Sam Capra's Last Chance

Strasbourg, France

I ran into empty air five stories above the pavement, the edge of the building falling away under my feet, spinning, aiming backward, firing behind me as I soared over the alleyway. The bullet caught my pursuer in the shoulder; I'd missed the chest shot. And the jump between the buildings over the alleyway was maybe ten feet. I realized I'd miscalculated and I wasn't going to complete the leap.

I dropped my suppressor-capped gun to the alleyway five stories below. I wasn't about to drop the mobile phone I'd just stolen. That phone was the key to finding my son. I reached an arm far as I could, found a grip as I slammed into the side of the building. One-handed, I clawed a hold on the ornate stonework. I was a trained parkour runner and my hands, my legs, knew how to fight for purchase on a building's ledge. I tucked the phone in my back pocket so I wouldn't lose it, began to pull myself up. I glanced across the gulf.

Oh, no.

The gunman staggered to his feet, trying to steady the aim of his own gun at me while I struggled against the side of the opposite building. I'd hit his right shoulder and he was right-handed, but that wasn't going to buy me more than a few seconds.

He can't kill me, I thought. I have to find my son. A panic surged through me, more than fear from being shot or plummeting to unforgiving pavement. If I didn't find Daniel, no one would. There was no one left to fight for him but me.

Resolve fueled me. I pulled my leg up onto the building's edge, fighting for leverage, but now the easiest of targets. He'd shoot me before I could pull myself to safety. I heard laughter below, probably nice people coming into my bar down on the street level, eager to enjoy their evening, drink Alsatian Riesling and Kronenbourg beer, chat with their friends. Unaware of the drama above them.

"Throw me back that phone!" he yelled. "Or… or…"

The red dot of his laser sight, built into his modified Ruger's grip, danced along my arm, moving toward my head. But behind him, I saw a petite form emerge onto the building's roof, swing an object at him that looked like an oversized discus, and strike him in the throat.

He toppled. The woman stood behind him, relieved him of his gun, and watched me pull myself fully up onto the neighboring roof. I tottered on the steep slope, got my balance. Then she waved the man's gun at me. "What were you thinking, Sam?"

"I was trying to draw him away from the crowd downstairs."

"I suppose it would not do to have customers shot your first night owning the bar," she said.

My hands were scraped; my body would be sore. But I had the thread to my son. I held up the cell phone I'd stolen from the man. I'd gotten the prize.

"Wonderful, Sam. Go get your gun out of the alleyway before a drunk finds it," Mila said.

"What about him?" I could then see, in the setting sun's light, that Mila had hammered the man with a heavy, circular, wooden serving tray brought from the bar downstairs. She shrugged, tucked the tray under her arm, and began to drag the unconscious man back into the building.

Furious with myself, I started looking for a way to get inside the building from the roof. There was no door on the sloping roof. I'd have to find a window or drop down to a fire escape and hope no one noticed me clambering down the side of the building. All while the man who knew where my missing infant son was bounced down the stairs, dragged by Mila, perhaps bleeding out his life, and the answers I needed.