From her vantage point, Jana could see the shoes of the dead clerk behind the desk but the American could not. A commotion at the door as a fat woman tried to drag a huge suitcase through. Beyond the window, Jana could see the open trunk of a taxi and the driver, letting loose a stream of crusty French as he pulled out more luggage.

The taxi was double-parked, blocking her limo. And there was no one behind the wheel.

Where the hell was her driver?

Then she spotted the Moroccan across the street buying cigarettes at a tabac. Jana cursed as she gently touched a finger to her seared cheek.

A sound behind her on the stairs. The bitch was after her. There was no time.

She bolted down the narrow hallway to the back. The tiny kitchen was a blur as she threw open the door and stumbled out into the cold morning air. A quick look told her she was in an impasse with one exit.

No choice. She would have to take her chances on the street. Jana began to run.

In the lobby, Tesla quickly assessed the situation. Body behind the desk, two bewildered and bedraggled Americans. But no Jana.

Holding the Hawlen at her side, Tesla scaled the mountain of luggage blocking the door, ignoring the American man’s yelling. She slid to a stop on the street.

Tesla mentally clicked through the options with computer-speed.

Taxi? You couldn’t hail one on any Paris street and there were no cabs at the nearby stands.

Metro? The nearest was George V, a good five-minute hike.

No, Jana would try to contact the person who had sent her.

Tesla gave the street a quick scan. Even at the busiest times of day, rue Pierre 1er de Serbie was a staid street of stone-facade apartment buildings. Now, at seven on this cold October morning, there was only one café owner out, the crank of his unrolling shutters breaking the quiet.

Except . . .

A lone figure in white just disappearing around the far corner. Tesla took off in pursuit.

But when she reached the corner, she came to an abrupt stop.

A swirl of motion, sound, smells and people.

Damn. Saturday. Market day.

Tesla started down the narrow aisle, eyes darting between the overflowing stands of vegetables, fruits, fish and cheeses. The crowd pressed close—young women pushing strollers, old women toting straw baskets, boys on mopeds. Tesla was careful to keep the gun down, hoping her loose slacks offered some cover. The last thing she needed was a panicked crowd.

She pushed on, her eyes raking the crowd for Jana. The woman couldn’t go unnoticed for long. Her face was a pulpy mess and her white trench coat was covered in blood.

Where the hell was she?