Alexa : Book 4 : Ultimate Power: Alexa - The Series, #4

Also, you'll find a pair of safety glasses and some earplugs under your seats.  Please feel free to use them.

MAX FISCHER:  Introducing his play, Heaven and Hell.

Paris, France

6:01 PM

One more time, please daddy, Franky begged. He swopped the melting ice cream cone to the other hand, licking his sticky fingers.

Pete Ricco smiled and fed another Euro into the coin-operated telescope. His boy handed him the ice cream and plastered two tacky hands to the sides of the scope.

Kids.

Pete licked the ice cream as he absorbed the sights and sounds of a warm Parisian afternoon. A balmy breeze wafted over the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, and people mulled around excitedly, babbling and pointing to the various landmarks they recognized from their travel guides.

The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower looked spectacular. The grey River Seine meandered a sluggish path through the heart of Paris. A variety of brightly painted vessels churned this way and that along the river, like confused ants. Pete leaned forward on the handrail as he admired the architectural intricacies of the Chaillot Palace and the lush greenery of the Bois de Boulogne, which separated the old city from the new.

He stood up straight and paged through his travel guide, trying to decide what to do next. The damn thing kept referring to the popular landmarks to the left side of Seine and to the right side of the Seine.

How the hell do you know which side was the left and which side was right? he had asked the pretty girl manning the reception desk at the hotel.

She nodded knowingly. Pretty simple, really, if you looked downstream, left was left and right was right. Which didn't work either until he remembered not to assume that all boats were traveling downstream. Sometimes he could be such an idiot.

He fished his cell phone from his pocket as he felt it vibrate for probably the tenth time that morning. He read the message and cursed under his breath before slipping it back. It was a message from the bank, a transaction for a thousand five hundred Euro had been cleared on his card. His wife, Carmen, running around somewhere in Paris shopping, maxing out his credit. Paris wasn't the cheapest city in the world to take your impulsive wife on a damn spending spree, that was for sure.

He sighed. Suck it up Pete, his new wife was pretty and young and Franky seems to have accepted her.

He would do anything for Carmen. A lovely face without any blemishes or wrinkles. Body toned to perfection, she spent hours in the gym. He scratched his balls without thinking. Damn, that girl was a handful in bed.

Financially, he was doing just dandy although he had to start over twice. First was 911, when he saw his entire empire that he had spent ten years building go up in smoke and dust, literally.

Then that bastard Madoff took him and his clients for everything they had back in 2008. But he had slowly built up his base and relied on his contacts to get back on his feet. In his previous life he had been an investment broker, dealing with venture capitalists, but now penny shares were his bread and butter.

He knew it was risky business, but he would research the companies meticulously, if they had solid financials, a good product and paid regular dividends, he would advise his clients to invest in them. The commissions were excellent. He never risked any of his own money on the smaller shares. Blue chips were his thing. Solid companies, Google, Apple, Anglo American. Companies with large market caps and double digit growth.

He sighed and slapped the handrail with the guidebook. Nothing taxed a relationship more than financial strain. When the market crashed, that bitch Tina - Franky’s mom - left him stranded, taking him for every last penny he had. All he had were his clothes, a bed and Franky. And a massive amount of credit card debt, the two-timing bitch.

But he couldn't complain, third time lucky, he guessed.

Look, dad, a plane, Franky shouted excitedly, pointing at the sky.

Pete looked up as the Airbus A-300 made a wide arc in the sky. It flew awfully low, the trees of the Boulogne forest flitting and swaying in its jet stream like an inflatable arm flailing tube man. The engines whined as it banked to the side on its slow, wide turn, the flaps engaged as it tried to reduce its speed. Pete had heard that sound once before. The only difference between then and now was that he had stood on the ground on the corner of West Broadway and Park in New York City, watching in awestruck disbelief as the scene unfolded before his eyes. He swallowed at the lump in his throat. Surely not again?

The plane straightened out its flight path.

And headed straight their way.

He grabbed Franky by the arm and pulled him onto his hip as he ran. Shit. The crowd panicked and surged towards the lifts. Which would be suicide, he didn’t want to be stuck in a metal cage when the tower went down. He headed for the stairs.

A siren sounded from somewhere, like those that they rang during the second world war bombings. People hustled and shoved and jostled for position. He slipped and fell, pushing himself up as he looked back.

The plane approached, fast, less than a hundred yards away, the whine of the jet engines becoming an insistent and deafening tone that he could literally feel in his head. He closed his eyes and sucked in a raspy breath as the people mulled around him. This was futile.

He turned to face the roaring monster swooping down on him. People bumped into him, trying to shove him out of the way. Franky grabbed his waist and whimpered.

It's useless, he whispered, patting the boy’s head. He looked down at his son.

Franky's eyes were squeezed shut, his fingers in his ears.

People screamed as the plane thundered towards them. Then time and place became one, as if watching a movie in slow motion, frame by frame, although it only lasted for two seconds. He could smell the vanilla and chocolate cone on Franky's hands. The wind jerked at the shirt plastered to his back as the sweaty rivulets oozed from his hyper-sensitized skin.

He saw a young couple leap into the lift-shaft. They were holding hands. If the fall didn't kill them, the explosion would, Pete thought. The flying jet-fuel bomb screeched and Pete stood frozen as he watched the plane's nosecone grow larger and larger.

And then it hit. The Tower shook as the plane plowed into the lower observation deck below them. The impact jolted him off his feet. Everything went ghostly quiet as his eardrums popped, like watching a silent movie.

Pete screamed as the high propane jet fuel exploded and engulfed his body in flames. He didn't scream because he was in pain, the explosion had severed all the nerve endings in his skin as it was scorched off his flesh.

He screamed because he was still alive as the Tower started to topple over, he screamed because he couldn't believe that this was happening again and he screamed because he didn't want his son to die yet. Not like this.

He lived for one more second, saw his boy's arms and face turn black and then become a sickening red oozing mass of boiling flesh and tissue. He screamed again and then the world went black.

Paris, France

An hour earlier

General Alain Laiveaux held his god-daughter's hand as they strolled down Rue Dauphine in Paris. He breathed deeply, the smell of rain still hanging in the air. The streets were empty and damp, their footsteps sounded louder than usual as they strolled down the wet curb, rain-streaked windows the only reminder of the summer storm that had come and gone.

They had enjoyed a light dinner at a street cafe and were on their way back to their hotel where Alexa was waiting for them.

He could see their shadows as Latorre and Voelkner followed them at a discreet distance, far enough behind to make sure they weren't being invasive, close enough to react to any threatening situation.

Laiveaux smiled. Yumi and him had returned from the La Cite des Sciences in the Parc Vilette on the outskirts of Paris, a play park for kids where they explained scientific stuff in a fun way. Today's theme was Snot, which Laiveaux found hilarious. The presenter climbed inside a giant nose and pulled out huge goops of green slime, explaining that it prevented your nasal tissues from drying out and prevented foreign bodies from entering the nasal cavity. Yumi giggled through the entire show.

He checked his watch. It was past seven and he picked up the pace, not wanting Yumi to be late for bed.

Did you enjoy that? Laiveaux asked Yumi, removing a handkerchief and blowing his nose, then casually folding it and placing it back in his pocket.

She pulled a face. Gross!

Her brain absorbed information like a sponge, picking up languages effortlessly. He nodded, squeezing her hand. This was a new experience for him. He had never had children of his own, although he did think of Alexa as his daughter. Now he was a god-father, spending more and more time with Yumi, and he was enjoying it. She had a lot of questions, and Laiveaux always made sure that he explained things as concisely as he could.

He checked his watch again. It was almost time. Lieutenant Latorre, do you mind accompanying Yumi back to the hotel?

She looked up at him with a frown. Aren't you coming with?

I have something that I need to do, Yumi. But I'll be seeing you soon enough.

She hesitated, but Latorre took her hand. Come on Yumi, mommy's waiting. He picked her up on his back and started galloping, whinnying like a horse.

The General waved and smiled as Latorre trotted away, Yumi smacking Latorre's backside. Run horsie, run!

Laiveaux watched them as they disappeared around the corner of Rue de Buci, chewing his lip anxiously as he checked his watch. Satisfied, he turned to Voelkner. You ready?

The soldier nodded.

He took a deep breath. Stay calm, don't even think of drawing your weapon.

Voelkner nodded again. Yes, General.

Laiveaux pulled his jacket straight, glancing up and down the road. A couple of teens drove by on bicycles, and some straddlers walked down the road, holding hands, laughing playfully.

A black panel van skidded around a corner, tires shrieking. Its headlights bounced up and down as it accelerated down the road, then the van slowed down and skidded to a stop beside them.

The General backed up against a wall, his hands in the air.

The door cracked open and Laiveaux jumped back as he heard the stutter of automatic gunfire. He jerked his head to the side as Voelkner's gun barked twice, and two holes were punched into the side of the van.

No! Laiveaux shouted too late.

Voelkner fell to his knees, his hand clutching his chest as he fell to the ground. The material on the front of his chest was ripped open where the bullets had hit.

Laiveaux held up a hand. Stop! stop firing, he shouted.

The panel van's door slid open all the way, and three men jumped out. Drop your weapons, one of them shouted. He had a thick, black mustache and a pockmarked face, brown wrinkled skin, like tanned leather.

Voelkner pushed himself up, he kept a white-knuckled grip on his pistol, waving it between the three men.

Do it, Laiveaux ordered.

Voelkner tossed the gun and it clattered to the ground. He moaned and collapsed on the ground in a pitiful heap.

One of the men gathered the gun, pointing his pistol at Laiveaux.

You too, the man with the mustache ordered.

Laiveaux unclipped his holster, slid the gun out and tossed it on the ground.

Secure them, the man shouted in Arabic.

The men cuffed Voelkner's hands behind his back.

The man with the mustache waved the gun at Laiveaux. On the ground.

Laiveaux went down on all fours and lay on his stomach, his arms spread wide.

Mustache nodded, seemingly satisfied. Glancing up and down the road, he turned to Laiveaux. Where's the other soldier and the girl? His hair had an oily sheen and was combed back flat against his head. He was lean, his movements fluid and self-assured. A soldier's movements.

Girl?

We were informed that there was another soldier and a girl with you.

They left earlier.

Why?

She was late for bed, I wasn’t.

The man chuckled. Who is she?

I was babysitting her, Laiveaux answered in Arabic, wanting to confirm his suspicions.

The man lifted a bushy eyebrow. You speak Arabic?

I was stationed in Afghanistan for twelve years. I had to learn the language if I wanted to get things done.

Mustache nodded slowly. Her parents must trust you if they allow you to babysit their kids, old man.

I’m Chief Inspector of Interpol's Special Investigations Unit, you would trust me with your kids.

The man gave Laiveaux a bovine, yellow-toothed smile. Shrugged. You have a point.

Who are you?

Sorry, how impolite of me. A dramatic bow. My name is Moktar al-Sharif. He pointed his chin to one of his men. But we'll have plenty of time for pleasantries later.

The men heaved Laiveaux to his feet as they pulled a black bag over his head and bundled him into the panel van. The three men jumped inside and slammed the door.

They sped away with screeching tires, thankfully leaving Voelkner behind, Laiveaux hoping that he was okay.

It had taken them less than thirty seconds to kidnap one of the most influential men alive, which should have gotten them thinking. But having dealt with these types for decades, Laiveuax had learned thinking usually wasn't high up on their list of priorities.

Alexa slipped into a bathrobe end emptied the tub. She dabbed her wet hair with a towel, sat down at the vanity and pulled a brush trough her hair.

She felt tired, drained from the festivities of the day, a bit drunk, and she had requested Laiveaux and the other guys to give her some alone time, time to relax on her own. She needed to be on her own for a while.

Laiveaux had taken Yumi to the Parc Vilette, and Laiveaux and the rest of the guys proposed that they go to a pub afterwards, Alexa promising to join them later if she felt up to it. She didn’t.

She smiled when she saw the package Neil had sent on the dressing table. A cup cake and a candle. She picked up the note. LIGHT IT AND MAKE A WISH, Neil had written in his uppercase blocky-cursive. She pushed the candle into the cupcake and lit it with the lighter inside the cardboard box. She blew out the candle and closed her eyes. Please let me be good to Yumi. And please forgive me my sins.

She opened her eyes and sighed, tossing the candle in the trash can. She rummaged through her back pack and pulled out a cherrywood jewelry box. Intricate carvings of Baobab and Umbrella Thorns lined the sides. The top was inlaid with pieces of Yellowwood spelling her former name in bold calligraphy. NATALIE. It was hand-polished to a sheen. Bruce had made it for her sixteenth birthday.

She opened the box and removed a thick wad of letters tied together with string. Letters written between Bruce and her during her stint in the Legion. Correspondence documenting her metamorphosis from an innocent girl into a killer.

She fetched a beer from the fridge and flopped down into the sofa.

She took a bite of the cake but was unable to swallow the sweet, spongy substance that stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Today was her birthday. She was thirty years old.

She swallowed and gagged, struggling to get the cake down, her mouth dry, trying to wash the rest of it away with a beer.

Was this how I had envisioned my life? Were my dreams fulfilled, or merely attempts at living the life I had always thought I wanted?

She sighed, thumbing through the wad of letters, starting to read one and then folding it back into the envelope. She had Yumi, and Neil, and the love of a father and good friends in Laiveaux, Voelkner and Latorre. But it all felt fleeting. Fleeting and surreal.

She had become a murderer. It was strange, she thought, in her mind she did not see herself as a killer, she had never taken anyone’s life out of hatred or revenge. She swallowed when she had to stop her train of thought because that was a lie. Why else would she have shot her own father? Even if he hadn’t been technically alive, hooked up to machines the way he was.

Or Owen Callahan? Wasn’t that a planned act performed in cold blood? Had she become a reptile, killing because she could? Like a serial killer, who had overstepped the boundary, becoming more bold with every murder she committed?

She tossed the cherrywood box on the sofa. No, she killed because she had to. Because she was forced to, to save her own life or the lives of the ones she loved. Because she was ordered to.

She felt the bile rise in her throat and sobbed. And again she knew that was a lie. Because she wasn’t forced to kill Anderson Fitch, the man who beat her to within an inch of her life. She needed to kill him, she needed to restore the balance in her life. The people she had murdered were the yin and the ones saved the yang. She was the yin, the female representing darkness and cold, the antithesis of pure and sunny males, the yang, the creators of the universe.

Then why were all the wars started by men? Why were they so brutal, so hateful?

She closed her eyes and thought of Bruce, the most gentle person she had ever met. He had never lifted a hand against her, had never uttered a word in anger or spite.

Neil, her protector and her love, the man whom she would surely die for, whom she would step in front of a speeding bus for without thinking twice. Funny Neil, sexy Neil, emotional Neil.

No, not all men were hateful.

She was confused.

She took another slug of beer and dumped the cup cake in the trash can as well.

Life sucked.

She stood up and strode over to the night stand as her cell phone vibrated on the table. Hello?

"Bonsoir, Capitaine," a husky female voiced answered.

"Bonsoir."

"C’est le Président de la République Française, Nicole Rue."

"Qui?" Alexa asked hesitantly. The President of France?

We don’t have time, Captain, the woman answered in French. In four minutes, there will be a knock on your door. Two of my men will transport you to the Élysée Palace, my residence. My military attaché will brief you on the way here.

Excuse me madam, could you please confirm my badge number.

The woman sighed. Alpha, X-ray, Golf, One, Niner, One, Fiver, Niner. Get dressed, Captain, she said with a gravelly tone. The phone clicked and went dead.

Alexa dialed Laiveaux but his phone went straight to voicemail.

Alexa dressed and tossed her toiletries into her Rimova trolley suitcase. She slipped on her shoulder holster and shoved the Glock inside. She shrugged into her black leather jacket, placed the suitcase beside the door and sat on the bed, waiting. Two minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

She peered through the peephole. Two men wearing