Brad walked the dark, narrow streets of the capital. He didn't know what he was looking for, and neither did anyone else. Cold eyes watched him suspiciously, annoyed ears listened whenever he spoke - in English. The hated language of the infidel.
Brad avoided speaking. He quickly learned that the annoyed look worked wonders. He was not a stupid tourist laden down with unfamiliar, massively devalued currency, ready for the taking. He was hardened, cynical, and carrying only a thousand Euros in various denominations. Unmarked, of course.
He'd been wandering aimlessly for a long time. His legs were starting to complain, even used as they were to long walks. He walked past crowds of young toughs, the local Gs, attempting to act more macho-than-macho. The illusion was shattered every time they opened their mouths.
He found himself at the park at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Brad grudgingly admitted that its steel construction was admirable, even if the tower was not actually useful for anything.
A Frenchman in black boxing gloves approached him. He asked sometihng of Brad. When Brad gave him a blank look and continued on, the man persisted.
"I don't speak your crazy moon language," Brad informed him.
"Ah, l'Anglais. You box?" he said, lifting his gloved fists into a guard pose to illustrate his point. Brad spared a moment at the thought of how this Frenchman had somehow stumbled into the perfect colloquial usage despite his no doubt crude understanding of English.
Brad looked at him. Since his humiliating defeat to Josh Nolan, he'd added physical training to his schedule. He nodded to the man. He didn't have anything better to do.
The Frenchman indicated a benchseat, which had a bag containing athletic gear seated upon it. Brad walked over and pulled on a fresh pair of boxing gloves.
He and the Frenchman went at it.
Block, swing, block. The one-twos flowed. Queensbury rules - no hitting below the belt. Makes things simple. Makes things safe. Brad narrowed his eyes and decided to teach this boxer a lesson in combat. He drew back and kicked the Parisian's leg. The Parisian saw it coming and landed a fist in Brad's face.
Brad jumped back and clutched his gloves to his face. "Fuck, it feels like you broke my nose!"
"Oui, c'est la France! We are the greatest, n'est-ce pas!"
"Has France *ever* won a war?" he asked rhetorically as he threw his gloves to the ground. He launched himself at his arrogant foe.
The Frenchman blocked, still grinning. "Vive la France!"
Brad was tackled from behind. Rough hands forced him face-first into the pavement. A rough voice interrogated him in French. "I DON'T SPEAK YOUR CRAZY MOON LANGUAGE!" Brad yelled.
Brad turned his head and saw his French foe likewise face-down on the concrete, a French policeman putting him in cuffs. He felt the cold metal ratchet around his own wrists. Brad felt a lightening of his load - the officer had found his SOCOM.
"You are under arrest." Brad waited.
The policeman pulled Brad to his feet.
"I have the right to remain silent..." Brad prompted.
The other officer spoke. "Oui, monsieur, you do."
"Anything I say..." Brad continued.
"Just get in the car."
They walked him to the patrolcar and shoved him and his foe in the back seat. The French prisoner was still grinning like a madman. Maybe he is, Brad thought. Great.
When they woke him from his sleep the next morning, Brad was expecting a dingy little room with an exposed light bulb and a steel desk. Instead he was shown into a comfortable-looking office with an honest-to-God window.
There were three men sitting behind the desk. The one on Brad's left rose and shook his hand. "Good morning Mr. Corletti. As you have no love for French, I am your interpreter. Many of our officers speak English, you understand, but it is important for clarity."
Brad nodded, but couldn't resist. "But I do love French. French is my favourite of all the dead languages." He got only blank stares.
The second man cleared his throat. "Mr. Corletti, you are in a great deal of trouble."
"That sparring match was fully consensual." The translator dutifully translated.
"We are not referring to that." He opened a desk drawer and put Brad's piece on the table. Mk23 SOCOM. .45 caliber. Matte black. The officer then pulled out the silencer and placed it beside the pistol.
"This is no ordinary pistol. What were you doing with it?"
Brad said nothing.
"We have no record of your arrival in this country. You carried no ID: The only reason we know your name is that we looked up your VISA details. Who are you working for?"
The Frenchmen stared at him.
"You will tell us, Mr. Corletti. If you do not, you will be charged with terrorism. It is that simple."