated. Despite the irrational fear of drowning, she felt safer in the tunnel. The French media would probably be waiting for her when she emerged in Paris. “The screenshots showing Kane used ‘Ki’ as a screen name don’t prove my story right, but they’re damn good evidence.”
Warren shook his head. “All the stuff I read about your article basically said, ‘Yeah, but…’”