Free The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette Page A

collected all the handguns, abandoning the automatic weapons, an M16 and an Uzi, where he had found them: in the Rossi clan’s car, a BMW parked under the pine trees about a hundred meters from the house. After making a hesitant tour of the premises, Anne had merely slipped on her wolf-skin coat and taken the cognac. She pulled out the cork and brought the neck to her lips, but then she put the bottle back on her lap.
    â€œNot that thirsty,” she said. She corked the bottle and put it on the floorboard, between her feet. She looked at Terrier. “Would you rather people didn’t talk to you while you’re driving?”
    â€œThat doesn’t bother me.” They had now reached a main road. Terrier slowed down, switched on his turn indicator, and took the junction leading to the highway. His broken finger did not seem to impede his driving.
    â€œDid you really kill people all those years?”
    â€œOh,” said Terrier. “You heard that.”
    â€œOf course,” Anne said deliberately. “I didn’t black out or have a fit when I rolled on the floor. I wanted to get closer to that damn fork.” She shivered. “Somebody had to do something. They would have killed us, right?” She frowned. Her face was no longer expressionless. On the contrary, it was serious: she seemed to be concentrating. “I’ve never seen such people,” she said. “Are you like them? Or not?” Suddenly, her voice and her look became uncertain again.
    â€œI’m like them. Not only. But I’m like them.”
    â€œThey weren’t only like that, either, I suppose,” said Anne. She chuckled out of pure nervousness. “What I just said was very philosophical.”
    â€œNo doubt.”
    Road signs announcing the proximity of the highway went by very quickly to the right of the DS. In fact, out of the night appeared a zone of orange half-light where the curves of an empty interchange meandered beneath overhead traffic signs. Entry to the toll road was not automated: there was a glass booth.
    â€œTurn up your collar, turn toward your door, and don’t move,” Terrier ordered.
    Anne obeyed. The DS halted near the glass cabin. A yawning, ruddy-faced employee gave Terrier a ticket through the driver’s window. The car started up, went down the ramp, gathered speed on the access lane, then, its turn indicator flashing, slipped onto the highway nearly devoid of traffic. It was almost midnight.
    â€œAre you, uh, what they call a crook?” Anne asked after a few minutes.
    â€œA crook?” repeated Terrier. “I don’t think you say that much anymore. Well, no. No, I’m not a bandit.” He hesitated. “Listen, I was a soldier of fortune—a mercenary, if you like.”
    Anne remained silent for so long that Terrier believed that she had no comment to make. But then she spoke:
    â€œNot necessarily within the framework of normal military operations and not necessarily in uniform, is that it?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œAnd who is this American named Cox?”
    â€œForget that,” said Terrier. “Forget that right now.”
    â€œFine,” said Anne. “As much as I can. Do you plan to stop somewhere, or are we going to keep on charging along until we fall into the Baltic and drown?”
    â€œWe’re heading for Paris.”
    â€œDon’t you think they’ll set up roadblocks?”
    â€œThe police? It’ll take them quite a while to identify me and the car,” said Terrier. “If they are very efficient and act very quickly, they’ll be in the know around midday. We’ll arrive long before.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œThere are any number of places that I can take you if you want to come along.”
    â€œFor example?”
    â€œWell,” said Terrier, “what I had in mind at the beginning—I mean, before things went to hell, when I just thought I