They dodged around a taxi that had jumped the sidewalk and plowed into a wine shop. Wine from dozens of broken bottles ran like rivulets of blood along the gutter. Zoe saw an old man with a loaf of bread tucked under one armpit try to scoop some up with his beret.

Ry grabbed Zoe's arm and pulled her toward a lamppost, where a red motorcycle was parked with LUIGI'S PIZZERIA LUIGI'S PIZZERIA emblazoned across its fuel-tank cover. The delivery boy was nowhere in sight, but he'd left the bike's engine running. emblazoned across its fuel-tank cover. The delivery boy was nowhere in sight, but he'd left the bike's engine running.

Ry jumped on, kicked up the stand, and peeled away, so fast Zoe barely managed to swing up behind him, straddling saddlebags that were stuffed full with boxes of hot pizzas. As she looked back as they careened around the corner and through the downpour of Parisian tap water, she caught sight of the fiery red of Yasmine Poole's designer suit.

ZOE WRAPPED HER arms around Ry's waist and yelled into his ear, "You said nothing big or deadly!" arms around Ry's waist and yelled into his ear, "You said nothing big or deadly!"

He was actually crazy enough to laugh. "The Drano bomb must've rolled down into the gas main, and there must've been an open flame down there. It lit the hydrogen gas, and boom boom."

They tore across the river and up the Left Bank, weaving in and out through traffic that seemed to have no concept of lanes or turn signals or even, occasionally, the laws of gravity.

She wanted to ask him where they were going, but it was impossible with the noise. So she looked at the Paris scenery whizzing by and tried not to think about her not wearing a helmet.

Dusk was falling, the streetlamps coming on, the booksellers along the quays packing up their stands. The damp February cold cut through her leather jacket, chilling her to the bone. Across the river she could see a landmark she recognized-the Louvre, and the point of I. M. Pei's gla.s.s pyramid thrusting through the skeletal trees. A tourist boat floated by, shining a spotlight on the cream, cut stone walls and gray mansard roofs. As they idled at a red light, sandwiched between a diesel-belching bus and a beer truck, Zoe twisted around for another look at the famous museum and saw a flash of red sitting behind the wheel of a silver BWM, a half a long block behind them.

No, it can't be.

The Beamer suddenly swerved up onto the sidewalk, shooting around the b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper traffic, squeezing between cars and a mammoth granite building, scattering pedestrians like bowling pins. Its side-view mirror sc.r.a.ped sparks from stone as it bore down on them.

Zoe jabbed Ry in his side with her elbow and bellowed, "Gun it!" in his ear, but his head was already snapping around to see what the commotion was about. The Beamer squealed to a stop, blocked for the moment by a moving van parked in a driveway, but it was close enough now for Zoe to see easily through its window. It was Yasmine Poole, all right, and she looked p.i.s.sed. She also looked as wet as a sewer rat, and Zoe would've smiled if she hadn't been so scared.

The backseat window rolled down and a hand emerged, holding a semiautomatic. The long, gray muzzle slowly swung around until she was looking right down the bore, big and black as the mouth of h.e.l.l.

"Gun!" she screamed.

"Gun it where?" Ry shouted back at her. "I got a G.o.dd.a.m.n red light-"

"A gun. Pointing right at-" gun. Pointing right at-"

A bullet buzzed past Zoe's ear and pinged into the body of the bus alongside of them. The next one plowed into the bulging saddlebags, killing Luigi's pizzas.

Then the light changed and Ry finally gunned it. The motorcycle, small-framed and light, shot forward with such force it leaped off the pavement, and for a few terrifying seconds Zoe was stretched out parallel to the street and only her one-handed grip on Ry's belt saved her from falling. Even so, her head almost smacked into one of the bus's giant front tires, coming so close some of her hair got caught up in the fender guard and was pulled out by the roots.

Then another bullet plowed a groove in the asphalt right before her terrified eyes.

She barely managed to haul herself back upright before Ry cut sharply across the front of the bus and a taxi, then jerked the handlebars so hard to the right that their back tire fishtailed, and Zoe nearly went flying again. They jumped the curb up onto the sidewalk, barely dodged a quayside stand loaded with stamps and postcards, then dropped down onto an arched bridge and headed for the other side of the river.

Zoe glanced back over her shoulder in time to the see the silver Beamer U-turn across four lanes. Tires screeched, horns blared, and there was the clanging crunch of metal slamming against metal, but miraculously the BMW emerged unscathed and hot on their tail.

Where were the d.a.m.n traffic cops? Zoe wondered, then an instant later heard the whoop of a siren.

They hit a green light at the end of the bridge, and for a moment Zoe thought Ry was going to turn up into the three lanes of one-way traffic, but he jumped another sidewalk instead, threading through a row of bollards and cutting into a park.

The pebbled pathway was crowded with people out taking their evening const.i.tutional, but Ry barely slowed down as he plowed through them, leaving a wake of screams and curses and shaking fists, but, thankfully, no dead bodies.

Zoe heard lots of sirens now and saw whirling blue lights, but given the number of traffic laws they'd broken, she wasn't so sure she wanted the cops anymore.

They flew past rows of plane trees, rosewood hedges, and geometric flowerbeds. They careened around a colonnaded fountain, where a boy was trying to sail his toy boat through a pool choked with miniature icebergs, then shot out of the park and into the biggest square Zoe had ever seen in her life. Or rather it was an octagon, with an enormous Egyptian obelisk in the center of it.

Eight streets spoked in and out of the square, and they were all jam-packed with rush-hour traffic. Cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles, bicycles, all whirled in seemingly haphazard abandon and dizzying speeds. Ry cut in and out, like a skier slaloming down a mountain, ignoring stoplights and traffic cops-doing things that would have gotten him shot on a L.A. freeway.

Zoe searched through the kaleidoscope of swirling headlights for a silver Beamer and a flash of red hair. We've lost them We've lost them, she told herself, and wished she could believe it.

A quarter way around the enormous square, Ry peeled off, taking one of the wider spokes. They were still moving along at a pretty good clip, but he'd stopped breaking all the laws in the good-driver's manual. It was a miracle they hadn't been jumped on by every traffic cop in Paris by now.

The street they were on pulsed with neon-lit nightclubs, shops, and cafes. Ry rolled the motorcycle to a stop at a red light. Ahead of them was a square with a church built to look like a Greek temple. It was half-covered with scaffolding, but its doors were open and a man in a business suit sat on its marble steps in spite of the cold, eating a McDonald's burger and reading a newspaper.

Suddenly a cacophony of car horns blared into life behind them. Zoe twisted around and saw the silver BWM whip out from behind a j.a.panese tourist bus. The blue-hooded guy with his semiautomatic was leaning far out of the backseat window, making sure that this time he wouldn't miss.

"They're back!" Zoe screamed.

27.

RY JUMPED the light, scooting between a truck loaded with terracotta bricks and a yellow Mini Cooper. Brakes squealed behind them, horns shrieked, but Zoe's horrified eyes were riveted on the bakery van, double-parked and blocking the street ahead of them. the light, scooting between a truck loaded with terracotta bricks and a yellow Mini Cooper. Brakes squealed behind them, horns shrieked, but Zoe's horrified eyes were riveted on the bakery van, double-parked and blocking the street ahead of them.

Two men walked toward the van's open rear doors, carrying a seven-tiered wedding cake between them, their eyes wide at the sight of the pizza cycle hurtling toward them. They stopped short, and the cake swayed dangerously. They sidled two steps backward; the cake swayed even more.

Ry started to pull around them, into the oncoming lane of traffic, but that way was blocked by yet another smoke-belching tourist bus. So he throttled back and aimed right, for the impossibly skinny s.p.a.ce between the bakery van and the row of cars parked along the curb. A s.p.a.ce that was now filled by the bakers and their cake.

A gun popped behind them, sounding close and loud, like a string of firecrackers going off, and the window of a parked Fiat exploded in a shower of gla.s.s.

The bakery men dropped the wedding cake and ran, and Ry plowed right through it. Silver and white frosting sprayed up in sticky globs, splattering their faces. They shot past the van, knocking its side-view mirror askew, and out into the square.

An outdoor flower market, lit up by strings of white twinkling lights, lined the church's east colonnade. They ducked under a low-hanging orange canopy, and Zoe looked back. Lots of flashing blue police lights, but no big silver BMW, no hooded men with guns.

They rounded the back end of the church and nearly slammed headfirst into the Beamer.

Ry swerved, and they went into a violent, fishtailing U-turn, clipping a cart full of cellophane-wrapped bouquets and snagging a watering can when its spout got caught up in the bike's spokes. They dragged it behind them, trailing sparks, and it acted as a brake, slowing them down. But then it fell off, and the bike surged with a roar of released speed-aiming right for a shop with a plate-gla.s.s window full of fancy chocolates and bonbons.

At the last second Ry jerked the handgrip hard, and the bike popped up over the sidewalk, through an arched art deco doorway, and into a shopping arcade. Hanging globe lanterns, cafe tables, and startled faces whipped past them in a blur, then they burst back out through another arched doorway and into a narrow, one-way street zipping with traffic.

NO SIGN OF the silver BMW, and Zoe started to breathe again. But then, incredibly, she saw it-the Beamer, barreling out of the side street the silver BMW, and Zoe started to breathe again. But then, incredibly, she saw it-the Beamer, barreling out of the side street ahead ahead of them. of them.

It sent a taxi swerving into a light pole, and within seconds the narrow street was a chaos of locked b.u.mpers, blaring horns, and screaming bystanders. Ry gunned the cycle's engine and aimed for the narrow gap between the Beamer's front b.u.mper and a green kiosk plastered with posters.

But the gap was closing fast, too fast. Only five feet wide, and they weren't going to make it. The Beamer's headlights flooded the kiosk. The gap narrowed some more, only four feet wide now. Zoe gripped Ry hard around the waist, felt the sweat and tension of him through his clothes.

Three feet.

Two and a half.

They shot through what was left of the gap, shaving it too close. The Beamer slammed into the kiosk. Metal crunched, gla.s.s shattered, someone screamed, and a car alarm started shrieking.

They turned the corner at a skid, taking out a newspaper stand, and barreled right into the oncoming flow of traffic, going so fast the little motorcycle whipped back and forth like a snake.

The street ended in another open square, this one full of buses and taxicabs and a ma.s.sive stone railway station straight out of the gaslight era. Ry cut through the snarl, ignoring traffic signs and crosswalks, hurtling down the length of the station until they could see the peeked-roofed platforms. And then at least a dozen set of tracks, crisscrossing a wide and open expanse that was latticed with electrical wires and littered with switch boxes and signal poles.

Ry twisted his head around, and she saw his mouth open. She couldn't hear him over the noise, but she thought he yelled, "Hold on!"

Zoe held on. Although if she'd known what he was going to do, she might have jumped off instead and taken her chances with the bad guys and the French cops, whose sirens she could now hear again, closing in behind them.

They bounded up onto the sidewalk and went flying up and out, through the air, out, out, out, and Zoe screamed, sailing over a skein of wires that looked hot enough to fry an elephant.

They hit the ground so hard she felt as if her teeth had been driven through the top of her head, and something fell off the back of the bike with a loud clang. But by some miracle the tires didn't blow.

Ry poured power into the sputtering engine, and they bounced and lurched over the web of rails and crossties, tires grinding, spewing gravel. Zoe looked toward the platforms and saw a bright, white headlight burst out of one of the dark tunnels.

This time her scream was swallowed by the shriek of a train's warning whistle. It bore down on them with a hammering roar that rent the air. The whole world seemed to be shaking.

They leaped over the last of the tracks, just as the train blew by them in a buffeting gust of wind and another earsplitting shriek of its horn.

RY TOOK THEM on a twisted route through a warren of narrow one-way streets. Zoe had no idea whether he knew where he was going and she didn't care. They were climbing now, the cobblestoned streets taking on a bohemian charm, but she barely noticed. She kept twisting around to look for the silver Beamer. on a twisted route through a warren of narrow one-way streets. Zoe had no idea whether he knew where he was going and she didn't care. They were climbing now, the cobblestoned streets taking on a bohemian charm, but she barely noticed. She kept twisting around to look for the silver Beamer.

She heard it before she saw it-the rev of its powerful engine. It came roaring around the corner behind them, and this time the hooded guy wasn't being careful of innocent bystanders by trying to take aim. Bullets bit into the cobblestones, shattered gla.s.s, and ripped into a pile of garbage cans.

"How is she doing doing it?" Zoe cried. It seemed impossible-after the shopping arcade, the one-way streets, the railway tracks-that Yasmine Poole could have found them again already. it?" Zoe cried. It seemed impossible-after the shopping arcade, the one-way streets, the railway tracks-that Yasmine Poole could have found them again already.

Ry opened the throttle as wide as it would go and they shot forward, putting some distance between them and the semiautomatic weapon. Even so, Zoe thought, it was a good thing it was harder than it looked to hit a moving target from another moving target.

They careened up a winding street, using the buildings as a shield. But the street ran out at a small square studded with leafless trees and the few straggling artists still packing up for the night. They ripped past colorful restaurants and galleries, and then Zoe saw before her the white dome and turrets of an enormous basilica lit up against the night sky.

The forecourt of the basilica's great bronze doors was full of tourists and Arabs selling knockoff handbags spread out on blankets over the paving stones. The bike slashed through faux Gucci and Chanel, its headlight pointing right at a low stone bal.u.s.trade. Beyond the bal.u.s.trade the city's rooftops and shimmering lights spread out for miles below them.

Far below them.

BULLETS SPRAYED THE stone railing in front of them, kicking up a blizzard of stinging pellets. stone railing in front of them, kicking up a blizzard of stinging pellets.

For one terrifying instant, Zoe thought Ry was going to drive them over the bal.u.s.trade to die, impaled on the point of a gray mansard roof. Then she saw the long flight of terraced steps, lit by a string of globe lampposts.

They dove down the stairs, hurtling, bouncing, and rattling, and more pieces of the pizza cycle fell off. They reached the end of one flight of stairs, cut hard right, under the framework of a funicular, and started down another, longer flight.

Ry yelled, "When I say now now-jump. I won't be slowing down, Zoe. You got it?"

Zoe nodded, unable to shout back she was so scared.

They bounded past a row of poplar trees, then Ry yelled, "Now!" and they jumped. The bike kept going without them, faster now, careening wildly out of control with no one to steer it.

Her momentum carried Zoe into some kind of holly bush, whose p.r.i.c.kles sc.r.a.ped the side of her face. She landed hard on her left side, jamming an elbow into her chest and winding herself.

Ry was suddenly there, leaping out of the dark. He grabbed her hand, hauled her back onto her feet, and they ran down the steps, following the path the empty pizza cycle had taken. Zoe could still hear it, clattering and roaring, but far below them now. They didn't run all the way after it, though, and thank G.o.d for that, because after the eternity on that thing with its rotten shock absorbers and padless seat, Zoe could barely feel her legs.

Ry pulled her down onto a stone bench and reached for her satchel. "Give me your bag."

Zoe clutched it to her chest. "Why?"

"This afternoon, back at the cafe, Yasmine Poole must have dropped in a tracking device when you weren't looking. That's the only way they could be keeping up with us the way they have."

Zoe was already dumping out the satchel onto the bench between them. The sealskin bag with its priceless icon first, then the film, which without its can was unspooling into a wiry mess. Then lipstick and compact, hairbrush, eyeliner, a couple of pens, wallet, pa.s.sport, keys, a petrified PowerBar, sungla.s.ses and sunscreen, a small box of tampons, a handful of old credit-card receipts, cell phone and PDA-both probably dead now ... an expired coupon for a free cup of Peet's coffee, a can of Mace and a whistle ...

"Jesus, the things you women-"

"Don't say it."

Red lacy bikini panties and matching bra ... "Nice," Ry said.

Zoe quickly tucked the underwear inside the half-open zipper of her leather jacket. "Down, dog," she said, and Ry laughed.

She got to the bottom and turned the satchel upside down. Crumbs and lint and dust fell out, but no tracking device.

"Oh, G.o.d, maybe it's stuck on me somewhere...." She jumped up and ran her hands through her hair, over her jacket and jeans, searched her pockets.

Then Ry spotted it, caught among the bristles of her hairbrush. He held it up-it had the size and shape and creepy look of a wolf spider, and a tiny red light that was blinking like an evil red eye.

"This is the very latest technology," he said. "I've never even seen it before, just read about it. I wasn't really buying her tale before, but maybe Yasmine Poole really is CIA. In which case we are seriously ..."

"Screwed," Zoe said. "I'd use another word, but I don't speak French."

She expected Ry to throw the tracker into the bushes or squash it to smithereens beneath his bootheel, but instead he wrapped it up in his big fist and jumped to his feet. "Let's go," he said, and started at a jog back down the steps.

Zoe shoveled her stuff back into her satchel and ran after him.

AT THE BOTTOM of the steps, they pa.s.sed a garbage truck idling at the stoplight. Ry tossed the tracking device onto the mound of trash. of the steps, they pa.s.sed a garbage truck idling at the stoplight. Ry tossed the tracking device onto the mound of trash.

Zoe watched the truck disappear around the corner. "We didn't just put that garbage man's life in danger, did we?"

Ry shook his head. "Soon as they catch up with the truck, they'll know they've been had."

They caught a cab going in the opposite direction. Zoe leaned back against the cracked black leather seat and shut her eyes. A moment ago she'd felt as if she had a half dozen double espressos shooting through her bloodstream; now, suddenly, she didn't think she'd ever be able to move again. Ry would have to pry her out of the cab with a crowbar when they got to where they were going.

And where were were they going? She'd heard Ry say something in French to the driver, giving him an address presumably, although it had sounded like gibberish to her. If she'd known one day she would be running for her life over and over again through the streets of Paris, she would have studied more French in school instead of Spanish. She would have ... they going? She'd heard Ry say something in French to the driver, giving him an address presumably, although it had sounded like gibberish to her. If she'd known one day she would be running for her life over and over again through the streets of Paris, she would have studied more French in school instead of Spanish. She would have ...

THE CRACK OF a gunshot startled her awake. a gunshot startled her awake.

She jerked upright and looked around wildly for the silver Beamer, but except for a ratty old Citroen idling at the red light in front of them, the street was deserted.

She felt a hand on her knee, and Ry said, "It was only a car backfiring."

She tried to laugh, but it broke coming out. Her heart was still pumping hard. "Sorry. I guess I get kind of jumpy when people are trying to kill me."

She thought she caught the flash of a smile, but it was dark in the back of the cab. "You're doing great, Zoe. Better than great, you're kicking a.s.s and taking names."

She knew he was just being a good leader, rallying the troops, but his words were still nice to hear. His hand on her knee also felt nice.