Free About Face by Adam Gittlin Page A

even been in France twelve hours. Was I nothing more than a fugitive, foolish to think I’d ever get a moment’s peace again?
    I tapped the back of my head against the wall, snapping myself back into the moment. I needed to make my move now. If Red had kept up with me, he’d already be upon me.
    I sucked in a breath. I peeked around the corner. There he was.
    No more than twenty feet away.
    With speed and precision, I placed the bags down. Then Neo’s carrier. The idea I might have to run flashed in my mind. I kicked off the flip-flops, deciding I’d be better off barefoot.
    Red turned the corner. Before he could react to my presence, I wrapped my right hand around his neck. I dug in, placing my left forearm across his chest and slamming him to the wall. His sunglasses went flying. My thumb and index fingers were so far up under his jawbone I could feel his larynx. His wide eyes confirmed we were thinking the same thing. That I could crush it.
    â€œWho the fuck are you?” I snarled, right up in his face.
    No response. His eyes were steely, hard.
    I grabbed his shirt with my left hand. Never moving my righthand, I pulled him a foot forward then drove him back into the wall. I could leave no question as to who was in charge. I had already learned the hard way: the second anyone gets an inch they become a wild card.
    â€œI mean it, motherfucker,” I growled. My own fear had me squeezing tighter. “I need to know who you are. Right now.”
    He wasn’t gasping, but I could tell he was having trouble breathing. Trying with everything he had to move forward, he took a swipe at me. I fended off his right hand by lifting my left elbow as I kept him pinned to the wall. Nonetheless, as his fist opened into a reaching hand, his fingernails raked the front of my face. The sting of the instant, shallow wound was sharp.
    Our faces were so close we could feel, hear each other’s every breath. My forearm felt his wildly beating heart. I squeezed harder yet. I was officially choking him. The sooner this guy accepted I was in control, the sooner I’d reward him with just enough air to offer his identity. I felt a streak of blood running into the corner of my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and lapped it up.
    I was a warrior now. Not because I wanted to be. Because I had to be.
    â€œI don’t want to hurt you,” I pushed out through clenched teeth. “But I will. Last chance. Who are you?”
    I felt Red’s body start to weaken, to relent. He raised his hands in surrender. I eased my grip just enough to let in a swallow of air.
    â€œMichel Bourdoin,” he said, raspy. “Michel Bourdoin,” he repeated.
    â€œWhat do you want, Michel Bourdoin?” I said, no space between his last word and my first.
    â€œYour cap,” he said.
    I was confused. My head twitched as I searched for words. My thoughts started going wild. My cap? Could there be something hidden in my cap? Was this another
Danish Jubilee Egg
, another plant job of some sort? How? I had bought it randomly at the airport in the States before my departure.
    â€œWhat about my cap?” I asked.
    â€œIt is zee Yankees—no?” he asked with a heavy French accent. “Zee New York Yankees?”
    â€œThe Yankees,” I answered. “Right. So?”
    â€œI have never been to New York. My son, he ees six years old. He loves zee American baseball, especially zee New York Yankees. I am sorry if I—”
    I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t.
    â€œBullshit!” I barked right in his face, tightening my grip again and purposely spraying spit in his face. “Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you working for?”
    â€œPlease! Please!” he pleaded, his straining neck taut against my palm. He forced his arms farther in the air. “I am Michel Bourdoin. Take out my wallet and see for yourself. Please! I mean you absolutely no harm, I was—”
    I slammed him