"This kind of plot would be trashed by readers as too cliché if it were in a novel," Jack complained.
He took the "Viper" handed to him by Brian, checked it over once more, then slid it into his ankle holster. After pulling down his pant leg, he jumped in place a couple of times, confirming that it wasn't noticeable before finally exhaling in relief.
The "Vipers" in Jack and Brian's possession were all they had for their mission in France. To put it nicely, they were illegal immigrants; if their true identities were discovered, they could easily be treated as spies.
Castle had it a bit easier. He was, after all, a public figure, and his books had French translations. At worst, he'd just be deported.
"Gentlemen, I have orders to take you away." A major appeared at the doorway, his expression serious as he looked at the three of them.
——
"Thank you."
They were dropped off on a remote path. Jack shook hands with the unnamed major in gratitude, watching as the Renault truck turned around and drove off. Then, he turned to Brian.
The connections he could use had only gotten them this far. They were still about 200 kilometers from Paris—what happened next depended on Brian.
"It should be here any minute now." Brian glanced at his watch, his tone carrying an unusual hint of uncertainty.
As he spoke, a deep, droning engine sound came from the distance, like the kind often heard at an F1 racetrack. A cloud of dust rolled in as a white Peugeot 407 slowly decelerated toward them. A small "TAXI" sign sat atop the car.
"Jack managed to get an FBI transport plane, and you, a former CIA agent, got us... a taxi?" Castle's tone was a mix of surprise and disdain.
Brian looked helpless. "Jack said it was best not to alert the French authorities, so I contacted an old friend. He assured me this was the fastest way to get to Paris."
"Gentlemen, are you here for a trip to Paris? Not many tourists visit at this time of year—you've picked the perfect time. The roads will be clear."
A buzz-cut head poked out of the driver's window, his smile warm and enthusiastic.
Jack fell silent as he stared at the familiar face. If he wasn't mistaken, shouldn't this guy be cruising the streets of Marseille? And wasn't the timeline off?
The first movie of that French racing film series was released before the year 2000, right? Yet here stood a barely twenty-something Daniel. The chaotic timeline of this world was giving Jack a headache.
"What are we waiting for? We don't have much time," Castle impatiently yanked open the front passenger door, ready to get in—only to be stopped by Jack.
"Uh, you'd better sit in the back," Jack said, not out of a need to have a seat to himself, but simply out of kindness.
The Taxi series got progressively worse as it went on, and Jack hadn't watched them all. But from what he remembered, the only person who ever rode in this guy's car without throwing up was Sylvester Stallone—and even then, he had sat in the back.
"You're all American tourists?" Hearing their conversation in English, Daniel eagerly switched to heavily accented English.
"Yes. We're in a hurry—please get us to Paris as fast as possible." As soon as Castle got in, he handed over a wad of US dollars.
"Ugh." Jack, who had just shut the passenger door, slapped a hand over his face.
"Please fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen." Daniel's eyes gleamed as he clutched the thick stack of bills. He reached under the dashboard and pulled a lever, revealing a dense array of switches and buttons.
Jack sighed and resigned himself to his fate, fastening his seatbelt. Honestly, if there was going to be a high-speed chase, he preferred to be the one behind the wheel.
As Daniel flipped the switches, four pneumatic jacks lifted the car, its oversized wheels extending outward. The front end transformed, revealing an aerodynamic bumper, while a spoiler deployed from the trunk.
"What the hell is that noise?" Castle jumped at the series of mechanical sounds, glancing around nervously, trying to figure out what was happening.
"Shouldn't we have some music?" Seeing Daniel pull out a racing-style steering wheel to replace the original, Jack figured they might as well embrace the mood.
A peppy guitar riff began to play. The taxi's engine roared with a deep, guttural growl that no Peugeot 407 should have. The instant they took off, all four passengers' heads were slammed back into their headrests by the sheer force of acceleration.
In Jack's past-life memories, the Black Eyed Peas' Pump It was as iconic for racing scenes as Sandstorm and the Knight Rider theme. No matter which of the three played, his mind would automatically conjure images of roaring engines and screeching tires.
"Actually, we're not in that much of a hurry. No need to lose your license over speeding." Castle shielded his eyes with a hand, trying his best to ignore the scenery flashing past the windows at terrifying speeds.
He could swear that the thing they just blew past was a French police speed camera—knocked clean off its post.
"Don't worry. I don't have a license." Daniel's grin was dazzling.
Castle wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but the moment he heard that, whatever hope he had left completely crumbled. One hand gripped the door handle, while the other clutched his seatbelt like his life depended on it.
Daniel wasn't done teasing him. "Relax, sir. We're not even on the highway yet. Once we are, I can finally shift into second gear."
Just then, a railway track came into view, stretching far into the distance. A Eurostar train sped along the rails at high speed.
Peeking through his fingers, Castle cautiously glanced out the window—then did a double take. The high-speed train seemed to be moving backward. He looked ahead at the direction of the taxi.
"Wait, is that a bullet train?"
"Yep, that's right. Beautiful, isn't it? It takes corners really well, but when it comes to straightaways, it's a bit slow."
Hearing such blasphemous words, Castle's trembling hands traced the sign of the cross over his chest.
Jack had his own experiences with high-speed chases, but his usual method was to ram criminals off the road and call it a day. Driving at full throttle for nearly 200 kilometers was a first for him. Traveling broadens the mind, indeed.
"44 minutes and 35 seconds. Enjoy your stay in Paris!"
The taxi skidded to a stop, leaving behind two long tire marks. In front of the rear seats, two motion-sickness bags automatically popped out.
"Ugh." There was no in-flight meal on the military transport plane, so Castle had nothing to throw up. He dry-heaved several times, spitting out bitter stomach acid.
Daniel fumbled to pull out a plastic bag, intending to hand it to Jack in the passenger seat—only to meet his smile instead.
"Nice skills. We should swap techniques sometime."
Daniel looked toward the back in confusion and found that Brian seemed completely unaffected as well. Then, his gaze landed on Castle. Satisfied with what he saw, he grinned.
"You two are amazing! Usually, no one ever makes it through a ride with me without throwing up."
______
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