Paris
They say Hemingway raised a glass or two in the cafes along the Boulevard du Montparnasse.
And me? All I’m planning on raising is hell.
Sweet lord, I can’t believe it. That misguided jerk shot at me. Twice. How could he? I bared my soul to him. Allowed him to slip inside my body and my heart. Believed in him . . . us. That we’d find a way to be together. Settle into a quaint little house with a white picket fence and daisies and butterflies and sex so damn hot there’d be no need for a furnace.
Wrong-a-mundo.
It’s war, baby. Payback’s going to be a sweet bitch.
I slow my pace, fairly certain I’ve lost him yet wisely on edge. Jaxson has a penchant for the unpredictable, his being alive being the best example of this.
How in the holy hell did he find me?
Despite the danger, I run the risk of sticking to the boulevard, hopeful that Novák’s men will show up for our surprised-I’m-not-surprised rendezvous. This time I’m walking away with some useful information.
Reaching out, I wipe the dust off a windowpane and stare at my reflection. Getting used to the new me, which looks very much like the old me, only with shorter hair. Skinnier despite my sweet tooth. And wiser—I hope. “It’s you and me, Kylie.” Unlike any normal person with her head on straight, I shoot myself a grin at my words, one that’d rival one of Jaxson’s smug let’s-play smirks . . . what I’d give to see once more . . .
My grin fades.
Damn him for being a clever, stupid man-of-oh-so-little-faith.
Without thinking, I draw the letter J on the dirty windowpane, marking it just like he’d marked my body. The exact moment I knew I was a goner, falling recklessly but madly in love with him.
What happened to us?
I blink, bringing myself back to my hard, cold reality. Quickly, I draw a perfect rectangle around the J, then use the back of my hand to clear the letter along with the grime inside the shape away. My version of a peephole.
Once inside the cafe, I spy a few open tables with a clear view outside. Perfect.
My wait begins. While the waiter prepares my cafe and ham sandwich with butter, I remove Jaxson’s gun from my satchel and tuck it into the hem of my full-length, boho-style skirt. My eyebrows form a deep V as I remember the bland white T-shirt I’ve paired with it. Guess I’m due for a wardrobe upgrade. I mean, as far as Jaxson’s concerned, one badass T-shirt isn’t going to be the red flag that draws him to me, right? The reality is, he seems to be doing a bang-up job of that all by himself.
I pause to contemplate the question of the day: How did he find me in a city of millions? But am interrupted by the waiter, who places my order before me on the small, red tablecloth–covered table.
I give him a friendly nod then ask, “More butter, s’il vous plait.”
He raises his eyebrows and huffs away. I roll my eyes and bite into my sandwich, finishing half of it before the waiter returns with a plate of butter.
And a butter knife, which is what I’m really after.
Perfect timing, because two men have just strolled past the cafe, and as luck would have it, I recognize the big-bellied Prick.
Coincidence? Not really. Not after my brief call to Francis, in which I revealed my current location. My former partner might be a low-down, dirty mealworm, yet he’s a predictable worm, with his motives being the only shady thing about him. My worm to manipulate. My way of luring the Pricks out into the sunshine.
I toss far too many euros on the table than what my surly waiter deserves, roll my sandwich in a napkin, tuck it safely inside my satchel, then calmly finish my cafe before heading off to a hard day’s work.
Pedestrians act as a buffer between me and the Pricks ahead. I follow them up the busy boulevard and down a side street. Never once did they look over their shoulders. I’m impossible to spot. And besides, they’re searching for a redhead.
I catch my reflection in another storefront windowpane. Damn, I rock Malibu blond. It’s not until we hit a break in the shops, cafes, and hurried pedestrians do the Pricks stop and look around.
I lower my chin and pretend to be scoping the heel of my brown scrappy sandal for some infamous Parisian dog shit. Mercifully, there is none, and my actions haven’t drawn their attention.
No. Don’t. Look. Up. Damn it. I glance up in time to see Big-Belly taking out a long steel pipe. He jams the end of it into the sidewalk and pries open a manhole. Then both men disappear inside.
I casually approach the crooked cover. Tapping my foot, I count to fifty. Well, twenty really—doing so using my sketchy French, which takes me just as long. People pass me by without a second glance, even when I’m crouched down and digging my stolen butter knife into the crease between the manhole and the sidewalk. Fortunately, they haven’t put it properly back into place—a sign it’s likely they’ll exit the same way as it’s fairly easy to remove.
With a momentary pause to secure my satchel against my body, I descend out of the lightness and into the darker side of Paris. Into les Catacombes.
The metal ladder leads me deep underground. Much further down than I anticipated, and for a short spell everything is pitch black. I didn’t expect this—that Prick Novák’s headquarters might be located in the bowels of Paris. If I did, I’d have brought a flashlight. I grit my teeth and keep climbing downward. The matches I took off the bar on my way out of the cafe will have to be enough.
Except it turns out I don’t need them.
As I take my final step off the ladder, pass through a wide, arched entryway, and peer around the enormous yet vacant space, my jaw drops open. It’s like being admitted to a secretive world of craftsmen and artists, the shady sister of the Louvre. A rich, vibrant museum of the underworld. As far as the eye can see, the walls of the room are covered with artwork. Painting upon painting, mural upon mural, graffiti art upon graffiti art of stunning, elaborately detailed masterpieces.
The space is illuminated by lights secured to both the walls and by an enormous chandelier dangling midceiling. Somewhere, there’s a generator powering the place.
To my glee, there’s not a bone in sight, which is what decorate the catacombs, piles and piles of centuries-old bones, the remains of Paris’s past.
Or present—if Novák has indeed set up shop down here.
No lovers. Not a single smooching, smiling couple. Not in any artwork. Not in the flesh, either. Thank you, sweet mother Mary. I feel like fist-pumping the air.
I’m searching the large, rectangular-shaped space for another exit that Big-Belly and Company could have taken when I hear a noise from behind me. Footsteps coming from the small room just outside the entryway. Someone’s climbed down from the manhole. Turning, I press my back against the side wall, situating myself between a melancholy scene of cows frolicking in the countryside and a pierced-nosed, Mohawk-coiffed portrait of two punk rockers. Long live the mother-lovin’ queen.
With the butter knife drawn and ready, I wait for the Prick to appear. Then frown, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me, because I hear no further footsteps.
Cautiously, I approach the grand archway. Whoever—whatever it is . . . an animal? . . . ghost of a dead Parisian?—is gone.
But where?
Exiting, I look around the smaller room until I spy three steps leading up to a hole that’s barely large enough for Big-Belly to squeeze through. Where else could he have disappeared to?
Doubtful I’m making the right decision, I push my satchel through the hole then crawl in behind it. Fortunately, it’s a small tunnel that gives way to one large enough to stand inside.
It’s far too dark for comfort. I pause and listen. Nothing. Crap, I’m going to have to take a walk on the dark side.
I blindly make my way through the tunnel, running my fingertips along the wall, counting my steps and cautiously creeping forward. There’s a gap in the wall. Another tunnel, though I stay on the straight and narrow.
Something runs across my sandal and I bite back a scream.
With my next step, my right foot submerges into water. Right up to my ankle. Ew. I immediately shift backward, shaking my head with disappointment.
I can’t continue any further. Not without the proper preparations, namely a flashlight and a map of the tunnels. How easy it’d be to get lost, to disappear off the face of the earth and become just another catacombs casualty?
Hell, I’m not even sure this is the direction Novák’s men have taken.
I turn and begin my retreat, my fingertips grazing the wall as I recount my steps backward.
That’s when the catacomb turns into a theme-park freak feast.
A familiar buzzing sound ricochets off the limestone. A bullet . . . shit.
I forget my step count and high-step it out of there. Running like the devil’s on my heels back toward the exit.
It’s unclear whether that bullet had my name on it or not.
What is clear by the sloshing sound of water is that whoever fired it or whoever it was intended for is on the move as well.
I find the hole, army-crawl through it, and scamper up the ladder toward the light seeping through three holes punched into the manhole cover.
I reach the top, and with a sharp inhalation of relief, push up against the cover.
It doesn’t budge.
Balancing myself on the ladder, I try to lift it with both hands.
Shit. Oh shit.
My heart speeds up, racing harder than it had during my sprint. I bite my lip, thinking . . . thinking . . .
I remove the butter knife from the waist of my skirt and with a scowl, slice into the material. Cursing myself for not ordering a steak with fries and subsequently stealing a sharp steak knife instead of this worthless bit of metal. Impatient and growing more frantic by the moment, I jam my finger into the hole I’ve created and rip my skirt.
There we go.
Quickly, I remove the lid off the hydrogen peroxide and dip the long piece of boho cotton into the bottle, giving three-fourths of it a good soak before replacing the lid and dropping the bottle back into my satchel.
Wedging the soaked end into the space between the cover and the sidewalk, I then loop the soaked material into the three holes, careful to leave the dry end dangling free.
Risky. But whoever fired that bullet ruined any advantage I had. I’ve got to get out of here, pronto.
I light a match and hold the flame beneath the material until it takes.
Time to blow.
As fast as my legs can carry me, I retreat back down the ladder. Praying whoever is behind me hasn’t reached the ladder yet.
Halfway down, the manhole explodes. I throw myself against the side of the chute, my arms overhead blocking any falling debris.
But instead of debris, blessed light fills the chute.
Bingo, baby.
The ladder abruptly shakes.
I hear yelling—“I’m going to kill you”—in a thick accent. Big-Belly? But I don’t wait around to find out.
I haul ass back up the ladder. Ignoring how the ladder shakes from whoever is behind me. Mindless of my fear of not reaching the top before I’m overtaken. I focus on the defensive . . . if he grabs my ankle and attempts to pull me off the ladder, I’ll drop my satchel on his head. Sure, it’s only a few pounds at best, but hey, gravity is on my side.
To my relief, I reach sidewalk level. Hauling my body out of the manhole, I army-crawl forward, adjust the gun at my waist, and scramble to my knees.
“Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” the crowd gathered rumbles, worriedly.
Someone nudges my shoulder. “Tout va bien?”
My elderly nudger stares at me, disapprovingly. Reading right through the victim-of-circumstance act I’m projecting. Her arms fold across her body, expectantly. No matter the language barrier, her message is clear. I know it was you who blew up this hole. “Tout va bien?” she repeats, her tone harsh and full of reprimand. Yeah, I’ve been down this road before.
I plaster a faux smile on my face. Bien means well . . . is she asking me if I am well? “Just dandy.”
I will be, once I beat it the hell outta here.
“What happened?” the smaller man next to her asks, waving wildly at the smoky manhole and its mangled, twisted cover. This crowd is going to be in for the surprise of a lifetime when whoever’s following me pops his head up through the hole.
Time to go.
But first I address the concerned crowd. Pursing my lips together, I blow out my best rendition of a P-huff and shrug. “Oops. Pas le Metro.”