"Even if this plot were written into a novel, readers would scorn it as too clichéd," Jack complained.
He took the Viper Brian handed him, inspected it once more, and tucked it into his ankle holster. He lowered his trouser leg and hopped around a bit, only to breathe a sigh of relief when he confirmed there was nothing wrong.
Jack and Brian, each holding a Viper, were their only means of survival in France. To put it mildly, they were currently illegal immigrants. If their true identities were discovered, they could be mistaken for spies.
Cassel might fare better; after all, he was a public figure, and his books were available in French translations. At most, he'd be deported.
"Gentlemen, I have orders to escort you." A major appeared at the door, looking sternly at the three men.
—
"Thank you."
After being dropped off on a secluded road, Jack shook hands with the unnamed major, thanked him, watched the Renault truck turn and drive away, and then turned to Brian.
The connections he could muster could only get them here. The three of them were still nearly 200 kilometers from Paris, so the next step was up to him.
"We should be there soon," Brian checked the time, a rare hint of uncertainty in his tone.
As he spoke, a distant humming sound, similar to the dull engine rumble often heard at Formula One racetracks, was accompanied by a cloud of dust. A white Peugeot 407 slowly slowed down and approached the three of them, a small "TAXI" sign on its roof.
"Jack, the FBI can even get a military transport plane, and you, a former CIA agent, called a taxi just for us?" Cassel's face was filled with surprise and a hint of disdain.
Brian looked helpless. "Jack said it was best not to alert the French authorities, so I contacted an old friend, and he assured me this is the fastest way to get to Paris."
"Gentlemen, are you traveling to Paris? There aren't many tourists in Paris at this time, so you've come at a good time. The roads will be relatively empty."
A man with a shaved head poked out the driver's window, a warm smile on his face.
Jack fell silent as he stared at the familiar face. If he remembered correctly, shouldn't this person be on the streets of Marseille? And the timing didn't seem to match.
The first installment of a certain French racing movie was released before 2000. Looking at the protagonist, Daniel, who was no more than in his early twenties, he couldn't help but feel a headache about the chaotic timeline of the world.
"What are you waiting for? We don't have much time." Cassel eagerly opened the passenger door and tried to get in, but Jack held out a hand to stop him.
"Uh, you'd better sit in the back." Jack wasn't necessarily seeking a seat all to himself; he was simply being kind.
The Taxi series had gotten worse and worse, and he certainly hadn't seen them all, but he remembered the only person who didn't vomit in that car was Sylvester Stallone, and even he only sat in the back seat.
"Are you all American tourists?" Daniel asked enthusiastically in his broken English, hearing they were speaking.
"Yes, we're in a hurry. Please get us to Paris as quickly as you can." Cassel handed over a wad of US dollars as soon as he got in the car.
"Ugh!" Jack, who had just closed the passenger door, slapped his face.
"Fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen," Daniel said, his eyes gleaming as he clutched a thick wad of dollars. He reached under the dashboard, revealing a dense network of switches and buttons.
Jack sighed and resignedly fastened his seatbelt. Honestly, when it came to racing, he preferred the feel of the steering wheel in his own hands.
As Daniel flipped a switch, four pneumatic jacks slowly lifted the car, large wheels automatically extending to either side. The front of the car transformed into a modified bumper with a slatted grille, and a rear spoiler extended from the trunk.
"What's that?" Cassel was startled by the series of mechanical sounds and glanced around nervously, trying to figure out what was going on.
"Don't you want to put on some music?" Seeing someone had already pulled a racing steering wheel from under the seat, replacing the original one, Jack figured since he was already there, he might as well go all out.
Accompanied by a brisk guitar twang, the taxi's engine erupted with a muffled sound that didn't belong in a Peugeot 407. Almost the moment it took off, the four occupants' heads were simultaneously pressed against the headrests by a massive force.
In Jack's past life, the Black Eyed Peas' "Pump It" was a racing anthem, as captivating as the opening theme songs for "Prawn Man" and "Knight Rider." Hearing any of these three songs would automatically conjure up images of the roar of racing engines and the squeal of tires against the road.
"Actually, we're not in that much of a hurry. There's no need to risk your license for speeding," Cassel said, shielding his eyes with his hand, trying not to look at the scenery whizzing by outside.
He could swear the guy who had just been hit by a French police speed gun was a speed trap.
"Don't worry, I don't have a license," Daniel said with a brilliant smile.
Cassel didn't know he was joking. Hearing this, his heart finally dropped. He clutched the handrail with one hand, tightly gripping his seatbelt with the other.
Daniel continued to tease him, "Don't worry, sir. We haven't even reached the highway yet. Once we do, I'll be able to shift into second gear."
Then, a railway line stretched out to the side of the road, and a Eurostar train sped along the tracks.
Peeking out the window through his fingers, Cassel glanced in disbelief at the train that seemed to be slowly moving backward, then glanced back at the direction the taxi was heading.
"Wait, is that a bullet train?"
"Yes, that's right. It's a beautiful train, isn't it? It's very fast around corners, but a little slower in straight lines."
Hearing this outrageous statement, Cassel crossed himself with a trembling hand.
Jack also raced, but usually just stopped a criminal and was done with him. He was a pretty good driver, but this was his first time racing at high speed for nearly 200 kilometers. It really took a lot of travel to broaden your horizons.
"44 minutes and 35 seconds. Have fun in Paris!" Two long skid marks were left behind, and two vomit bags automatically popped out from the backrest in front of the rear seat.
"Ugh!" Military transport planes apparently didn't offer in-flight meals, and Cassel had nothing to vomit, so he dry-heaved several times.
Daniel frantically pulled out a plastic bag and tried to hand it to Jack in the passenger seat, only to be met with a smile. "Nice technique! Let's exchange ideas sometime."
He glanced back, puzzled, and saw that Brian didn't seem to react. It wasn't until he saw Cassel's expression that he smiled with satisfaction and began to praise him earnestly.
"You two are amazing! Normally, every time I stop the car, no passenger can resist."
(End of Chapter)