The morning fog clinging to the cobblestones of the Marais was suddenly shredded by a single, sharp rifle crack. The black sedan carrying the real prisoner lurched, its front tire disintegrating into rubber ribbons. The car skidded, its nose slamming into the brick corner of a bakery with a bone-jarring crunch.
Inside the cabin, the air was instantly filled with the smell of spilled gasoline and cordite. Inspector Maurice Vaugirard, his face etched with a mask of pure terror, scrambled for his Luger. "Ambush! Out, get out!" he screamed, but he stayed low, pulling Lucille "The Canary" Beaumont toward him like a human shield. He pressed the cold muzzle of his pistol against her temple, his hand shaking with a manic energy.
"Listen up, you bastards outside!" Vaugirard roared at the shattere
