Marcel Fournier was dead on his feet. His sleeplessness had been further aggravated by – of all things in quaint little Paradis – sirens. Sirens in the middle of the night as if they were in Paris. The long night crawled into a long morning.
Fournier had just poured himself a cup of coffee and was headed for his desk when the curtain to the back room came open. He scowled at Loup. His underling looked like hell. His eye was a swollen mess, his nose a purple abomination, his lower lip pulped meat. And a woman was responsible. Pathetic. “Is everything ready?”
Loup nodded. Apparently, it hurt to talk. Pathetic.
“Be sure. I do not want any mistakes. The shipment tonight is going to make…” Fournier stopped abruptly, his cup halfway to his lips, his thought half expressed… staring through the
