French Kiss by James Patterson

drops to the floor and slides beneath the bed just as a shaft of bright light from the hallway pierces the darkness. Someone else is in the room with her. She moves farther underneath the bed. Jesus Christ, she thinks. This is an awful comedy, a French farce—the woman hiding beneath the bed.
    As soon as she hears the door close, the light from the hallway disappears.
    “Don’t move, Detective!” a muffled, foreign-sounding voice hisses.
    Then a gunshot.
    The bullet hits the floor about a foot away from her hand. There’s a quick loud snapping sound. A spark on the blue carpet. She tries to move farther under the bed. There is no room. It is so unlike her to not know what to do, to not fight back, to not plot an escape. This feeling of fright is foreign to her.
    Another bullet. This one spits its way fiercely through the mattress above her. It hits the floor also.
    Another bullet. No spark. No connection.
    A groan. A quick thud.
    Then a voice.
    “K. Burke! It is safe. All is well.”

Chapter 37
    Hotel management and guests in their pajamas almost immediately begin gathering in the hall.
    K. Burke emerges from under the bed. We embrace each other the way friends do, friends who have successfully come through a horrible experience together.
    “You saved…” she begins. She is shaking. She folds her arms in front of herself. She is working to compose herself.
    “I know,” I say. I pat her on the back. I am like an old soccer coach with an injured player.
    Burke pulls away from me. She blinks—on purpose—a few times, and those simple eye gestures seem to clear her head and calm her nerves. She is immediately back to a completely professional state. She has become the efficient K. Burke I am used to. We both look down at the body. She moves to a nearby closet and wraps herself quickly in a Le Meurice terry-cloth bathrobe.
    The dead man fell backwards near the foot of the bed. He wears jeans, a white dress shirt, and Adidas sneakers. His bald head lies in a large and ever-growing pool of blood. It forms a kind of scarlet halo around his face.
    The crowd in the hallway seems afraid to enter the room. A man wearing a blue blazer with LE MEURICE embroidered on the breast pocket appears. He pushes through the crowd. He is immediately followed by two men wearing identical blazers.
    I briefly explain what happened, planning to give the police a more detailed story when they arrive.
    K. Burke then kneels at the man’s head. I watch her touch the man’s neck. I can tell by the blood loss, by simply looking at him, that she is merely performing an official act. The guy is gone. Burke stands back up.
    “Do you know him, Moncrief?” Burke asks.
    “I have never seen him before in my life,” I say. “Have you?”
    “Of course not,” she says. She pauses. Then she says, “He was going to kill me.”
    “You would have been…the third victim.”
    She nods. “How did you know that this was happening here, that someone was actually going to break in…threaten my life…try to kill me?”
    “Instinct. When I texted you I asked if all was well. So I drank my whiskey.
    “But fifteen minutes later, when I am walking back to the hotel, I found myself walking faster and faster, until I was actually running…I just had a feeling. I can’t explain it.”
    “You never can,” she says.

Chapter 38
    The next morning.
    Eleven o’clock. I meet K. Burke in the lobby of the hotel.
    “So here we are,” she says. “Everything is back to ab normal.”
    Even I realize that this is a bad play on words. But it does perfectly describe our situation.
    “Look,” I say. “A mere apology is unsuitable. I am totally responsible for the near tragedy of last night.”
    “There’s nothing to apologize for. It goes with the territory,” she says, but I can see from her red eyes that she did not sleep well. I try to say something helpful.
    “I suspect what happened a few hours ago is that the enemy saw us together at some point here in