ALTHOUGH THEY CAME from different directions, the three police cars descended on the Gare de Limoges-Benedictins, the train station, almost at the same time, pulling up abruptly at varying angles in the area usually reserved for taxis. The six officers drew their weapons and fanned out, four of them heading inside the station and two staying outside.309Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn8q1xSkOd8
The lead patrol officer, a man named Nason, walked so briskly it was almost a jog, his gun down at his side, his other hand clutching his cell phone, which displayed a photo of Mischa Barton that the prison had just flashed over. Nason watched as a handful of bleary-eyed passengers walked in his direction, toward the main exit. They were carrying overnight bags or pulling suitcases behind them.
They'd just arrived.
Right. The overnight train. These people had come from London, or Paris, and disembarked at Limoges.
"Come on," he shouted to his partner. They raced toward the train tracks. A few people were strolling in front of them but they quickly split up as they heard the urgent footsteps of the officers running.309Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡimJWT5oVsG
"Nason," his radio blared from his belt. It was one of the officers who had stayed outside, calling out to him in French. "The car is parked right outside. AA-354-AA."309Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1Knx5mJ31u
"She's on that train," Nason mumbled as he reached the staircase.309Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCaLdn6ZMjV
Just as he heard the train pulling away.309Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDlWwZwHaBN
He took the stairs two at a time, hit the bottom, and, from the platform, watched the rear of the train as it rolled down the tracks.309Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIKEdNXjyjO
