Whether the assailant knew Harry was following, he couldn't be sure. Ruth did not look back to see where he was, she did not call out or try to resist. If she were just an ordinary woman being kidnapped, that would be a bad idea. But Ruth was not an ordinary woman, and she was doing exactly what she should have done: keep her eyes open for an opportunity to escape and not let on that she knew Harry and that there was any reason to fear someone on their tail.
Ruth's captor led her out to the front of the airport where taxis were lined up for a whole city block. But he bypassed the cabs, for which Harry was quite grateful, and shoved Ruth into the back of a black Peugeot. Someone else was driving the car, obviously waiting for this man to bring Ruth to this very vehicle. And the car sped away.
Harry had to act fast. He could not lose them. He could not let Ruth slip away. He had to get to her, no matter what. And so he quickly memorized the plate of the car as it maneuvered through the heavy traffic. Harry leapt into action.
Someone in a blue Renault pulled up to the curb right beside Harry. Bloody French drove on the wrong side of the road, but Harry knew what he was doing. He went right up to the driver's door, demanded she get out, and subtly flashed his gun to properly get the point across. And he did it all in hideously pronounced French. He did not have time to get that proper guttural sound to the R's.
The driver of the car ran off to find some useless Parisian plod, shouting and ranting and whatever else. Again, Harry had no time for it. He got into the car on the left side and immediately pulled out into traffic.
The thought briefly entered his mind that the Home Secretary was going to have his head for this. Rogue mission to France, stealing a car, engaging in a chase with nothing more than a gun and a desperate need to rescue the woman he loved. Christ, it was like out of some bad romance novel.
But through some rather clever negotiations in traffic—it was the Parisian way, after all—Harry was able to catch up to his quarry. They'd left the chaos of the airport and got on the highway. Or whatever it was the French considered a highway. He did his best to keep the black Peugeot in sight, but it wasn't the most unique vehicle on the road. And Harry did not want to be spotted tailing it. He kept two or three cars back and changed lanes periodically to ensure that he was still following the right car. What he wouldn't have given to have Malcolm following on satellite right now. But in their haste, no such arrangements could be made.
The road they travelled on skirted the heart of Paris. Just as well, that sort of traffic would be unbearable and far too easy to lose chase. They'd gone about ten kilometers already, by Harry's judgement. He hoped it wasn't too much further. But he also reminded himself that Ruth's transportation was likely not the goal. They were taking her somewhere. And until they got her there, she'd be alive and safe. Harry just needed to hold on a little while longer. And pray to a nonexistent god that this stupid Renault had enough petrol to keep up.
On and on they drove. On and on the kilometers and the minutes ticked by. Then finally, the Peugeot slowed and took an exit. Harry did the same. He was now right behind them, though tried not to follow too closely.
The signs pointing the direction started to make him a little nervous. The Bois de Boulogne was not a place he wanted to go under these circumstances. But as they got closer, it became quite obvious that this was the ultimate destination.
Ruth was being taken out to the woods. And nothing good had ever happened when bad men took Ruth out to the woods.