Paris
Of all the gin joints, in all the towns in Oklahoma and beyond, on that miserably rainy morning so long ago, Hayden plucked me from the mean streets of Shelby and manipulated me into working for him.
For a price. Everybody has their price, isn’t that the hard cold truth? He paid me and in turn, I sold my chance at normalcy, of settling into a house with a white picket fence, daisies in the front yard, roosters on the bathroom wallpaper. I wince, remembering another time, another place where I confided in Jaxson about my dreams for an average life. It was the first time I imagined the possibility of us. Our future together. Our happily-ever-after.
I look down at my fingernails. The chipped pink polish, broken brittle nails, and the grime buried beneath them. I wiggle my fingers, blackened by burnt calcium carbide dust from the miner’s lamp I’ve been using, then blow out a long huff. Normal’s overrated, anyhow.
How many women can boast their boss wants them dead? Like, cut-in-the-throat dead or knifed-in-the-forehead dead, not lip service fueled by some idle office spat.
Well, hop in line, you bastard.
I’m done with running. To drive the point home, my pace slows as I pass through Montparnasse Cemetery—which is more of a cross between a museum of famous deceased artists and a park than a cemetery. I’ve come a long ass way from where I’d been nine months ago. Desperate. On the run. Worried about my sister. In mourning—for a man my inactions didn’t kill.
The sooner I terminate Novák, the sooner I can bid this City of Love good-bye forever.
The catacombs have become a second home to me. Yeah, right. That’s me talking crazy. Yet it seems like it with the amount of time I’ve spent exploring the underground tunnels beneath Montparnasse. Taking notes on what leads where, which levels are marked, where the dead ends crop up. An impossible task.
What I’ve discovered is this: catacomb might sound like a cozy nesting place for an insect and trendy Parisian artwork, but when you stray too far, it becomes nothing but an endless spiral of sewers seeping through layers upon layers of tunnels.
And bones—can’t forget them. Piles upon piles can be found in the tunnels, relocated here from the emptied cemeteries after a long period of urban sprawl when graveyards were recycled into something more lively. Like trendy, cafe coffee shops. Yeah, when I finally terminate that Prick, I’m going to somewhere nice, like the Greek islands. Or Japan, where I hear they pay respects to the dead on a daily basis.
My new, tiny Montparnasse hotel is situated on a small hill near the observatory. Uphill from the underground I’m starting to despise.
Get in. Get out. Get gone. Get over on Jaxson, then get over him.
I kick a twig with my muddied black combat boot. Reminding myself I’m not allowed to think about him. Replay the frustrating near orgasms he so capably denied me and instead bask in the pleasure of knowing I’ve at long last ditched him.
And another reason to celebrate is today I rocked the catacombs.
I overheard men arguing somewhere within the small dark tunnel located three layers down and running directly beneath the Val-de-Grâce church. A slippery slope, in both the literal and nonliteral sense, with the sewage overflow an ankle deep and at least five different non-English, non-French speaking voices. The Pricks? Yep, I believe so. Enough to give me hope that Novák will soon just be another Parisian tragedy.
I settle down on a bench near the entrance with a clear view of the single grave plot of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, two writers, philosophers, and loving partners who asked to be buried together.
Hell, even the graveyards here are romantic.
A pigeon bravely shuffles close to my boot, probably drawn in by my parfum de stink-o-la. I ignore my fellow graveyard dweller, the lovers, the bird, the sadness tugging at my heartstrings . . . everything. It’s time I made this call. I can’t continue another day without confirming she’s safe. I remove the disposable phone I secured earlier from my pocket, and muttering “to hell with the consequences,” I dial Declan’s number.
The phone rings three times.
“It’s Kylie.”
“About goddamn time.”
Well, hello to you, too. “Is she okay? She escaped Oklahoma without incident?”
He’s silent on the other end.
I stand up so fast, the pigeon flies away. Oh no. No. No. No. I choke out, “Tell me?”
“For the moment, yes. She’s set up in a house in St. Petersburg. But Hayden knows.”
I grit my teeth but relax when he adds, “He’ll leave her alone. That I can promise you.”
“I’m not the traitor. It’s . . .” But I stop before finishing. If I reveal the real traitor, if Declan learns the truth, the last thing Francis will feel is a knife’s blade in his throat. And I need him to feed information about my whereabouts to the Prick.
“Jaxson’s alive, you know,” Declan informs me. “He’s the one coming for you. Boss’s orders.”
I keep quiet, not wanting to waste precious time discussing the playboy killer after me. Declan’s phone is likely tapped. Hayden’s smart, he probably anticipated I’d call to check on my sister. I’m running out of time.
“How would you go about terminating five Pricks holed up in an underground tunnel?”
“Five? Bad luck, that. And your weaponry?”
“A gun. A few stolen steak knives from last night’s dinner. Rope.”
“No knives,” he says without emotion. “Stop thinking like Diego. Do what you do best, fight like you.”
“I did blow up a manhole. Next will be a few statues . . .”
“Toxic bitch—now that’s what I’m talking about.”
I draw in a breath, thinking about events that happened back in Oklahoma after I first went rogue, when Declan caught up with me, then let me go. “Declan, why didn’t you terminate me when you had the chance?”
“It doesn’t matter now. His orders are to terminate.”
“Jaxson’s, you mean.”
“Yes.”
I scowl. “What does he have to do with what I asked you?”
“Fuck, Kylie. My reasons won’t make a difference now.”
“Fuck, Declan. Tell me.”
“That day in the great room, after Jaxson went after Hayden—”
“—while you stood by, isn’t that right . . . ?”
“Jaxson made me swear that if Hayden ever sent me after you, I’d give you a chance.”
“What?” I gasp.
“An eye for an eye. He saved my ass once. So I saved yours.”
The cell phone shakes in my hand. “He made you promise not to hurt me?” I ask, my tone filled with disbelief. Declan, after all, operated by a strict code of honor. To defy Hayden . . .
He’s silent. Probably scratching his thick head over this screwed-up situation. “I better go,” I say, ten seconds away from any state-of-the-art tracking device honing in on my disposable phone.
“Tell Hayden if he lays one finger on my sister, I’ll be coming for him.”
“I told you. He won’t.”
I scowl. Clearly Declan is touched in the head when it comes to our ruthless boss.
“Tell him the matter of who’s snitching TORC secrets will be resolved shortly, with or without his hired help breathing down my neck.”
Declan snorts, then lowers his voice. “A word of advice . . .”
“Yes?”
“Terminate Novák.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Yeah. But don’t jerk around. Do it quickly.”
“You said it first. Time’s up. Bye.” I disconnect, stand, and pitch the phone into the air, watching it land then roll across Jean-Paul and Simone’s grave.
Best get moving before my lover buries me as well.