Page 11 of The Devil Wears Orange

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The waiter throws open the door, and it clangs against a wall. A helicopter is on the roof. The swoosh of the blades wind up, idle at first, then spin faster until it’s fully ramped up, the wind blows hair into my face as I struggle to look to the Seine beyond. They aren’t the fly-by-night thieves I mistook them for. This is a decent Hollywood heist movie, and I’m the token female who maybe gets two scenes in the male-dominated genre.

The waiter puts me down and grabs my hand, dragging me as a stumble behind him. A familiar sound, faint at first but growing, tickles my ears.Nee-eu. Nee-eu– the sound had once lulled me into a false sense of security. I dare to have a bit of swelling hope. Will they actually get here on time to save me?

I hear the police smash through the warehouse door, and rushed French voices echo from below. I’m hoisted into the helicopter. The gun-toter sits at the controls while the primal warrior guy lands next to him. Across from me is the Peugeot driver, and the waiter is at my side. My stomach sinks with a heavy thud as the chopper lifts. The police burst through the rooftop door, but it’s too late to save me now. They raise their guns and arbitrarily shoot. A bullet ricochets off the metal opening near me. Shock must be settling in because I don’t react to what is happening around me. The waiter throws me down on the seat and lies on top of me, hands cupped to cover my head, his shaded eyes squarely on mine. I like the weight of him on me. We could have moved from the flirtation back at the tent to thisin three easy steps, so why did he have to go blow what could have been a nice one-night stand?

A barrage of bullets whiz past. The pilot grunts and his body lurches forward. The helicopter dips and rises unsteadily, and my stomach follows the sickening motion. The waiter yells something but who could hear over the sound of the spinning rotor? When the co-pilot places a hand on him, the pilot swats him away as though irritated by the attention and assures everyone he’s fine and steadies the machine.

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The chopper rolls sideways and flies over the Seine. The waiter lifts himself from me, but I remain flat on the seat. I was supposed to call my parents this morning but forgot, and now my final words to my mother are: “For the last time, the eggplant emoji doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

I try to sit up, but swoon when I view the vertiginous drop to the water below, and fall against the waiter. Instinctively, his hand goes to the tube across his chest.Mistress in a Red Dressis safe against his body just as I had been moments earlier. Is it possible that he doesn’t mean to harm me? Then, he would have left me back at the warehouse. I steal glances at my captors, wondering what’s next. Do they plan to toss me into the Seine below? I could try to swim, but we’re so high up that death seems more likely.

The helicopter glides over the water, edges higher. I discern people waving from boats that litter the water below, tiny people in tiny vessels waving with tiny hands. The chopper pitches nose down, and the pilot slumps forward unconscious, his back soaked in blood. He’s bleeding out. My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster, and the waiter shouts something at one of his partners.

The man next to the pilot pulls him back into his seat and reaches for the controls. Still, we dip, then plunge, and spin. It reminds me of a ride at Coney Island when I went with a boyI liked. I felt invincible then, but now what is all this vomit-inducing turmoil a prelude to except death? I can’t tell which way is up until the co-pilot straightens the chopper with a jerk that pitches me across the seat and out the door.

It feels like an out-of-body experience where I watch my hand reach for the metal legs of the seats, but miss, and my legs dangle over the side. Something keeps me up; my arm, caught in the seatbelt of the chopper, stops me from falling completely. I struggle to grab the seatbelt with my other hand, but gravity has its own idea and drops me a few more inches.

The waiter frantically stretches his arm out for me, motioning for me to meet him halfway. Our hands make contact. “Let her go!” someone yells in English – but the waiter ignores them. His hands tighten around mine. His face reddens, and between clenched teeth, he shouts at his men. The chopper descends. The Peugeot driver now lies on his belly next to the waiter, his short arms outstretched, but unable to make contact. My legs swing in the air, the revolting raincoat balloons upwards.

I struggle to hang on. My sweaty hand slips. Frantically, I lash out with my arms, grasping at anything, but find only air. The waiter’s sunglasses crash towards the earth with me.

“Oh, non. Non!”he yells.

My raincoat balloons out as a parachutist, then flaps wildly about my head, blocking my screams. Icy water cuts through me like glass, slices through my feet, my legs, my arms. The raincoat turns upside down and inside out, wraps itself around my head, arms straight up. An undercurrent pulls me.

I’m not sure how much longer I can hold my breath. I struggle against the copious yards of opalescent plastic.

Remain calm.

Stop struggling.

I don’t know which way is up. My arms flap. I take an involuntary breath, and water rushes in through my nose and mouth and into my lungs. This is drowning.

Something grabs me. I tell myself not to breathe, but my body betrays me.

Up.

Air smacks my face.