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before he committed to his true course.
    The bench and walking path were exactly where Rapp expected them to be. He crossed the path and turned left, his feet barely making a noise as they moved lightly along the asphalt. His lungs and legs were working fine, carrying him at quick clip toward a spot he had scouted out a few days earlier. Just before he reached the bridge the first wave of pain hit him. It came rolling in, building in intensity until it hit, throbbed, and then diminished. Rapp resisted the urge to touch his shoulder and assess the damage. He could feel the slick wetness under his shirt and that told him enough. The wound was somewhere in his left shoulder, which meant he should be able to handle it unless it had hit his axillary artery. If that were the case, he would most likely lose consciousness and bleed out in the next few minutes.
    Up ahead he sighted the low-slung bridge with its curved stone arches. Rapp suddenly couldn’t remember its name, which made him wonder if his brain wasn’t getting enough blood. He slowed his pace and left the path. The crunch of dirt and gravel under his feet told him he had found the foot-worn trail. He followed it slowly to the south embankment of the river and the base of the bridge. The ledge was no more than three feet wide. Rapp paused and peered down the length of it. There was just enough light from the city bouncing off the water to see that he was alone. He ducked under the curved arch and crouched his way to the middle. He sat down on the ledge, his feet dangling a few feet above the water of the Seine.
    Out of habit, Rapp moved to switch his silenced Berretta from his right hand to his left so he could holster it, but his left hand did not respond in the way he would have liked. He managed to move it a few inches and then a stabbing pain told him it was a bad idea. Rapp cursed under his breath and then set the gun down on the ledge next to him. Using his teeth, Rapp tugged off the glove on his right hand, finger by finger, and dropped the glove next to the gun. He opened his jacket and then undid the next two buttons on his shirt. His hand slid over the rough fabric of his bulletproof vest and found his bare shoulder soaked in blood. A wave of pain peaked and he bit down hard. As the surge passed his index finger found what he was looking for—the exit wound. Rapp breathed a sigh of relief. The bullet had gone all the way through and the hole was no bigger than the tip of his finger. If it had been a hollow-tipped round the exit wound would have been much bigger and the damage far worse.
    Reaching around his back, he found the entry wound and sensed there was less blood, but it was hard to tell. He unfastened the small pack around his waist and opened the med kit. His fingers found a small pen flashlight. Rapp placed it against his thigh and turned it on. Satisfied that the red filter was affixed, he placed the small flashlight in his teeth and found the first of four syringes. He popped the cap, letting it fall into the river, and then, pressing the plunger, he soaked his shoulder in iodine.
    Rapp looked at the next syringe for a second and hesitated. He had gone over this in theory, but now, sitting here bleeding, he began to realize just how much it was going to hurt. Before he did that, though, he had to plug the hole. He tore open a package of gauze and started feeding it into the entry wound on the back of his shoulder. The pain was more manageable than he’d expected, but this would be the easy part. When he was done, he picked up the next syringe and dropped that cap into the river as well. Grabbing his left wrist, Rapp brought it up and hooked the hand’s fingers around his jacket and shirt, exposing the exit wound, and then let the limp arm hang there. Not wanting to think about the next move any longer than he needed to, he placed the tip of the plastic syringe into the exit hole, took a deep breath and then shoved the needle in as far as it would