Paris
Somewhere back at the Ranch, Hayden is laughing. Arrogance equates to ignorance. But sending those pictures was brazen stupidity.
I’m a complete failure. Three days in, and I’m wondering where my special kick-ass mercenary powers—which I foolishly believe exist—have disappeared to.
Three days spent at the same Montmartre cafe, snapping pictures of the same men while fighting back the itch to spice up their espressos. Sure, they’ve kept me out of the sewers of Paris. Jaxson is probably deep in the muck and still following my initial trail. But Novák proves to be elusive.
Has he changed his appearance? Am I’m looking for a dark-haired, bearded man when I should be searching for a clean-cut Malibu blond? Or maybe he’s smarter than I give him credit for?
Hard to say.
His Pricks have had three meeting within three days with their French associates, which likely means something’s up. More large manila envelopes have exchanged hands. Bulky, flat envelopes, which makes me think money is inside. A wire transfer would have been smarter, less obvious—but hey, who am I to give these Pricks financial advice? From today’s table, tucked off to their right and out of a clear line of vision, I contemplate my next move.
Pinch one of the envelopes and send it to Hayden? Fingerprints and money are easily traceable. Yet that would stir things up and put them on edge. Not quite as much of a stir as Jaxson’s wild-west bonanza at the tea house or my manhole extravaganza, but subtlety is the name of the game when you’re spying on these Pricks. We’re at a disadvantage with the catacombs being more dangerous than ever.
As much as I’d love to get my hands on an envelope, it’s a bad idea.
No Novák.
No envelope.
No . . . patience.
So what’s a bored, frustrated, increasingly desperate girl to do? Well, when in Paris . . . drink bubbly. I smile and lift the near empty flute to my lips, polishing off this lovely mood-lifting pink Champagne-Chambord mixture called a Kir Royale. Paired with a croque monsieur—France’s version of grilled cheese with ham—and my day suddenly seems brighter.
Which leads me to a bright idea.
I generously tip the waiter—such an American—and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I carefully exit the cafe.
This morning, I tried for a more sophisticated, Frenchified look by wearing a loose, flowing black dress and my go-to strappy sandals, and smoothing my short locks back and securing my hair with a black velvet ribbon. A welcome reprieve from my sewer-rat attire.
I leave the Pricks to their thievery as I duck out of the cafe without being noticed, then head down the hill toward their awaiting Mercedes. Checking the license plates, I approach Novák’s men’s car. Luckily, they’ve left the windows open. I not-so-patiently wait for a few pedestrians coming from a late lunch to pass by before sliding into the backseat, popping the latch securing the seat in place, and then threading my black velvet ribbon between the eyelet and the latch, taking my time to make sure it’s to my exact liking.
A half-inch gap between the trunk and the seat remains. But it’ll have to do.
I glance in the rearview mirror and, with no one around, I lean over and pop the trunk. Casually, I exit the car, hitch my skirt up, climb into the trunk, and, taking a deep breath, close the hood.
If Novák won’t come to mama, mama will go to Novák.
Then the waiting begins.
Along with the worrying—yeah, I know. I should have had a second flute of Kir Royale.
Will there be any backseat passengers? Will they throw something, or somebody, inside the trunk? What if the seat is jarred and the ribbon snaps? Or the most likely of scenarios—them getting a flat?
I brace myself as footsteps approach. Doors open then close. The Mercedes engine rumbles to life and, yes, oh yes, we’re off without a hitch.
I feel like humming a Frank Sinatra tune, “Luck Be a Lady.” A song I always believed is about a gal sticking with her fella. So not my type of song, though I plan on sticking like Gorilla Glue to these two fellas.
With nothing else to do, I listen to them talking, getting used to their mixed dialects. Russian? Middle Eastern? Spanish?
“Did you rent the vans?”
“Yes. After we load the boxes onto the cargo ship, we’ll use bleach to wipe the vans down before dropping them off in Marseille.”
“Novák will be pleased.”
“Do you think Farhed will promote him?”
“Perhaps. This is the largest shipment we’ve sent to Mexico City.”
Interesting. I always imagined the Prick to be the boss, but as Hayden suspects, it appears Novák reports to someone higher up in his organization. Does Hayden know?
The topic changed away from Novák kissing this Farhed fella’s ass, but I stored it away in my memory banks. About twenty minutes later, the Pricks park the car.
I patiently listen to their footsteps fade before pulling the ribbon. The backseat folds forward. I scooch over onto the smooth leather, then climb out the back.
With my satchel firmly fixed over my shoulder, I survey my new surroundings. Sophisticated. Upscale. Old world meets modern marvelousness. A far cry from the catacombs, where I assumed they’d be headed. Eager to report back to Novák and pass off their large envelopes.
Damn it, the man is more elusive than a subway car during a Metro strike.
I quickly catch up to the Pricks. Yet shadowing them proves challenging.
We’ve entered into a stunningly exquisite glass-covered shopping gallery called Galerie Vivienne. Another girl would have stopped to appreciate the mythological-themed mosaics on the floor, the broad, glass-encased arches overhead, the shopping. Gorgeous, simply gorgeous.
But I shake off that girl. Glass is everywhere, in the sparkling-clean storefront windows, in mirror and arches, and even in the form of a mirrored makeup compact fixed to a mannequin’s hand. I scowl down at my reflection in the polished tiled floors. Everywhere I look and all I can see is me. Jesus, it’s like I’ve entered a fun house of mirrors.
I fall farther behind, still attempting to shadow them in this gallery of unforgiving light. One of the Pricks anxiously glances over his shoulder, and I freeze like one of the shop mannequins. I can’t think of a more horrible place for a bulletfest. Mercifully, he turns his attention to the art gallery they’ve stopped before.
As they enter it, I cautiously approach. Watch as they pass the envelopes to a dark-haired man behind a counter. Duck behind a painting set up outside the door as the men exit and head back toward their Mercedes.
My thoughts sing a little song. Not Frank this time—something more my speed, more appropriate for this must-be-hastily-made decision. “Should I Stay or Should I Go?”
Which Prick will lead me to Novák . . . Arty Prick or Cafe Pricks?
Well, as much as I’d like to return to the cafe for more bubbly . . . I enter the art gallery. The Arty Prick goes about his business as I go about mine, unnoticed, as I wait for those envelopes to be picked up.
Or, as time passes, delivered.
By the time the man clocks out, I have every nuance found within every bloody painting memorized by heart.
The man exits, taking a beautiful marble spiral staircase upward, and enters a swanky teahouse. Like many cafes, the teahouse has tables set up outside, each with decorative red and white umbrellas opened wide.
It’s a known fact that the French love their wine and cafés au lait, but in my short visit, I’ve learned taking tea is a serious business and probably the only thing they don’t thumb their noses at the British about.
I smile at the thought. But it drops as my eyes narrow on the unexpected. A well-dressed man sitting alone—Novák.
What else I don’t anticipate is my reaction. My hands shake as I dig the gun out of my satchel. My throat tightens, forcing me to swallow to clear it. Yet my pulse stays steady.
This moment has been a long time coming. Something I’ve thought about every single day since my pop’s murder. I stare at him with a sense of disbelief. It’s like graduating from high school all over again. You can’t wait for the day to come but when it does, an uncertainty washes over you. Sure, your future is bright. Your life just beginning. But there’s a familiarity with the agony you’ve grown accustomed to. Like it’s become a part of you. It’s become a motivating factor in your life.
My palm feels clammy over the gun’s metal grip. I ignore it and firm up my hold as I raise the gun toward my mark.
I’ve waited so long, endured so much, sacrificed everything. Finally. And as my initial shock fades, I feel calm. Light . . . like the light shining on my face . . . like the light . . . blinding me.
Truly blinding me—for a second, I can’t see.
What the hell?
When my vision clears, I spy his reflection in the windowpane. The bane of my existence. The thorn in my side. My lover. My enemy. My soon-to-be punching bag, I think, as understanding dawns on me.
He’s looking right at me. Manipulating the sunlight so it shines in my eyes. Using the chrome from his weapon, which is now pointed directly at me.
Damn him.
He nods in Novák’s direction then shakes his head no.
“Yes,” I mouth.
His reflection disappears as glass shatters all around me.
Holy sweet Mary. He shot at me . . . again?
I cover my head with one hand and drop my weapon into my satchel with the other.
No hope I’ll outshoot a sniper like him. No way do I need Novák’s attention on me now. I let out a long sigh. No choice but to hightail it outta here.
I race down the spiral staircase, past the art gallery and down the hall of mirrored shops.
Leaving behind the man of my nightmares along with the man of my dreams.