Page 4 of Stuart Woods' Golden Hour

He was hit with a cramp so intense he had to sit back down.

The bartender hurried over. “You don’t look good.”

Owen could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to ride out the cramp. Gritting his teeth, he whispered, “Toilet.”

The bartender helped him to his feet and guided him into the back hallway.

Owen shuffled forward, unable to focus on anything but the pain in his gut.

A door opened, and he assumed they’d reached the men’s room. But then another pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him forward. The next thing he knew, he was moving up a set of stairs.

He tried to look around and see what was happening, but between the darkness and his inability to open his eyes beyond slits, all he could see were shadows.

With as much strength as he could muster, he whispered, “What’s…going on?”

Someone leaned next to his ear and said, “Payback.”

Owen felt a prick in his arm, and within moments, his world went black.

The sedan pulled in behindthe row of police vehicles, and the driver killed the engine.

“Would you like me to check first?” he asked.

Rick La Rose shook his head. “I’ve got this.”

The CIA’s Paris Station Chief climbed out and made hisway toward a group of floodlights set up at the edge of a pond, thirty yards from the road.

An officer near the front of the park put up a hand and said, “I’m sorry, sir. This area is currently closed to the public. Please return to your vehicle.”

Rick flashed his ID and said in French, “I’m expected.”

“One moment.” The officer spoke softly into his radio, then waved Rick through.

Several cops were huddled in conversation near the pond. As Rick approached, a woman broke from the group and intercepted him.

“Monsieur La Rose,” she said. “I am Ann de Coster, DGSI.” DGSI was the acronym for France’s internal security agency.

They shook hands.

“Sorry to have you come out in the middle of the night like this,” she said.

“Not your fault. Part of the job. The body?”

“This way.”

She led him to a body bag that lay on the grass.

“Shall I open it?” she asked.

“Please.”

She unzipped it halfway but hesitated before pulling it open. “It is not pleasant.”

“Death seldom is.”

“More than usual.”

“I understand.”

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