Excerpt:

Prologue

A thin waft of grey smoke twisted and curled in the cold air before gently dispersing at the peeling paint of the ceiling. Dust and mist and cigarette smoke mingled, safe from the torrential rain, sheltered in the porch of an appartment block cloned from a building repeated all over the 18ieme arrondissement.

Sharing this shelter - and producing the smoke - a woman stood, little more than a teenager really. Her dark hair was bundled into the hood of a charcoal grey sports jacket bearing the emblem of some company with sweat shops in four different continents. Her dark jeans and dirty, scuffed runners made her unremarkable. In her left hand she twisted a cigarette and her right dug in her pocket for a mobile phone. Just about to dial in the number, she paused at the sound of squealing brakes and gunfire.

An old Citroen - complete with spoilers and chipped, metallic paint - careened around the corner. Windows smashed and lights broken. Another car, red, followed rapidly. A man stood, head and arms out of the sunroof, firing at the Citroen with a semi-automatic and roaring at the occupants of his own car.

She hardly blinked. Violence was rife in the city, with apathetic police and unemployment growing. Looking back down to her phone, she quickly punched in the number she wanted. Pressing the little green button, she held the mobile up to her ear and prayed for an answer.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three-

'Hello?'

'I need a lift.'