Sydney
Blue and I get home from our walk, and the tall French doors in my living room are open, the long curtains shifting in the breeze.
I did not leave them open.
We stop in the entryway, and I lay my keys quietly down on the pier table—where I've placed them every time we've come home from our walk for the past two months. We’ve lived an idyllic life in this small village but it appears to be coming to an end.
Blue sniffs the air. His hackles rise, but he does not growl. We don't want them to realize we know they’re here. Adrenaline slowly seeps into my veins. I've missed this. Calm washes over me as I follow Blue's gaze toward the bedroom.
Should I just leave? My hand finds my stomach—bulged with new life. A small movement inside me pulls my attention, but I quickly refocus on the problem at hand.
They may expect me to leave and have a second operative in the hall.
I let the front door close behind us and walk casually to the balcony, as an attacker might anticipate I'd do. Otherwise, why leave the doors open? It's either to scare me away or tempt me in.
I step through the curtains. A long, metal pole sticks out from the next balcony over, a part of the construction project. Reaching out, I take hold of it, pulling it to my side.
It's about six inches shorter than me, the circumference just wide enough for my hand to close around it. It is heavier than my normal fighting staff with ragged, sharp ends, but will do just fine. Blue sits by my side as I take a deep breath. A movement in the living room behind the curtains draws me forward.
I step into the space, the pole held lightly in my right hand.
A man wearing a black balaclava aims his gun at my head. The pistol is silenced, the barrel elongated. He holds it with both hands. His bulky sweatshirt is tight across the bulging muscles of his arms but loose at his stomach. The opening of his mask frames a dark beard and full lips. Balaclava's shoulders are wide, his waist narrow, his worn denim jeans hug his legs all the way down to running shoes. Should have run when he had the chance.
Balaclava's lips begin to tilt up into a smile. I drop low, swing the pole out, and let it slip through my fingers. The long, thin weapon sails through the air inches from the floor.
Blue coils his body, a growl rumbling his chest.
The pole strikes Balaclava's ankle, letting out a soft ring. A church bell outside begins its mid-day tolling as he cries out and begins to fall. He fires on the way down, and the light on the ceiling explodes, raining glass. Blue uncoils, thrusting with his back legs, aiming for Balaclava's gun arm, his jaw wide. As they meet midair, Blue latches onto Balaclava's arm and speeds his descent.
The bell tolls a second time.
Balaclava hits the floor with enough force to shake the building. I follow the pole, snatching it up, twirling it around my waist and over my shoulder, using the momentum to strike hard onto Balaclava's gun wrist, close to where Blue's teeth dig into his forearm but a safe distance from the dog's face.
The bell tolls.
Balaclava's hand goes limp, and the gun slips free. I kick it away, so that it skitters toward the curtains, which are still dancing in the wind. A knife glints in Balaclava's free hand. "Off," I command Blue, who leaps back as the man strikes out, hitting empty air instead of Blue's flank.
The bell tolls.
I drag the tip of the pole across the floor, scratching a line in the wood with the sharp edge. It’s now well positioned to strike again, well before he could reach me with his knife. Balaclava's eyes rise to meet mine. "Who sent you?" I ask.
The bell tolls.
His breath comes in deep, heavy pants as he lays on his side, his wounded arm outstretched, the wrist swelling, blood seeping from the holes in his dark sweatshirt. His good arm—the one with the knife—stays tense and ready. Balaclava shifts, as if to stand. I shake my head. He stills.
The bell tolls.
Blue circles to his back, putting himself between the front door and Balaclava. My back is to the French doors leading to the balcony. "Is there someone in the hall?" I ask quietly. Balaclava doesn’t answer. The skin around his eyes is tight—probably from the pain of his injured arm.
The bell tolls.
Balaclava drops the knife; it clatters next to him. He opens his palm, raising his hand, giving up. What should I do with him? "Lie on your stomach, both arms out."
The bell tolls.
Blood smears across the floor as Balaclava retracts his injured arm. His shoulder tenses as his hand disappears under him and he begins to shift his hips to lay on his stomach.
Blue growls a warning. When Balaclava’ hurt hand comes out the other side, he's got a new gun—must have been under his sweatshirt. One quick step and my foot connects with his stomach hard enough to flip him back, so that he lies on his injured arm, trapping the new weapon under him.
The bell tolls.
I step over him, straddling his waist, holding the staff like a tightrope walker. Balaclava struggles, his eyes wild now; he's trying to get his arm out from under his own weight, but between the bites and the swollen wrist, he’s struggling.
On my exhale, I use my shoulders and the strength in my abdominals to spin the staff tip into the side of his head. His lights go out.
The bell tolls.
I reach down and drag his arm out, capturing the small pistol, then step back, my balance faltering as I slip in a slick of blood. I stumble and reach out, finding the wall for support.
The bell tolls.
I press my back up against it and drop the pole. It clatters on the floor and rolls a foot away. I bring my hand up to cradle the small bulge at my belly. My gaze focuses on the still-open balcony doors. Broken glass litters the floor, glinting in the bright sun pouring into the room.
My breath comes in deep drags. Blue touches his nose to my hip. "Careful of the glass, boy," I say, laying a hand on his head and looking down at him. My fingers leave smears of blood on the white fur at the crown of his head.
The final bell tolls. It's noon.
"We better get cleaned up." My eyes land on the broom, leaning where I left it by the balcony door this morning. The apartment gets dusty from the construction.
Footfalls on the stairs pull a new low growl from Blue's throat and send a fresh wave of adrenaline through me. No time for cleanup.
Blue nudges my hip again. I click the safety on the small pistol and shove it into the waistband of my jeans. Kicking the glass aside, I walk out onto the balcony; Blue follows in my wake. I blink in the sunshine, then look down on the dark street below, shaded by the medieval houses—narrow and quiet.
Pressing my lips together, I release the sweet, brief dream of normalcy. Violence always wakes me from this fantasy.
I'm not normal. I never will be.
My hand swipes briefly at my belly before gripping the edge of the balcony. I vault over it, dropping to a narrow roof ledge below. Blue launches himself after me, his claws scrambling for purchase. I grip his collar, steadying him. We move along the roof until we are over another neighbor’s balcony.
Crouching, turning and gripping the edge, I lower myself down and drop the last six inches onto the balcony. Blue lands lightly next to me.
A scream from above. Ah, must have been the landlady on the stairs, not another assassin. Sorry, Ms. Friendly...
The French doors leading into the neighbor’s apartment stand open, the interior shielded by flowing curtains and shadow. I don't hear any noise inside. Sirens wail in the distance.
Pushing through the curtains, Blue and I enter a living room. Two couches face each other. A TV is mounted on the wall. Kids’ toys litter the floor. A wet diaper lies on the coffee table. The front door is to my right.
Blue's ears twitch in the direction of the hallway to the left. I listen. A woman is singing, probably putting her baby down for a nap. We move quietly toward the front door. I open it slowly, easing it on well-oiled hinges. My eyes catch on the low table by the door. Next to a sippy cup and a half-eaten sandwich are a set of car keys.
Blue nudges me to keep moving. I swipe the keys and step into the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind us and releasing a breath.
The apartment building hallway smells like a mix of roast chicken and coffee—staples for any well-lived life. We make it to the front door, and I ease the thick door open, peering out onto the street. The sirens are closer but not here yet. There are no vehicles parked on the street. Where does she keep her car? The sirens’ increasing volume urges me out the door.
Blue and I move onto the sidewalk and jog quickly down the block. I take the first turn I can—a right—and climb the narrow steps. My sneakers make hardly any noise on the ancient stone. Above us, laundry flaps outside windows bracketed by wooden shutters. So picturesque.
I take a left and move down a side street too narrow for cars. The sky above is bright blue, but the lane is shaded and cool. The sirens closer still.
We are headed up the hill that the village is built on, toward the cathedral. A door opens and a middle-aged woman with dark hair, carrying empty grocery bags steps out, calling back into the apartment before dashing into the street, almost knocking into us. She apologizes and smiles. I shrug and act like I'm not spattered with blood.
The shopper’s eyes catch on it, and her face pales. I put both hands up in a shit happens gesture. "I'm okay," I say.
Shopper's eyebrows bunch. "Do you need help?" she asks in accented English.
Yes. "No," I say.
Her eyes narrow. "Come." She takes my arm, and before I can protest, Blue and I are in her living room. A clock on the mantel ticks. Dust motes dance in spears of sunlight. An elderly woman, a blanket over her shoulders, smiles at us from the couch. A film over her eyes suggests her vision is impaired.
"Your man?" the woman asks as she tugs me through to a kitchen. It's narrow and runs the length of the back of the house. It has worn Formica countertops and the Lilliputian appliances of Europe—it's cute and homey and tugs at my heart. I shouldn't be here. I'm not good like this woman. She thinks I'm a victim... I'm the monster who goes bump in the night.
Shopper wets a cloth under the tap and glances up at me, raising a brow. "A man," I answer her question honestly. The woman clicks her tongue against her teeth and nods. She knows about the violence of men.
"I am Maria," she says, turning off the tap and wringing out the cloth.
Maria is about my height with a thickness that suggests health and strength. Her woolen waist-high slacks look well made. The blouse she's wearing has a bow at the neck, the peachy color a beautiful shade against her coppery skin.
She steps up to me, her eyes focusing on my face. Maria holds up the dish cloth as if to question if she can wipe at my face. I nod. Her eyes narrow as she dabs my cheek. I suck in a breath when she touches a gash I didn't even realize was there. Must have been from the light fixture shattering.
I close my eyes, fighting back tears. Not from the pain. From the tenderness. Her finger brushes my nose, and I open my eyes to find her smiling at me.
"You are good," she says.
The tears escape, rushing free as I shake my head. "I'm not." The words tumble out on a sob that bows my body. Suddenly I'm in this stranger’s arms. She holds me tight, rocking. Maria rubs my back. I curl into her, desperate for the comfort. For the tenderness.
When the storm passes, I pull away and let out a choked laugh. "I'm sorry," I say, brushing at my eyes. "I can't believe I just did that."
Damn pregnancy hormones. But the thought doesn’t have any power behind it. I'm broken right now but lighter.
Maria smiles at me, as if she's been standing where I stand now. As if we have a shared past, a shared experience. But this woman is not a killer. She is a survivor.
"You are good," she says again. It makes my chin wobble. Maria turns to the sink, rewetting the cloth before focusing on me again. She cleans my face. Then her eyes drop to my clothing, and she does the tongue-clicking sound. "Come," she says. "I give you clothing."
I open my mouth to protest, but she is already moving. I look down at Blue. He meets my gaze; then his attention turns to Maria, already through to the living room.
I follow.
She dresses me in a pair of wool pants and a blouse; they are loose but fit well enough. I keep my sneakers and the small pistol. Before we leave I text Anita and Lenox. They give me the address of a safe house in Paris. Maria loops her arm through mine as we step out onto the street.
Tires squeal and a police car slides to a stop at the bottom of the street. Pulling free from Maria, I break into a sprint, Blue at my heel, racing up the hill. But another police car appears at the top of the road, officers pouring out the door, yelling for me to freeze.
I turn back, catching Maria's gaze. Her eyes are wide, her mouth forming a small O of surprise. I’m not the victim she thought I was.
But it was self-defense. I raise my hands slowly. I'm a tourist who was attacked in her apartment. Nothing more and nothing less.