COVID Trouble

Read an excerpt of “COVID Trouble”, my explosive new thriller. Available now!

 Chapter One 

Yves Galan 

The Corona-year felt like during the war. 

Hell, it was like in the war, Yves Galan thought. He had to know because he had been there. Sixteen years old then, over ninety years old today. Then and today, stores offered plenty of empty shelf space, long lines outside, stressed housewives with big bags to gather as much food and articles as the store owner would allow. Sprinkled into the waiting line were businessmen without any business, sent home by their employers who did not dare to open their offices. Or laid off because their shops had become victims of the total lockdown. 

The streets had been empty during the lockdown, no one had dared to spend too much time outside in fear running into the enemy. Even after the lockdown had been lifted and the shops and restaurants timidly opened to fewer people at a time, things had not been the same. Times were still bad.

Eighty years ago, it had been the Germans. This year, it was the virus. 

All you had to do was exchange the soldiers with the police and the Bakelite radio with 125-channel cable TV, and there you were. 

Yes, it felt like during the war. 

Yves shuffled up his three flights of stairs to his apartment after his brief shopping trip. Not too bad for a ninety-something, folks! The shopping bags were heavy in his two hands and he had to stop now and then to balance himself out. But at least the lockdown was over and he could go out and shop for himself. The first weeks, Yves had felt like the only man on the planet, like a character in a science fiction dystopian movie. A solitary man left on the planet to fend for himself. 

The only connection to the outside world had been the phone calls to his children and grandchildren and the through-the-door orders to his home office-bound neighbor who had done the essential shopping for him.

“Don’t you dare to go out, Monsieur Galan!” she had urged him, as had his children. “Corona will kill you! Senior people like you.”

“If it’s my time, it’s my time,” he had replied, shrugging the possibility of death off like only a person almost a century on this planet could.

And man! How his peers died! Outbreaks in senior homes were commonplace all over. Yves was enormously glad to still fend for himself; no risky contacts with nurses, cohabitants, or visitors. A life insurance.

When the first gruesome pictures of Northern Italy and New York had appeared, the overcrowded hospital wings and the freezer containers in the back to keep all the dead people from rotting away, the realization about their desperate situation hit Yves and his family. In the early stages of the pandemic, Wuhan had been far away and people had shaken their heads at the Chinese government lockdown measures and people running around with face masks. 

At first, Yves considered rebellion and had gone out one evening, late at night when no one had been outside but him. A beautiful, early spring night, warm, the air filled with surprising scents you could experience again because no cars polluted the Seine metropole anymore. 

A police patrol picked him up and had accompanied him back to his apartment. Friendly but insistent, and genuinely worried about his health.

TV brought the misery right into his living room. So many deaths! Row after row of dying people in beds, covered by machines and tubes, turned onto their stomachs, their naked backs sticking into the air. What a shitty way to go! 

Yes, it really felt like during the war. Paris, London, Berlin. Bergamo—oh, Bergamo! And even New York.

Eventually, Yves had succumbed to fate and sensibility and had stayed at home. Watched TV all day long, prepared simple meals, washed his hands every hour, opened the windows to let in air and diligently disinfected the shopping items his neighbor placed in front of the door with wipes. Talked to his children on the phone daily.

Paris was struck heavily by the virus, as most big cities where a lot of people lived together in confined spaces. But the early lockdown in mid-March had prevented the worst, so they said. 

Yves spent the endless weeks in his apartment, depressed like everyone else, cleaning up, reading, watching TV, counting days until his favorite bar would open again.

Summer came. The lockdown and the anti-Corona measures were lifted carefully, step by step. Everyone wore masks, shops limited their number of customers, and disinfectant stations could be found in abundance. And Yves was very careful. He went outside, but avoided the busy areas. The small park around the corner was fine; people made room for him so he could sit alone on one of the benches and enjoy the sun. 

The neighborhood supermarket was nearly empty in the early afternoon. Not many people around, plus the owner made sure that his senior customers didn’t have to wait. Yves was led through the shop like the British Queen in early December through Harrods, everything performed with the correct minimal distance. He picked milk here and fruits there, could ask questions about the ripeness of an avocado, received tips about a new cheese. A royal shopping experience, performed with a wide smile under his mask. 

Some things were not like the war after all.

Back in his apartment, Yves sorted his shopping. Disinfection tissue, rubbing everything. Butter into the fridge, same with the milk. The apples onto the table in the living room, two a day were his dietary regimen since he had turned sixty-five. Keeps the doctor away, double dose. 

And, he had to admit to himself, he didn’t feel his best the last days. At his age, he wasn’t supposed to be well at all times. His doctor, a young Algerian, fifty years old, had told him a few years ago with deadpan face, “Yves, the morning you’ll wake up without pain will be the day you have died.” That jokester. But a thing to look forward to, maybe?

Come to think of it, I should eat an apple now. Breakfast was already three hours ago and lunch is two hours away. 

He took a sharp knife and halved and quartered the apple, then cut it into thin slices that gave him no problems with his dentures. 

Four hours later, Yves knew that something was definitely wrong. His lunch, a simple Bœuf Bourguignon, had not tasted of anything; no amount of salt and paprika had been able to improve it. A deep-seated cough had befallen him, and his breathing became harder and harder by the minute.

He had trouble standing up from the kitchen table. It was a huge effort to reach the front door. He managed to take the key ring from the sideboard and unlock the door. 

His neighbor, she had to help him. Drive him to a doctor…

The five meters across the hall were excruciating. There was no air, as if someone sat on his chest and pressed out all the remaining air. One more step, one more breath. 

The step came.

But not the breath.

No matter how hard he breathed in, there was no air coming into his lungs, no oxygen reaching his blood, no oxygen reaching his brain.

The next step did not come either. 

Yves Galan, survivor of the Second World War, father of three, grandfather of six and great-grandfather of two, widowed husband of his beloved late wife, Anna, who had died fifteen years earlier, fell against his neighbor’s door, hit his head against it with a loud bang, curled up on the floor and was dead before his neighbor found him a minute later.

It was worse than the war.

Chapter Two

Steel

“Do you know the term super-spreader, Detective Steel?” The baritone voice belonged to Balaa Tubeah, the largest woman Leah Steel had ever known, horizontally and vertically. Well over seven feet tall and with a lot of mass around her. Yet light on her feet, like a dancer, as Steel had witnessed during the department’s Christmas party. Tubeah was Congolese, her skin the deepest of black, a lot darker than Steel’s own South African variation of chocolate brown. Her boss had built her hard-ass professional credibility in the prosecution of war crimes. If Steel had encountered a lot of dangerous criminals during her South African and UK police career, Tubeah probably had met more. More criminals, more crimes, more death, more suffering. And had definitely looked deeper into the abyss of human violence and terror than anyone else.

They sat on opposite sides at her boss’s desk in the Interpol headquarters in Lyon, France. A tenth-floor corner window overlooking the Rhone River and most of the old city center in the distance, the late June sun slowly setting during those long days of summer. 

Steel struggled to come up with a good explanation. “One of the new words we learned in the pandemic,” she started to bullshit her way around her personal lack of knowledge. “Like social distancing, home office, Netflix, and Corona-not-the-beer.”

“Carriers of the virus who infect a high number of people because of their social, economic, or private behavior,” Tubeah explained patiently. Her boss, of course, was superb at this sort of shit. 

“That would have been my second explanation,” Steel saved face. 

Tubeah gave her the mass murderer prosecutor stare for five seconds. “Like the infected homosexual airplane stewards in the early eighties, spreading AIDS through global visits in saunas and by unprotected, promiscuous sex. It’s not clear what profile a typical COVID-19 super-spreader has, though.”

It was the end of June 2020, and the COVID-19 pandemic raged not only in Europe but most other countries of the world. France seemed to have survived better than other nations like Italy or England, but the US and Brazil crept into the millions infected range. The French lockdown was over now for a few weeks, restaurants open again, life normalizing. But still a masked life. Everyone afraid of a massive second wave, when the European summer holidays came into full swing.

“We have a super-spreader case?” Steel asked.

Tubeah nodded. “A situation in Paris. Seems that super-spreading found its way into domestic terrorism as a weapon.”

“Spreading the coronavirus, like, intentionally?” Steel tried to clarify.

The huge black woman nodded again. “Who needs dirty radioactive bombs if you have a nice, super-contagious virus at your disposal?”

“And we are sure it’s terrorism? I mean, corona skeptics are growing like mushrooms all over Europe these days, doubting everything from infection chain, health risks, deaths, and long-term side effects.” 

“Could be. But from the first reports from the police task force, it sounds like a very systematic distribution of the virus inside of supermarkets.”

“And how does the concept of virus terrorism work? I spread for the good of the white race? God made the virus, too? Save bats and rare frogs, and now corona?” Steel asked. 

Her boss gave her a stern look. “Not funny, Detective.” 

Technically, Steel was not a police detective. Interpol had an internationally accepted law enforcement agency status but no authority for local investigations in the membership states. The creation of the C3 unit had not come without international political fall-out and critical media echo. But international crime across borders was on the rise and a flexible response was needed: Interpol formed an experienced and competent unit of investigators to improve international case tracking and coordination. Confidential Crime Consulting. Steel held only the legal status of a consultant in the countries she worked in, but she did see this only as a technicality. She was a trained and experienced police detective; why let good go to waste? Her stellar success rate proved her right, to the dismay of her superiors. They liked results, certainly. But only clean results, please. As if international crime just waited for the correct form to be filled out.

“The Paris police task force requested us?” That would be the day! Steel was sure that this had to be a hoax. Or an act of utter desperation.

Her boss nodded her head. “This is where things get interesting and your skills in tact and diplomacy will come into play.”

Steel stared at the massive Black woman. “Did you just make a joke? On behalf of my skill set?”

“That joke basically wrote itself, yes. Couldn’t help it. But I assure you, it was not on behalf of your skill set.”

“Yeah, I get it, on my lack thereof. Things get interesting…” She brought her boss back on track. Steel had thick skin; not too much offended her. And diplomatic behavior was not one of her strongest traits, even she had to admit that.

Tubeah continued. “The attacks so far only happened in a specific supermarket chain, Exxtra!”

“Sure, I shop there all the time,” Steel confirmed, to be part of the conversation. Small mom-and-pop stores in the neighborhoods, well-sorted, friendly and familiar.

“The chain belongs to an international conglomerate, Strom Industries. One of those global players that’s into everything from pharma, retail, machines, and aircraft, controlled by one family. The CEO asked for Interpol’s involvement.”

Steel saw where this was heading. “And Interpol is eager to serve our everyday CEO from next door.”

“Apparently,” Tubeah made a distasteful face, “our Secretary General and the CEO were golf partners at a charity tournament several times in the past.” Her boss hated the mix of law and government and private lives. “Cronies. What can you say?”

“I won’t tell him you said that,” Steel reassured her boss.

“The CEO also has a troubleshooter assigned to the case and a different line of strings pulled. The man is allowed to join the task force as a civilian consultant.”

“More strings pulled?”

Tubeah took a thin file from her desk and pushed it over to Steel. “A twist to your liking. The troubleshooter for the company used to be a military intelligence specialist, doing all kinds of creative operations in some areas you also used to work in. Weapons smuggling, terrorism, organized crime, industrial espionage.” She slid over a second file. “Research added a COVID-19 dossier. Brings you up to speed on the state of the virus in France and what corona is all about in detail. State of science, socioeconomic effects, and forecasts. Not much, but enough for your train ride to Paris. Wear your face mask.”

“What’s my job?” Steel asked.

“Re-read your job description, Detective. Consult the Parisian police. Listen. Detect. Support the company guy where needed, hold his hand.” Tubeah looked at her for a minute. Her telepathic way of letting her detective know that she shouldn’t keep her hands to herself. An unspoken, Find the fucker who did it.

“The usual,” Steel shrugged.

Tubeah gave Steel a displeased look. “No, Detective, not the usual!” Her voice rose. And she had a voice! “Try not to burn Paris down in the process.”

Heat washed slowly over Steel’s face. Luckily for her brown skin, she didn’t blush. But she could not hide her anger either. With a pressed voice, she hissed, “I. Bring. Results!”

“No doubt about it. I would be a happier boss if your solving rate dropped a few percent in exchange for not having to receive phone calls from enraged police presidents or angry mayors. Your methods are sometimes quite...” Words failed her, a rare occurrence. 

“I could stay at home this time and take my few percent right away,” Steel proposed and sat upright.

Instead of an answer, Tubeah pressed a button on her phone and summoned her assistant. The young man who entered the office was in his early twenties and so proudly gay that even his tie flashed the brightest of pink. Tubeah had brought him along from DenHaag’s International Court of Justice, where they had worked before; the man was still a culture shock for the conservative Interpol office culture. 

She turned to him and said with a quiet but menacing voice, “Serge, take Detective Steel out of here before I throw her through the window.” 

“My, my, my, ladies!” Serge made a face as if he was a hairdresser challenged by a customer’s really bad hair day. “We wouldn’t want to mop away all that blood and tissue of our star detective. And the draft from the broken window could kill you, Madame.”

His words diffused the situation from killing field to DMZ. Steel clenched her teeth, grabbed the two files, and left the office in front of Serge, who ushered her out like a VIP through a paparazzi crowd. Not that there was anyone around. It was Sunday evening, and only the very wicked were at work.

“Honey, that was so mean. Our boss—”

“Cut it, Serge. She wants investigators to solve cases. I solve cases. What’s her problem?”

“Your mouth, your dirty, pretty mouth!” Serge gave her an air kiss and pushed her into the elevator. “Kill it, tiger!” He finger-waved her a goodbye with a smile.

The sliding door closed, thankfully before Steel threw her file folders at Serge to stick them up his…. 

Steel breathed out slowly and shook her head to clear her mind. Scanned the first file, the CV of the company guy. Not a job application, but out of some heavily redacted official report, header and footer blacked out. US citizen, Ex-US Marines, Special Forces, afterwards in an MI6 branch called Army Intelligence Liaison Office. Steel snorted. That name basically screamed “special operations of the super-dirty kind.” Apparently he had lived to tell the tale because these days, the man still lived in the UK, working for the conglomerate her boss had mentioned, Strom Industries. And he had an apt name for a troubleshooter: Trouble, Paul Trouble.

Chapter Three

Trouble

 “You can’t fire me,” the man with the fantastic blonde hairdo squealed, surprised. “Not in these times! Not with the virus around; not with the terrorists around!”

Paul Trouble sat on the sideline of the conference room and watched the final confrontation play out. The squealing man’s name was Jacques Perlmain, and up to one minute ago he had been the general manager of Strom Retail in France. The word flamboyant had been invented for him. Dressed immaculately in a suit that looked and was expensive, and carefully arranged white-blonde hair, not a strand out of order. The gigantic watch on his left wrist compared to the size of his ego. 

Opposite of Perlmain sat Henry Daven, Strom’s CEO, and Michael Ny, Strom’s head of Human Resources. Firing a senior manager responsible for 4,000 employees and over a billion euros in revenue was no fun and a serious undertaking. A lot of legal issues involved. On top of Perlmain’s major screw-up.

But Paul agreed with Perlmain. It was a bad time to fire the general manager. COVID-19 raged in France, the lockdowns had just been lifted four weeks ago and everyone expected a second wave in late summer, with possible new lockdowns on the horizon. And some terrorist or lunatic poisoned Strom supermarkets with the coronavirus.

Henry Daven spoke in a calm and measured voice. “Jacques, you stole from the company. You diverted money for your own personal gain.”

“I made you over two hundred million euros top line last year. In a retail setting!” Perlmain shouted. “You should pay me a bonus!”

“I agree, it will be a challenge for your successor to match that track record. You leave on top of your game; that’s why we ask you to move on.” Daven’s voice turned one notch colder. “Instead of involving the police.”

“As we should,” Michael Ny threw in. “I asked Henry to strongly consider it, but he wants this affair over with as little dust as possible.”

Paul suppressed a smile. Ny played the good guy against Daven’s bad guy. That game never got old, apparently. 

Behind the conference table, Paris stretched out. The office was on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise in La Defense, the ultra-modern industry quarter west of the city, best known for its Grande Arche hollow cube. 

Perlmain shook his head in disgust. “You should pay me a bonus!” he repeated. Then he pointed over at Paul. “You already have my replacement lined up? Is this the guy?”

“One of my team,” Henry Daven said. “Paul is working for Special Projects out of London HQ. I asked him to check into your affairs after we received a whistleblower complaint.”

“Someone ratted me out?” Perlmain pointed his thumb towards the meeting room door. “I bet it was that ass-sucking slut from Finance! We gave her a cool job and, man, was she eager to please. No good deed goes unpunished in this company!”

Paul wanted to get up and throw the man out of the window. He cranked up his danger field and Perlmain shut up and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the accusing glance replaced by a glimpse of fear. Daven threw Paul a warning look. 

“Was that a slur or a description?” he asked calmly. “And I suggest you consider your answer well, or we’ll involve the police after all. Not for the embezzlement, but for sexual harassment.”

Perlmain stared at Daven. He understood that he received a pretty good deal. Not a golden parachute. But not going to jail either. He remained silent.

“Excellent choice, Jacques,” Daven said. “Michael will stay with you and will make sure you sign your immediate resignation and hand over your badge, car keys, mobile phone, company credit card, and computer.”

Daven got up, nodded towards Paul, and left with his troubleshooter in tow. 

Last thing Paul heard before he closed the door was Michael Ny giving the coup de grâce. “And we’ll hold back your final salary until we are sure that you didn’t leave us an Easter egg somewhere.”

For Paul Trouble, the three months of corona lockdown in London had been a rare gift. The gift of time. So much time to spend at home! As troubleshooter for Strom Industries, he was used to jumping into planes on brief notice to handle dodgy situations anywhere in the world. But the corona lockdown prevented everyone from traveling. Almost no planes were taking off. Any country where you touched down expected you to go into weeks of quarantine. And all the offices where Paul intended to perform his troubleshooting magic tricks were devoid of workers too. 

And the most bizarre thing: the bad people could not do bad things either. Well, except for Jacques Perlmain.

Strom Industries was active in many sectors affected by the pandemic. Pharmaceuticals boomed like crazy because of the unlimited influx of cheap betting money to find a corona cure. Aerospace and defense verged on the brink of bankruptcy as airplanes were grounded and states had to spend their money on financial aid instead of army equipment. Restaurants and tourism… Don’t ask. Really, don’t ask. Overall, the indicators showed downwards for a conglomerate that produced 80 percent of its revenue in “old” industries. A start-up Strom Industries wasn’t.

Paul knew his employer suffered badly and that he might be laid off permanently any time now. His co-investigator, Tom Chen, had already met his fate last month in a first round of headquarter layoffs. But Tom was young, could work and eat at his parents’ Chinese restaurant, and would find new employment in no time, Paul was sure. Their techie-geek sidekick, Amy Norwood, also had to leave the troubleshooter team and had gone to her old Archives and Records job where she was more needed than in a troubleshooting holding pattern. She called every day to see how Paul was doing. He greeted her with a mock-despair Mother! when picking up the calls. Paul expected to poach her back whenever this madness was over. Whatever “over” meant in this new normal.

Three months at home had been like a holiday for Paul. He had finished and polished any old report he could think of; anything to keep him busy and provide Strom Industries a reason to pay him his salary. But most of the time, he spent reading, sitting in his comfortable easy chair that he had acquired a day before the lockdown, before the shops had closed for good. His reading list had grown significantly for a while now, as he had bought a lot of books on his international travels. He read a great novel from one of his newly discovered German authors, Juli Zeh, about intrigues and life in a small rural village near Berlin. Then a cycle of Russian Science Fiction novels, also a joy to read.

He had extended his usual runs in Hyde Park, upping his fitness regimen. Unfortunately, the shooting range was closed and there were no sessions in the karate dojo. 

After the official hard lockdowns in London had ended, HR asked everyone to continue to work in the home office if it could be arranged. Paul could arrange it, thank you very much. 

Second week of June, three months after the total madness had begun, Paul Trouble’s phone rang. 

It was Camille Björklund, the no-nonsense personal assistant of Strom’s CEO Henry Daven. “He has requested your presence.” She was so busy and effective that she omitted niceties, small talk, and greetings.

“And a wonderful, sunny afternoon to you too, Camille.” Paul liked to make fun of her attitude.

“Strom HQ, Retail Division, nine a.m.”

“Retail. Great. I love our little convenience stores. Shoplifters unite! I’ll be there.”

“Details by mail.”

And the call was over, Camille turning to more important things. 

Paul stared at the phone for a minute. Henry Daven had to be under immense pressure from Strom’s owner family to keep the huge, sprawling business afloat right now. So far, the better going businesses had financed the not-so-well going branches, but it wasn’t clear how long that strategy would make the family happy, because the family loved money and hated to see their family investment suffer. But Paul’s pity for Henry Daven only went that far. The man was CEO, and that meant responsible during the good times and the bad times.

Back in the saddle again.

Jacques Perlmain’s fate had been quickly sealed after the investigation got going. Paul was Daven’s troubleshooter for dodgy situations, but nothing dodgy was happening in Paris. Just plain old embezzlement and private use of company money. Perlmain had found lavish and creative uses for his company credit card regarding expenses of a private nature. From food, weekend getaways with his girlfriend—billed as “talent hunting, creative”—and expensive gifts for the various branches of his family and his wife’s family, labeled “advertising expenses.” After Paul had done the groundwork—he had a financial MBA from the London School of Economics, after all—he started looking for other shady business practices. A little pressure on two of the smaller food manufacturers revealed a kickback system for the benefit of Monsieur Perlmain, too. I allow you to deliver your yummy sausages to our stores, and you give me one cent on the euro. The French loved sausages, it seemed, and had generated Perlmain a nice second income. And a nice third income, thanks to a local bio ice cream maker who had beat out Europe’s premier ice cream brand. Wasn’t it interesting that now also the oh-so-ethical bio-manufacturers of food referred to good, old-style business practices? 

The Perlmain business concluded, Daven and Paul stepped into the elevator. 

The advantage of a shared conglomerate headquarters skyscraper was that you could travel from Strom Retail to Strom Holding by the press of a button. Holding sat on the twenty-sixth floor. Daven excused himself. “Will not take fifteen minutes, but I have another assignment for you. Just wait in the boardroom.”

The receptionist showed Paul to the large meeting room with an even better view over the city. “Help yourself to coffee or water,” she continued, glancing nervously at him over her face mask, and quickly left. Paul’s danger field had confused the poor lady. He managed to control and suppress it, but never completely, and people around him noticed. They usually couldn’t place the source, trying to judge Paul and the vibes he was emitting.

Paul poured himself a water and enjoyed the view over the Eiffel Tower, the Tour de Montparnasse, and Montmartre hill in the distance. After a few minutes, the door opened again and the receptionist led in a woman in her early thirties. She wore jeans, flat, black combat boots and a leather jacket. Of African descent, with chocolate-brown skin and shortly cut black hair. The way she walked, instinctively trying to lower her point of gravity, made her a karateka or judoka. Paul was fascinated by her large, brown eyes. Not for the beauty—well, also for the beauty—but for the look of defiance and shit-me-not. They seemed to take in the room in one analyzing glance. Sorting it into risks, dangers, and harmless stuff. Then a glance back to check her six and the escape route. Another glance out of the window, eyeing for sniper opportunities.

She was military or police. Or ex, like him. Used to threat, managing physical risks, had encountered it before. Not fearing it, analyzing it.

And another thing was interesting. She did not react to Paul’s danger field. The usual indicators were missing in her, the searching glances for the source of that feeling, the restlessness. Just to test his observation, Paul let his danger field go into full effect for a few seconds and the receptionist once more became immediately uncomfortable, wringing her hands, wishing to be somewhere else. She interrupted her water-and-coffee spiel and almost ran on her way out. The mysterious woman noticed the receptionist’s discomfort, gave Paul a quizzical look, but did not seem to make out Paul as the source.

He pushed the danger field back into its fold and raised his good right hand in greeting. “I’d offer you a coffee or water and a proper handshake, but these days…”

“I know,” the woman said, and returned the symbolic wave. 

“Paul Trouble, Strom Corporate HQ, Special Projects,” he introduced himself. 

She mustered him a second, a typical I-see-through-you scanner look before answering, “Trouble. You must have heard them all.”

“All and more. No trouble at all,” Paul said, deadpan.

“Leah Steel,” she said eventually. Her voice was soft but determined. Paul had trouble placing the accent. He was sure he had heard nothing comparable, ever, and he had visited a lot of countries in his troubleshooter times and even more during his US Marine Corps days. The pronunciation and melody seemed an amalgamation of British English, Dutch, Indian, and French. 

She poured herself a water and stood the required socially accepted distance apart, also enjoying the view from the window towards Paris city center. “No rush hour, no fumes, no late June haze, perfect visibility,” she noted aloud. 

“Can I ask you something?” Paul said.

“Try your luck, Mr. Special Projects,” Leah Steel replied.

“I am a collector of English accents, but I couldn’t place yours,” he said.

Steel gave him another long look that Paul couldn’t read. “I did not hear a question. You are not what I expected,” she said, surprising Paul. 

“Uh-oh, another person who pretends to have read my file?” he laughed. 

Again that moment of consideration before she spoke. “I read a file on you. Your previous career in Army Intelligence. The current work you did for Strom Industries during the last years. The special projects. And your involvement in Henry Daven’s abduction a few years ago.”

“Okay, one for you, next one for me,” Paul countered. “Why are you carrying? Police? Or private contractor?” She could hide it well under her leather jacket, but only a crazy would wear a leather jacket in Paris in summer. Or an armed person.

“Expecting trouble,” she replied.

They both looked at each other and both managed not to laugh.

“I don’t know,” she eventually said, and Paul didn’t understand the reference, so she clarified. “The accent. I do not know its origin.”

“Where were you born and raised?”

She shook her head. “I am a woman without a past.”

 Chapter Four

Steel

Trouble was really not the type that Steel had expected. He definitely did not appear military; his hair a little too long, almost shaggy, giving him a goofy look. Like Paul McCartney approximately 1963. On the other hand, he had the aura of a man who owned a room. Perfect confidence. The assistant seemed afraid of him, but all Steel saw was a man in his early forties in a dark-gray suit. He was the alpha male in the room, but Leah Steel doubtless was the alpha female. She decided to call it a draw.

Trouble was about to come up with a follow-up question on her allegedly cryptic without a past answer, and Steel prepared herself to give a deflecting reply. But, saved by the bell, the door opened and a senior man with short, gray hair walked in. He was almost a head bigger than Trouble and reminded Steel of actor Jimmy Stewart during his prime. 

This had to be the Strom bigwig who had requested her presence in Paris through political channels.

“Ms. Steel, good to see you. I am Henry Daven, CEO of Strom Industries. The big boss.” No shake of hands, nor the elbow touch thing either. 

“Good morning, sir,” Steel said.

“You already got acquainted with each other?” Daven asked.

“Yes,” both said in unison.

“Good, you’re already a unit,” Daven smiled, and explained for Steel’s benefit, “Paul and I just came out of the first crisis meeting of the day. We’ll have to search for a new general manager in France in the middle of an even bigger crisis.”

Steel stayed silent but thought, Tough corona times. Tough being a CEO. Earn your money, Mr. Big Boss!

They got seated around the meeting table. Daven started. “Thanks for coming. The attackers used two of our supermarkets. Someone has been spreading the coronavirus inside and a lot of our customers and their families and friends got infected.”

“And you believe it’s intentional?” Trouble asked.

Daven nodded. “The police clearly established that the virus distribution was intentional. What we do not know is whether they explicitly chose our stores as targets or whether it was random. So far, it’s only our company affected.” 

“Who needs dirty radioactive bombs if you have a virus at your disposal?”

“And how does the concept of corona terrorism work? Like, I spread for the good of the white race?” Steel asked.

“Not funny.” The CEO gave her a stern glance. Not as bad as her own boss, but a fair warning not to mess with him. “A week ago, Paris saw a local outbreak, traced back to one of our supermarkets here in Paris. Infected about eighty people. Mostly customers from the market’s neighborhood, plus the employees. Various developed serious conditions from the infection and had to be hospitalized. One old man died after shopping in that supermarket.”

Steel asked, “It’s been kept under wraps?”

“Tightly. We don’t want any panic,” Daven explained. “And we fear repercussions. Most of our retail shops in France are run by migrant families. With all the heated atmosphere, authorities did not want to give any excuses to blame the shop owners and give wind under the wings of the extreme right and the populists. Point is,” Daven continued, “there could be more locations of attacks that we haven’t yet identified. At first the supermarket was just identified as a local infection point, exchanged the virus from person A to person B. However, the follow-up of the infection chain showed; it all pointed to the supermarket and a time frame of four hours.”

“How was it done?” Trouble inquired.

“Ugly stuff. I might not eat vegetables and fresh fruit or touch chocolate bars for a while.” He patted his flat stomach. “Distributed evenly somehow over the fresh produce display and some shelves.”

Steel and Trouble made a face. 

“Yeah, my reaction too,” Daven said.

“What’s our job?” Trouble asked.

“I don’t have jurisdiction over Ms. Steel, but your job, Paul, is to consult the Parisian police. Be Strom’s liaison. You’re embedded into their task force. Listen. Support them any way you can. Whatever it is, whatever it costs. Give them access to whatever they need from Strom. You have a free hand. Be constructive. Be creative. They’ll need you.” 

“How did you pull off that piece of magic?” Trouble asked, clearly not convinced that a mere magic trick had the French police open up their arms to welcome them.

Yeah, another act of cronyism? Steel thought.

“Our defense arm has good connections into the Paris police. Plus, the investigating judge knows you. Name is Marais.”

Trouble nodded in recognition and looked curiously at Steel. “What is Leah’s role?”

Steel retrieved her wallet and flashed Trouble her Interpol credentials. “I am an investigator from the Confidential Crime Consulting Unit of Interpol. Bringing in the external perspective. Ready to coordinate in case this attack turns international.”

“I thought Interpol only delivers services to national police?” Trouble studied her credentials, clearly intrigued. “But no investigation support.”

“We’re a new unit, still very much underneath the radar,” Steel explained.

“Then let’s rock the terrorists,” Trouble said, beaming at her with his goofy smile.

Steel looked at Daven in order to not roll her eyes. God help me, an eager puppy!

Chapter Five

Trouble

“Call me Steel,” Steel said when they rode down the elevator.

Paul gave a sideways glance but did not return a funny remark. The woman probably had her reasons. Professional distance was always accepted, although as an American, he liked to be on a first-name basis with everyone. He nodded. “Steel it is. Call me whatever you like.”

“I’ll call you Trouble.”

They crossed the lobby; a reserved taxi waited in front of the building.

“I hate these masks,” Steel said as they put on their nose-mouth protections and entered the ride to the supermarket where the second attack had happened two days ago. 

“Steel, why are you in such a bad mood?” Paul asked. He gave their surroundings an automatic 360-degree check. 

Steel waved around, the half-empty world moving by outside. “All this makes me grumpy. It’s like a zombie apocalypse in which everything still works, but most people have vanished.”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “I know what you mean.” 

“I have a safe job, a fact I really appreciate these days. My neighbor is an Internet guy, was just laid off from Air France with almost no prospects until this madness is over.”

“If it’s ever over,” Paul mused. “You know your COVID-19?”

“A virus is a virus is a virus,” Steel said. “And I probably have you around to tell me all about it.” 

“Virus of the corona variant, originated most likely in China from animal-to-human contact. About ten million infected worldwide, half a million deaths reported so far. Problematic detection due to long incubation period of up to two weeks and many infected people without any show of symptoms. No vaccine yet, few medications to control the heavy symptoms. Risk factors are age, weight, preconditions like asthma, blood pressure, etc. Did I forget anything?”

“Risk factors also might target males and people of color and of lower social environments,” Steel added.

“She can talk shop!” Paul clapped his hands. “I feel kind of safe after I read up on the virus. But it seems like a lottery that also might heavily affect our age group and people without the typical risk factors.”

“Come on, let’s move to more cheerful stuff. The case.” 

“I don’t see any improvement on the previous topic, Steel.”

“Oh, big difference. The coronavirus is an unknown enemy, unbeaten so far. Like us, as a team,” Steel said. “But the attack in the supermarket, that’s COVID-19, the weapon. Spread by bad guys.”

“Or girls,” Paul admonished her. He hated it when others formed half-assed theories too early.

“Bad people are our business, Trouble,” Steel reminded him, raising her eyebrows several times, and Paul could see that she was smiling underneath the mask.

Paul nodded. “You’re right when you’re right.”

Chapter Six

Steel

Trouble and the head honcho of the investigation indeed knew each other. 

“Long time no see, Paul,” Investigation Judge Jean Marais greeted her new partner with an elbow bump. In France, the police conducted criminal investigations, but here they were not supported by a district attorney, like in the US, but by a specially assigned judge. 

“Jean,” Trouble nodded. And then for Steel’s benefit, “We used to run a case together many years ago during my Army Intelligence Liaison days. When Judge Marais was working for the attorney general’s office.”

“And let me guess, you can tell me but need to kill me afterwards? Leah Steel, Interpol,” she introduced herself.

Marais laughed. He was one of those prototype French male specimens: long nose, thick, black hair, brown eyes, looking like a character actor. Not too bad-looking, Steel thought. 

Marais stood in white protective Tyvek gear, a medically certified face mask hanging from his ear. “All right, let’s give you the fifteen-euro tour. Even after two days we’re still processing a scene full of surprises, so you’ll need to dress up, too.” They stood beside the small camp that had formed beside the supermarket in the usually lively Place d’Italy quarter in Paris’s 13th Arrondissement. 

Steel and Trouble looked doubtfully at the white sheets of plastic that covered the complete supermarket front side like a Christo wrapping. The entire scene screamed “Outbreak!” 

Marais saw their hesitation and laughed. “Yeah, I had the same feeling before going in the first time.” He searched for someone in the small crowd of officials. “Commissaire!” He waved towards a small, blonde woman in civil clothing who was in the process of getting out of her protective overalls. She saw Marais. Her look fell on Steel and Trouble and she put the overalls back on. 

“You read my mind, Commissaire!” Marais explained after she had come over and stood at an acceptable distance. She didn’t look older than twenty, and definitely too sweet and fragile for a police inspector. “These are the two consultants, Steel and Trouble, from Interpol’s C3 Division and Strom Industries, helping us out. This is Commissaire Karen Lagrange from our Domestic Terrorism Task Force.”

Lagrange nodded at both. She had a good poker face and did not reveal what she really thought about the external intrusion on her case. The intelligence behind her eyes showed her real age. “The tour?” she asked.

“Yeah, give them the lay of the land. Perhaps they’ll get an idea. Interpol’s C3 helped us out with the radical splinter group of the Yellow Vests, remember?”

A small smile played around Lagrange’s mouth. “Ah, them.” 

Steel liked her sense of humor—that operation had been a total cluster shit-bomb—and declared her to be one of the good guys. 

Regarding Judge Marais, the Steel jury was still out.

Lagrange pointed at a tent near the entrance to the supermarket where a disinfectant area had been erected; tent, shower, and astronaut staff. “Let’s get you geared up. Meet you in five out front.”

Steel and Trouble looked like astronauts themselves after being equipped with white overalls and a helmet with a breathing filter apparatus that hung by their sides on a strap. 

“I could have saved washing my hair this morning,” Steel complained. The guy who helped them with the equipment had unceremoniously put a mesh over her hair before fastening the helmet. 

“More reasons to be grumpy, I see.” Trouble offered no condolences, struggling with one of the straps. His left hand appeared useless in everyday tasks, but the helper did his thing and they were ready.

Lagrange also had her helmet on again and led them through the white-sheeted entrance. “We’re still trying to find out what exactly was done to the store. We have screened it for the virus several times now, but we’ve had surprises. That’s why we try to be extra careful,” she explained. 

The inside of the store was claustrophobic. Strom’s Exxtra! markets were small neighborhood stores, comparable to the ubiquitous 7-Eleven stores in the US, but focused more on regular food and less on convenience food. Tall shelves packed from floor to ceiling with goods, narrow aisles navigated only with baskets. 

Steel shopped in her Lyon neighborhood in a store of the same chain. It was an eerie and strange feeling to now walk through one dressed like the end of days.

Improvised high-powered LED lights added to the bright supermarket neon, giving the whole place the look and feel of a film set. They passed the two cashier desks and moved back into the store towards the center of attention, the fresh produce section.

“You read the memo, I gather? The first scene, a supermarket of the same chain about three kilometers from here, was infected two weeks ago.”

“What took you so long to figure it out?” Steel asked.

“Local infections could be traced to the shop. That we knew quickly. But we thought it had been a shop employee or frequent shopper spreading the virus. It took a week to realize that it was actually the shop itself. We closed it and then found out that someone had tampered with the products. Then we were on high alert.

“This scene is two days old, discovered almost immediately. Still, an old man died very quickly after being infected, basically the next day. The first scene had been fumigated and disinfected immediately, the evidence destroyed. Here we could investigate in detail what the mode of attack was.” Lagrange crossed her arms. “Still, eighty infected! Plus eight from this attack. But we expect the overall number to triple in the coming week.”

Trouble beat Steel with the arithmetic. “Ninety infected times three makes roundabout three hundred. With a COVID-19 mortality of four percent, our terrorist manages to kill twelve people.”

Steel had the quip and valued customers on her tongue but decided not to ruin the somber mood. They were silent for a minute, letting the monstrosity of it all sink in.

“Our forensics sighted the surveillance footage of the store.” Lagrange pointed upwards to the various glassed camera domes overhead. “Excellent video quality, state of the art.”

“What happened?” Steel asked.

“Friday. He timed it quite well. Yes, a he! He picked a quiet time with few customers. Not during morning or late evening. The store opens at seven and closes at nine, but the staff refills during those fringe hours. The real slack time lies between two and four in the afternoon; that’s when we spotted him.”

“Attacking the produce section specifically?” Trouble asked, and pointed at the overflowing display of fresh fruits and clean veggies.

“Mostly. On his way out, he continued in the aisles leading to the cashier, making sure there were no eyes around.”

“The chocolate and cookie section,” Steel recalled from the file.

“Yup. He infected the goods the way that most of us probably would have done it. Fill up one of those flower maintenance spray bottles made of plastic with some virus-loaded substance. Hide it under your clothing. Walk into the store and up to the fruit stand.” Lagrange demonstrated with one hand, her index finger pumping the imaginary spray bottle, pointing at the fruit display. “Puff, puff, puff. He checks his behind. Walks over here, puff, puff, there go the strawberries; puff, the asparagus; puff, the grapes.” She walked in a U-shape around the produce section. “Puff, puff, done! And off I go. Towards the cashier. The shelves. Puff left, puff right, puff left, puff right.”

“Without a care in the world,” Trouble mused. “Was there any expression on the perp’s face. Glee? Hate? Confusion?”

“Ironically, he stayed coronavirus compliant and wore a nondescript black face-nose mask. You could judge the expressiveness of his actions.” 

Like most countries right now, France had anti-corona measures in effect that required everyone to wear masks in closed spaces, like stores or restaurants.

“Yeah. What a great time to commit crimes!” Lagrange sighed. She thought for a moment. “If I were to judge from his gait and his determination, I’d say concentration. He was deliberate, knew exactly the path to take, no hesitation, probably had planned it before. We have video material for two weeks back. That’s next for analysis. Maybe he did a test run during that period.”

Trouble and Steel nodded. Deliberation and pre-planning were important factors if it would ever come to a trial. 

Though probably impossible to prove based on the expressiveness of the perp, Steel thought.

“Very stupid question,” Trouble asked. “This virus fluid. How does that work exactly? Does the virus swim in water? What happens when it gets into the air and onto the fruits or food packaging?”

“Not a stupid question at all!” a voice called out from the produce stand. Another geared-up person in white overalls rose from an improvised chair made of empty plastic produce boxes, tablet computer in hand, a battery of test tubes, swabs, and Q-Tips in a small rack by his feet. 

“That’s Professor Emile, our forensic virologist assigned to the case.” Lagrange made introductions all around.

“Monsieur Trouble, that’s the most interesting question you asked.” The face of the professor was almost unrecognizable under the helmet. “It’s not trivial at all. The water of the spray bottle is not a good medium for the virus. The assassin had to produce a very high density of active virus cells in that fluid in order to make it effective. The second it’s out of its host, the virus has a hard time. It needs the right temperature to stay alive. And then there’s the matter of storing it in a stable condition.”

“You need a lab for all that?” Steel asked.

Emile thought for a moment. “I just imagined being a bad guy tasked with the creation of a biological weapon based on COVID-19. Would I be able to do this in my kitchen? I might. Yes, I might.”

“But it’s not a DIY thing.”

“No, not at all. You definitely need biological or chemical skills.”

Lagrange looked at the professor. “That will be in your prelim report?”

“Sure.” 

Emile went back to his tasks.

Someone shouted from the foiled-up supermarket entrance. “Commissaire, Commissaire!”

Lagrange hurried away and left Steel and Trouble standing in the middle of the crime scene investigation. 

“What do you think?” Steel asked. Trouble seemed the analytical guy in their young partnership. 

“The timing bothers me. The outbreak in France happened when?”

“Mid-March. That’s when everyone found out in Europe that it was serious. The shutdowns and lockdowns happened shortly afterwards.”

“Imagine a terrorist. Or a cell.”

“I imagine,” Steel repeated.

But they were interrupted. Lagrange came hurrying back. “We need to go. There’s another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another supermarket. The attacker was caught by the staff in the act. Ten minutes ago.” 

 Chapter Seven

Trouble

They scrambled out of the supermarket, and the guy responsible for disinfection tried his best to shed them of their protective gear in a controlled fashion. 

Paul was still rubbing his hands in alcohol when they jumped into a ready patrol car and blue-lighted their way through the light afternoon traffic.

“Far from here?” Lagrange asked the driver.

“Next arrondissement. Five minutes max, if traffic makes way.” 

The siren blared and apart from one dodgy traffic light encounter, they arrived at the new scene within minutes. It lay in a small side street, mostly residential, with various store signs left and right. Supermarché Exxtra! was located fifty yards down. The police had already blocked the whole street; no more through traffic along the crime scene. Parked cars lined up on the right side of the one-way. They jumped out of the car, ran down the middle of the street, and arrived at a group of two police officers mixed with various civilians. 

Lagrange identified herself and got briefed. Behind them, a second car arrived. Judge Marais jumped out. 

Lagrange returned with an Algerian-looking gentleman in a dark-green apron in tow. By his side was a young boy of maybe about six years. “This is Monsieur Ali, the store owner,” she introduced him. “And his son, Raul. Monsieur, tell us.”

In stilted French, Ali repeated his story. “The man came in, took his shopping bag. Everyone must have shopping bag. Store limited to six customers. Six shopping bags.” He looked at his audience, nods all around. Common practice these days to be able to manage distancing within close confines.

“My son Raul calls, Papa, Papa, the man! I come to the fruit stand and there the man sprays on my fruits. With a spray. Like you use to clean flowers, you know. Puff, puff.” Ali did the same finger-shooting motion that Lagrange had demonstrated just ten minutes ago. “I shout. What you do? What you do? He turns to me. Evil eyes behind his mask. Angry. Continues puff, puffs. I say, I call police! and take my son with me. Afraid for my son. Evil man.”

“What did the man do?”

“When I returned with my phone while calling police, he was gone. I looked outside, but gone.”

“What did you do?”

“I was afraid. What did the puff-puff mean? Corona is everywhere, and this guy sprays around in my store. I was very afraid. Then the policeman said to leave the store. And keep witnesses around. Now I was truly afraid. We waited in front of door and police arrived. Immédiatement!”

“That was the correct thing to do, Monsieur,” Judge Marais said.

“Are we in danger?” Ali asked.

Marais took his while to answer, but Lagrange nodded. “Yes. It is possible that you are infected.”

“With corona? Inshallah!”

“Some more people will arrive. Doctors. They will test your family and your customers and will instruct you what to do next.” She pointed to the four civilians standing close by, guarded by a uniformed gendarme. 

Ali was about to go back to his customers but his son picked at his arms to get his attention and said something that sounded like Arabic but Paul couldn’t place the dialect. Ali looked at the police. “Raul says, bad man not run.”

Lagrange spun around. “What do you mean?”

More Arabic exchanges. “He could see the entrance from the cashier’s desk. Spray man not run.”

Everyone turned towards the supermarket entrance. 

“Son of a gun, he might still be inside!” Steel said and drew her gun from her holster. 

“Whoa, Detective Steel, we are not going in there!” Marais called after her.

“I don’t plan to eat any fruit,” she said, and moved towards the entrance like a lioness on the hunt. “Cover the back and the front.”

Judge Marais turned to Paul. “Fifteen years ago, that line would have been yours!” 

“She promised her boss to leave Paris intact,” Paul defended his new partner. Steel had told him about her run-in with her hard-ass giantess boss. But Marais was right; the old Paul Trouble would have stormed the shop, too.

“And I thought I was leading the task force?” Lagrange threw her hands up and turned to Ali. “Is there a back door to your store?” 

The owner pointed to a driveway further down the street. “Backyard. For delivery and trash.”

“Any other way out?” 

“Out? No.” Ali looked sure. “Need keys.”

“Let’s wait until your partner flushes him out,” Lagrange said. She turned to the policemen. “Pay attention should this guy come out. Don’t risk an infection. Use a gun or your taser if he comes too close. Better him than you!”

The two policemen needed no further convincing and got their weapons ready. One started to evacuate the civilians and moved them towards the end of the street where the police cars were parked.

Lagrange and Paul walked into the passageway to cover the rear exit.

The backyard was devoid of life. Walls all around, clotheslines run under the windows, trash containers lined up for the various refuses. Lagrange stopped at the corner and peered around. Paul moved his head too, behind Lagrange, getting a solid whiff of perfume. 

Oh, Paris!

“Judge Marais holds you in high esteem, almost reveres you. Never seen him do that and I’ve known him for some time.” Lagrange had her gun drawn, readied, and they settled in for a wait.

“Yeah, he’s on my good-guy list ever since too.” Paul diverted the question skillfully.

“That secret?” Lagrange asked mockingly.

“Believe me, you’ll sleep better at night if you don’t know.”

Lagrange shrugged, scanning the surroundings once more. “Your partner is crazy.”

“Good to see that we’re already seen as a unit. My brand-new partner. We’re joined at the hip for about ninety minutes.”

“But she’s a little crazy.”

“She’s not crazy. I see myself fifteen years ago. Minus the black hair, different skin color, and all the female attributes removed. Dedicated?”

“Dedicated. That’s another word for unhealthy motivation.”

“Where’s your partner, Commissaire?” Paul asked.

“I am the head of the task force. I have no partner. It’s lonely at the top.”

“But the pay is better.”

“Don’t bet on it. In your corporate troubleshooter job you easily make three times my salary.”

Ever the diplomat, Paul did not answer because Lagrange was probably right. 

“You’re not English,” Lagrange stated.

“US, Montana, Big Sky Country,” Paul explained. “Traveled the world as a US Marine, later in Special Operations and in Military Intelligence. Left, did a MBA in Business and Finance in London, joined Strom Industries. Yourself?”

“Paris Police. Rose through the ranks. Had some good cases that kick-started my career. Had a knack of running task forces. France’s OC focuses on Paris and Marseille, and you quickly get to know the players and the neighborhoods.”

“Has its moments,” Paul said. “I ran task forces too, in Military Intelligence. Had a good time. A lot of autonomy. Skilled, motivated team. Easy access to resources.”

“Pressure from above,” Lagrange smiled at him.

“Then there’s that,” Paul conceded. “And you, native Parisienne?”

“Yeah. 20th Arrondissement, born and raised. Joined the force right after school.”

Their conversation fizzled out after that. No commotion from the front, no action in the back. 

What is Steel up to in there? Paul thought.

His phone rang in his pocket and he glanced at the display. “Steel, what’s—”

Her voice came through in labored breaths, street noises in the background. “Fuck a duck! That guy can run. I need help.”

“Where are you, Steel?”

“Running!”

“Not what. Where? Location?”

“Who am I? A fricking tourist guide? I am neither at the Louvre nor the Eiffel Tower. Locate my phone, Trouble! We have 2020!” 

She hung up.

Paul stared at his phone. Locate? I am a troubleshooter, not an IT guy. 

 Chapter Eight

Steel

Lagrange called something after her, but Steel was already in hunting mode, her senses focused on what was coming. Trouble and Lagrange would have her back, she was sure.

The shop door was open. Various heavier stuff stood right underneath the windows of the store. Milk packs, washing powder drums, plastic sacks of planting soil for the urban balcony gardener. Bored city folks discovering their green thumbs during lockdown.

She was briefly worried about the coronavirus thing inside. Who knew what the assassin had done during the minutes of stalemate? In the other Exxtra! market, the security decontamination efforts had been thorough. Here, on the other hand, there was nothing. Ali had discovered the attacker perhaps twenty minutes ago. Enough time to spray about basically everything and more. The guy with the puff-puff spray. She drew her gun, put a bullet into the chamber, the slider snapping back into place, giving her peace of mind. Whatever was about to happen, this gun ensured her dominance of the situation. She was sure that no one in a ten-mile radius was as good as her with it in a combat scenario. 

She entered the store through the door. It was a typical French city supermarket, not to be confused with a rest-of-the-world supermarket, which in France was called hypermarché, football-field-sized. A French city supermarket was a piece of art and neighborhood culture, cramming as many goods for daily life as possible into a space no bigger than a regular apartment. The shelf space was usually packed to the brim, with additional products put on the floor in front of the lowest shelf. Four rows of shelves before her, a large signpost instructed the customers of the COVID-19 rules. “Wear a mask. One person, one shopping basket. Six persons max. Disinfect your hands before and after the visit.” 

Single cashier’s desk to her right. 

“Police!” she called out in French. “Come out with hands raised.”

Give the bad guy at least a chance to end this without violence.

Silence.

Well, there’s that. Would have been too easy.

A smile played around her lips. Would have been boring! 

She counted to ten in her mind. Nope, she had given him a chance to surrender. Steel turned, closing the shop door to block out the street sounds. Then she picked up a handful of small items from the nearest shelf, small chocolate bars of some kind. She peered around the middle row; in the back was the aforementioned fruit stand. The layout further down inside of the shop was out of her view. But she assumed more shelves. And surely a back door of some kind. Lagrange would cover that.

Where would you go, Steel? You are busy at the fruit stand, you are discovered. And you don’t run away. You don’t run away! Shows you how stupid you are as an assassin. Why not run away after you get noticed? But first things first! Grab the dickhead! Where would I hide? Further down in the store.

She stood back one step and timed her chocolate bar throw over the shelves into the back. Aiming left. One throw. Good timing. It sailed through the air and landed seven meters away, three shelves further. 

Steel strained to hear if her throw had caused any reaction from her adversary. None. All right, next one. Aim to the right, again, perfect throw. It came down somewhere in the fruit area. 

A faint rustle. Someone shifting weight. 

Gotcha!

She made as few sounds as possible as she quietly sneaked alongside the left row, her H&K at the ready, safety off. When she reached the end, she stepped out into the open, the fruit stand in front of her.

“Don’t mess this up!” she called in French. “I’ll shoot you if you come out and surprise me. Talk to me. It’s less dangerous. Trust me.”

Moving forward, a quick look to the left towards the unknown section of the store. Yes, three more rows of shelves.

Something happened, and it took Steel a second to figure out what was going on.

A creaking. Rhythmic. Like a rocking chair. From beyond the fruit stand. She moved further along, again at the ready. Her chocolate bar projectile lay on the floor. The creaking increased. Another quick step forward to the last row, peering around the corner. 

The cashier’s desk at the other end.

No one in the aisle.

But not empty!

A spray bottle stood in the middle of it. Yellow transparent plastic, probably of the same make or same Chinese factory that had produced the one in her own apartment in Lyon. Up until COVID-19 had made the earth stand still for a few weeks, the planet had been a small one.

Whatever the bad guy had intended with the prominent display, it worked. 

Steel stood transfixed for a few crucial seconds. Then something fell on top of her—one of the shelves, products and all. It was a wonder that no shot was fired, as she had her finger inside the trigger guard when she went down. 

Steel was able to roll away by falling forward, and she scrunched into a small ball. Stunned for a few seconds, she made sure her gun was still with her. Then she slowly tried to free herself. The weight on top of her was not too heavy, it was more the sheer number of items covering her. Finally, she was free again, breathing in and out heavily, sorting her senses. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Steel. Always check your above! 

Steel was between a sea of products. The shelf had not buried her completely, as the next shelf had blocked the fall. 

She went into hunting mode again, bringing up her gun. Footsteps in the distance. What distance? Back door? 

Steel jumped up, still dizzy, and took the few steps towards the back of the store. A door open, stairs going down. Basement, not back door. Dammit! She ran down, stopped at the foot of the stairs, listened. Yes, steps falling away. He was down here, getting away.

She went after the sounds, passing various storage areas and another door that was open. Steel had no idea where this was leading, but she noticed that the dimensions were off. This was definitely not the basement of the supermarket building anymore.

Another open door, stairs leading upwards. A different house. And from the general direction, a house on a different street. And cellar door, leading into the entrance hall of an old-style apartment building, metal mailboxes covering the wall. An old lady who was in the process of retrieving her mail wordlessly pointed towards the main door that just clicked shut again.

Steel pulled the door open with force, jumped through, her gun at the ready, and found herself in another side street packed with cars and people. The blocking of the supermarket street had found its consequence in overloaded and gridlocked alternative routes. 

One person running slalom through the idling cars stuck in traffic. Her man!

Passersby stared at Steel and the gun in her hand. She stuck the gun back into its holster to get her hands free. Shootout time was over; too many people around. Now it was all chase. She ran after the fleeing assassin, shouting, “Police! Police! Police!”

Well, French people were known to be stubborn. Basically no one changed route or stepped aside, leaving zigzag navigation solely to Steel and her opponent. With her right hand she fished for her mobile phone, speed-dial already set to Trouble.

The man picked up after the first ring. Atta boy!

“Fuck a duck! That guy can run. I need help!” she shouted into the phone while keeping an eye on her man.

“Where are you, Steel?”

“Running!” Her breath was heavy.

“Not what. Where? Location?”

“What am I? A fricking tourist guide? All I can tell is that I am not at the Louvre. Locate my phone, Trouble!” She hung up, started the messenger app, and pressed the “Send my location for the next hour” button and sent the link to Trouble. And ran into a businessman who had more important things on his mind than stepping out of the way of a mad-dashing woman.

Chapter Nine

Trouble

Paul stared at his phone. Then a message popped up. “Leah shared her position with you.” He tapped it and a map of his surroundings showed up. 

“Hurry! We need a car. Steel is out and about, already two blocks away in hot pursuit.” He oriented himself. “This way,” he pointed with his artificial hand.

Lagrange cursed and they ran back to the street. She took ten seconds to inform Judge Marais of the development and followed Paul to the patrol car they had come with.

The policeman who had driven them was nowhere to be seen. Lagrange cursed again. Paul was sure that the man had gone into one of the various cafes nearby to get a coffee and flirt with the waitresses. He glanced at his phone, where Steel’s pulsing dot moved through a street not far away at a steady pace. He pressed it into Lagrange’s hand and opened the driver’s door of the police car. An automatic. An invitation to his one-handed driving style.

“What are you—”

“Your gendarmes should be more careful. I actually stole a police car once.” Paul sat behind the wheel and started the motor with the key that dangled in the ignition. He leaned over to the passenger door and popped it open. “Are you coming or am I going to steal this ride alone?”

Lagrange needed no further convincing. 

“You know your beat?” Paul asked and adjusted his seat. 

“Beat?” Lagrange asked, confused.

“Do you know the area? The route Steel and the perp are taking?”

“I do not, but there’s always Google!” 

“Belt!” Paul said, and Lagrange complied.

“Aren’t you awfully close to the steering wheel?” Lagrange commented as she zoomed out of the chat app’s locator map until she could see Steel’s dot and their position at the same time.

Paul switched on the siren and flashing lights and gunned the car into the traffic with smoking tires. Their road had run empty of cars due to the intersecting blocks. “My chase-car driving instructor told us that steering grip and brake sensitivity are the most important”—he swerved around a mountain bike messenger, not an inch to spare between them and the next car—“factors when you adjust your seat.” He shot into the traffic at the next intersection, cars left and right coming to a stop or making way. Another car suddenly made a left lane change, and Paul revved up the motor even more, taking the better spot the other car had opened ahead.

“She’s three blocks away to our right. Right, right, the other right!” Lagrange tried to conduct Paul’s driving. 

“We’re not chasing through the smaller streets. Concentrate on the main boulevards, easier to navigate, faster.”

“To get ahead, not behind,” Lagrange understood, and zoomed out a little more. 

“Traffic light, turn right!”

Paul left their lane into the incoming traffic, forcing everyone to squeeze and make room. He kept smack in the middle of the wide boulevard and doubled his speed within two seconds.

With a spectacular power drift, he took the demanded right turn, car brakes screaming around them, people turning heads.

“Five hundred yards out. They are in a side street to the right, coming up to cross our path.” Lagrange called the shots, eyeing Paul’s artistic one-handed steering.

“Remember, we are not chasing the dot on the app, but the perp running ahead of Steel,” Paul reminded her. 

He and Lagrange were thrown into their belts as the car came to a stuttering stop as a crosswalk ahead was packed with people not yet out of the way.

The phone rang in Lagrange’s hand. “Steel!” She was pressed into the seat as Paul accelerated again, rubber smoke behind them.

 Chapter Ten

Steel

Steel was a good runner, but not dressed for it. Her combat boots were convenience items, easy to walk in and able to bring her comfortably through the day. But far off the functionality of running shoes. And she wore her leather jacket to hide her ever-present pistol holster from curious looks. Perfect for daily wear, but no replacement for her Gore-Tex running gear. Much too heavy, much too warm.

And it didn’t help that the puff-puff assassin in front of her could run, too. Fast. Whether from training or out of desperation she did not know, but he defended his lead at a steady distance. At a certain point, it looked as if the perp was on his phone. Calling home? Or calling for help?

Steel had no idea where she was. Paris was a city she mostly knew from weekend shopping trips. She could locate the typical tourist destinations, like Montmartre, Place de la Concorde, or the Eiffel Tower. But this quarter was not a touristy one; every road she had run through basically looked the same. A minute ago, they had crossed a small, green park the size of a city block, but the name eluded her. 

The local police would join the search too. But would it be in time? Any second the guy could vanish in the crowd, into a Metro station or within a building, never to be seen again. 

Replacing speed with coordination, she got out her phone again, speed-dialed Trouble’s number. He had to be with Lagrange, on their trail.

It was Lagrange who picked up.

“Steel here. We are—”

“I know. There’s a boulevard coming up, sixty yards ahead of you. We’ll cut him off,” Lagrange interrupted her, shouting over the constant siren and high-rev motor wails. 

Steel described the perp in the distance. “Male, twenties or thirties, black jeans, dark-red tee, small, dark-green nylon backpack, longish, brown hair. Running like hell!” 

Chapter Eleven

Trouble 

Lagrange heard the description and had the sense to switch off siren and lights, so as not to spook the runner. “Our road is the next one. Stop on the crossing! Why don’t you—”

Paul stopped from 80 to 0, bringing the police car into the middle of the intersection, unlatching both their safety belts in one smooth motion. He moved out of the police car like a tiger coming to slaughter a village, his danger field in full force.

Lagrange shuddered, briefly thought about not getting out of the car, but eventually followed him. Gun drawn, she walked towards the street from where the assassin should appear any second. Paul moved to her right, making sure not to be in the lines of fire of the two policewomen. Cutting off the path into the boulevard. 

Various bystanders started whipping out their phones, social media fodder in the making.

The surrounding traffic screamed to a halt. Due to the coinciding red lights, the middle of the crossing was otherwise empty, giving a clear view into the street. 

They saw the runner coming up, zigzagging between cars and pedestrians. Saw Steel, too, thirty meters behind, red-faced.

“Bad scene, bad scene,” Lagrange reminded Paul. A bullet fired here would travel a long way, with many possible bystanders on the streets and in the buildings. She remembered that Paul had no gun. He shrugged at her, empty-handed.

“Let him approach. Then we take our options to stop him,” he replied.

Whether the approaching terrorist was disappointed or surprised to see his welcome committee was not clear. He ran into the empty crossing like a hunted hare, phone on his ear, looking left, right, left, to avoid being hit by a car. But there were no cars to avoid, the whole junction frozen. He ignored Lagrange and Trouble completely. He came to a dead stop and eventually noticed the empty intersection and the gun aimed at him.

“Police!” Lagrange shouted in French. “Drop your phone, drop your phone! Show me your hands!”

The man gulped several breaths. His t-shirt had large black spots from profuse sweating. He turned as if to make a dash back to where he had come from, but looked into Steel’s gun instead. She had slowed from a full-speed run to a mere walk, ten yards away, breathing heavily, too. She moved onto the street to get a better angle on the assassin.

“I. Will. Shoot!” she puffed between words.

“Police!” Lagrange shouted again. “Drop your phone, show me your hands!” This time in English.

It never became clear whether the man had understood her or not. He turned slowly in a 360 rotation, phone coming off his ear, but still in his hand. His eyes bulged.

A motor revved up nearby and a small, white Renault shot into the crossing, driver masked. At first Paul thought it was an attempt of a desperate getaway, but with a dull thud, the car hit the assassin fully, throwing him forward like a puppet, the phone sailing through the air, the body too, hitting the road surface in front of the car. 

And then, for good measure, the white car continued its path, running over the spasming man with sickening crunches.

The killing was over so quickly that the two detectives had not even attempted to acquire a target, and Lagrange even forgot to repeat her, “Bad scene, bad scene,” warning. But they were pros, and did not dare to take a shot, neither at the tires nor at the driver.

Another thud, this time metal on metal, as the white car hit the police car in the middle of the crossing, ramming their vehicle out of the way, flattening its front fender and bending the tire underneath into an impossible angle. The white car was mostly undamaged apart from some broken plastic and glass and sped on, taking a sharp right turn into the next side street, vanishing from view. 

“And away it goes! Enculer toi!” Lagrange cursed and lifted her walkie-talkie to call in the cavalry. “Our hands are empty.”

“And our stolen police car trashed,” Paul commented.

“And the perp pancaked,” Steel finished, still out of breath, putting her gun back into her holster. 

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