Paris
“Jaxson,” a hoarse female voice rasps.
Mine. It’s my voice.
Jaxson. His name’s always fresh on my lips. The first person I think of when I wake and the last person I imagine before falling asleep. A habit, much like breathing.
I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.
My mouth’s dry like I’ve been sucking on cotton balls. I move my jaw, bringing me back into the present, then acclimate myself first to the dim cell, then to the larger prison the Pricks dumped me in.
There’s a dampness in the room and an accompanying chill in the air. Eau de sewage causes my nose to wrinkle. The only light comes from high above, a pinprick of a hole at the top end of an air tunnel, leading out onto the bustling city streets of Paris.
I’m inside the catacombs. Seems this place and I have developed an affinity for each other. A hate-hate relationship. Welcome to the darker side of the City of Love.
I pull myself up into a sitting position on the hay they’ve left me on, wincing as the iron cuff on my left ankles chafes against my skin. The front of my head throbs like a migraine on steroids, and I’ve a bump the size of a goose egg just above my temple.
A long chain is attached to the cuff on one end and secured to cell bars of what could only be described as an archaic, eighteenth-century-style prison cell on the other. Surprised? Not really. Artwork, Prick Patrols, cell phone service—it seems anything goes down here in the catacombs.
The prison is small, composed of three cells, a path running the length of them and a wooden exit door that sits across from the middle cell. There’s a steel barrel against the wall near the empty cell. Iron bars that look like individual cell bars rest up against the wall beside it.
My attention turns toward body’s my aches and pains. Besides the wicked headache and chafed ankle, my back aches like I’ve been run over by a semi. Tackled by one—if my memory’s correct. I’ll be bruised but nothing is broken. Alive and breathing—what a complete shocker.
I consider the chain chafing against my left ankle. Either captives in the eighteenth century had enormous ankles or this was fashioned for a much larger male. In less than ten seconds, my ankle is free. One problem solved. At least I’ll be free to fight them off when they return to question then kill me.
“I have water. Can you catch it?”
I narrow my eyes and through the darkness make out the shape of a man in the adjacent cell. He’s sitting up against the bars, facing me. An older man, with a fragile air about him. No wonder. The small, grimy window makes my cell a Hilton compared to his.
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“A few hours.”
“Who are you?” I ask, curious.
“No one.”
My eyes widen at that. Interesting.
“Why are you here?” he asks. Funny, but he sounds a hell of a lot younger than he appears. And not French but . . . British?
“I didn’t have much choice in the matter.” I give him a sigh, then add, “Guess they didn’t like my perfume.”
He snorts.
Hell, if my throat wasn’t sore—care of Jaxson’s love choke—I’d laugh.
“Drink up.” He tosses me a bottle of water, which I catch through the cell bars. As I pry off the cap and, taking a long sip, shift my attention to finding a way out of this hellhole.
A filthy mattress lies on the worn, chipped wall on one side of my cell. Wrought-iron bars make up the other walls. There is a door—locked for sure. Nothing visible that’ll help my escape. My attention returns to the chipped wall and the hole some poor soul has dug, as if digging your way out of here would ever be an option within the greater catacomb maze.
“Do yourself a favor. When they ask you for your favorite letters, don’t tell them F.U.”
“F.U.?”
“Fuck you. That’ll earn you two letters. Double the pain.”
Two letters? Before I can ask him if there’s a little more something mixed in with the water, I hear the Pricks fiddling with the wooden door.
I hastily toss the empty water bottle back to the old man—who I have a sneaking suspicion is anything but—then slump over into a fake stupor.
My cell door creaks as it’s unlocked. Three sets of footsteps approach. Adrenaline kicks in. They’ve left the door open. Underestimating my condition. Underestimating me. I know how I’m going to play this but it’ll require . . . patience, and me reigning my temper in.
Yeah, good luck with both.
“Son réveil,” someone orders.
I gasp and sputter as water hits me in the face. Shaking my head, I stare up at them in horror. “Where am I?” The fragile tone in my voice makes me want to vomit but works wonders on the three Pricks.
The smallest of the men leans in toward me, places a finger beneath my chin, and raises my head up higher. “Elle est belle, non?”
Thank God I’ve come to my senses, because these Pricks aren’t wasting any more time. I bat my eyelashes, pretending to clear water from my eyes, spurring them on.
Napoleon—that’s what I’ve decided to call the small traitorous Frenchman with a big attitude, a classic case of little-man syndrome—will be the easiest to manipulate. I cry out as he yanks me by my armpits and onto my feet, then drags my frail, defenseless frame toward the mattress.
“You forgot to secure her ankle.”
I feel a hand clamp hold of my left calf and they begin arguing with each other about my freed ankle.
That’s right, assholes. Keep it up. There’s no I in teamwork.
“You’re going to want to fight them,” my neighbor pipes up. “It’ll numb the pain for what’s to come.”
“Fermez la bouche, vieux sot,” Napoleon warns him with a wave of a fist.
Yep. Shut up, buddy. I’ve got this.
Mattress. Weak woman. Pricks. Yeah, it’s a classic recipe for abuse. I get what’s coming—and it’s not going to be them.
I pretend to semifaint, tumbling forward into the guard who remains aloofly standing by. My biggest adversary, who seems unfazed by my charms. Ever so innocently, my hand drops and the back side of it rubs up against his manhood. Oops. I pull away. And presto, he’s part of my party now. After all, no man, no matter his nationality, size, or utter lack of intelligence can resist a cock cuddle.
Bull-boy grabs my breasts and squeezes hard.
I grunt, faux-surprised, which seems to please him. But Napoleon, predictably, tugs me up against him, cock-blocking Bull-boy.
“Me first.”
“Non, elle est mien.”
“Just hurry the hell up before Novák gets here,” the third man interjects.
“You better do something fast, cailín,” says the fourth wheel to this party, the stranger in the adjacent cell.
Cailín. Scottish? Or Irish?
I bat my eyelashes at Bull-boy, then press my body up against Napoleon.
In a flash, poor Napoleon is ripped way from me, punched in the face, and laid out on the floor.
One Prick down. Two to go.
Bull-boy isn’t playing cool anymore. I’m tackled onto the mattress, his body pinning mine to the dirty floor as he starts tugging at my skinny jeans.
God bless skinny jeans for being such a bitch to get on and off.
I squirm beneath him, making it ten times harder.
He pauses to backhand me across the face. “Stop.”
I accidentally bring my knee up, nail him in the balls, and, drawing on all of my strength, roll him off of me.
“Now we’re talking,” my cell partner comments.
The third Prick laughs.
Patience, I remind myself. Bide your time.
I scramble to my feet and slowly back up against the wall.
Terrified. Yeah, right. I survived Hell Camp—enough said. I feel around behind me for that chip in the stone, my fingers dragging across the small hole in searching of a weapon. My fingers wrap around a loose sliver of stone just as the third Prick drags me back down to the mattress.
Patience.
I let him pull my jeans free.
Patience.
Put his filthy hands on me as I lay terrorized beneath him.
Patience.
Grunt and fumble as he yanks his pants down around his thighs and pumps his penis with his hand.
The stench of unwashed male forces bile to clog my throat.
Patience.
Something cling, cling, clangs on the stone floor. I ignore it, keeping my attention fixed on the three Pricks.
Napoleon is still fighting a losing battle from that punch.
Bull-boy’s up on his knees, ready to charge.
And the third Prick thinks rape is on tonight’s menu. Good thing I’m here to teach him otherwise.
He gets between my legs, cock in hand. Leans over me. Grins a toothy grin.
I bring the sharp edge of the stone into his throat. Digging deep into his windpipe. Then, on behalf of every female whose been abused, manhandled, touched inappropriately, patted on the ass, or had her tits fondled without her permission, I grab hold of his pride and joy, then twist my wrist with a quick snap. Fracturing his penis and wiping that smile clear off his face.
He cries out in agony, and I jump to my feet.
“Goddamn, cailín,” my companion next door murmurs.
But this is no time to gloat because Bull-boy charges.
I shift sideways, off the mattress and onto the stone floor. Causing him to run more on the diagonal than a straight-on charge.
One step. Two steps. Three. I come up on my toes, turn my body, and swing my leg high. Nailing him in the kidney. He doesn’t go down, but I didn’t expect him to. With the heel of my hand, I punch upward, clipping him beneath the nose. Breaking his nose.
“Be a dear and toss me my knife back when you’re done.”
I look down. Sure enough, a long, sharp blade with a custom leather handle rests by my foot. Even though I hate knives, I know what it is. A professional’s knife.
I pick it up and tuck it into the back waistline of my panties.
“As soon as we get out of here, how about you and I share a bottle of Bordeaux and compare notes?”
“For a pint of Guinness, I’ll share even my darkest secrets.”
“Like how old you are, for starters?”
The man by my feet grunts, and I send a devastating kick into his other kidney.
My eyes quickly take in my handiwork. Two Pricks are slumped over, one holding his kidney, the other cupping his groin. And Napoleon is holding his hand up in defeat.
“Company,” my companion mutters.
I stiffen.
“Ah, the elusive bitch, Kylie Smith. I’ve had a hell of a time tracking you down. But I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Francis,” a man says.
Novák.
I grind my teeth together. Francis is going to pay for selling us out.
“I should have killed you that day at the diner.”
Ditto that, yet long before the diner, back to the day you murdered my father.
“Little did I realize what a nuisance I had on my hands. Like a dog with a bone, snooping around Shelby, then the catacombs, spying on me.” He gestures at me and my sewer-rat condition. “Drawing attention to my business. Today I’m not leaving until I get the answers I want. Specifically, who you’re working for.”
Just my good luck the king Prick’s come out to play.
“Start the fire,” he tells one of the men who’s accompanied him into the prison. I’m not certain but I think it’s the same men who’d been carrying the boxes of weapons.
“Thanks. It’s kind of chilly in here,” I comment. Doing my best impression of a dumb blond except the three Pricks at my feet don’t exactly help my cause.
Even down here in the bowels of hell, Novák’s dressed to the nines. He’s wearing a charcoal suit tailored perfectly to his body. His hair’s combed neatly in place. An overconfident tilt to his head.
Of course he’s confident. He’s got seven Pricks with him to get one stupid blond to squeal on her organization.
He slowly approaches then enters my cell. All by his lonesome.
How many seconds do I have to kill him before the men just outside the cell can react?
I count his steps as he approaches me. Seven.
Jesus. I’m beginning to hate that number.
I relax my body. “Finished taking inventory? You know, counting the so-called untraceable boxes of guns you had your men hide for you?” I ask.
His deep V forms in his forehead, then glances over his shoulder at the six men lined up like ducks. The seventh is busy with starting a fire to warm this hellhole up.
“How does she know about them?” He fixes his eyes back on me.
“She was inside the catacombs—” one of his men begins to explain but I cut him off.
“Those vans you’ve arranged to pick up your boxes, they won’t be showing up tomorrow,” I say with faux confidence.
Novák’s face is now the color of tomato soup. I give myself a mental pat on the back. Yep, I never thought I’d admit this, but this is Psycho’s training, hard at work.
“What does she mean?” one man asks the other.
“She’s lying,” the wisest of the bunch exclaims.
“Mexico?” I toss out the name of a country I heard them say once.
Novák’s nostrils seem to flare. “How is it that you know . . . ?” He turns and eyeballs the line of Pricks.
“They told me everything,” I lie. “About the ammunition, the weapons, Mexico, and Farhed.” Okay, the last was a long shot. A name I’ve only heard once. But hey, I’m a gambling kind of girl. Besides, what do I have to lose?
It does the trick, though, because every single man present, except for the silent one undoubtedly listening in the next cell over, repeats the name Farhed. Over and over, enough where it’s abundantly clear he’s someone important.
“So you’re just a little ant like the rest of them.” I nod toward the Pricks. “Trying to please Farhed with a shipment of black-market weapons.”
“Is the motherfucking iron ready yet?” Novák demands.
“Now would be good,” my sole ally quips.
Irish, I think.
“Shut your trap. Or are two letters not enough for you?”
I raise my eyebrows. Yeah, I’m ready to end this now, while I’ve got my long-anticipated mark standing before me. But instead, I find myself asking, “In Shelby, you drove by a house on the corner and shot an innocent man reading a newspaper and minding his own business. Why?”
“A simple lesson in obedience. No one—my men, Franco, that little screwed-up town—dared defy me after that. It’s like cutting off part of a leg or an arm. What is that expression you Americans say?”
“Revenge is sweet?” Hell, even if it’s not, this Prick is going to pay.
“When the cat’s away, the mice will play. Fear, now that’s power. You don’t have to be around for people to obey you.”
“Like Veronica?”
His eyes narrow on me then gestures toward the man at the barrel.
“You can’t even keep a woman satisfied enough to stay with you, let alone obey you. Guess she found herself a bigger, more powerful cat to play with.”
Someone muffles a laugh.
Men are so freaking predictable. Like their penis is their personal power tool. Damage a dick? With words, or . . . more? Well, you’ve met the wrong woman at the right time, now didn’t ya? Just ask the man still cupping his maimed gem.
Yep, insulting Novák’s manhood has the same effect as placing a torch on a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. BOOM.
His olive skin is flushed bright pink. He’s struggling to stay in control and not fall victim to little ol’ me and her taunts. The nunchucks, which he’s drawn out of his suit pocket, say otherwise.
And I haven’t yet gotten to the drum roll . . . I hold up my pointer finger and my thumb and separate them about four inches apart. “Veronica told me your dick is the size of a rubber eraser. That your men have thick, long dicks. They kept her happy while you were away.”
He turns and glares at the Pricks outside the cell.
Bingo. Let him stew over that for a moment.
I run my hand down my belly and slide it inside my panties. The hand I’ve tucked behind me mirrors the action, and I relax as my fingers wrap around the leather handle.
Come closer. Come to mama. “How about you step aside and send in a man who can get the job done, baby?”
Reverse psychology. Psycho would be high-fiving me.
Novák snaps his nunchucks.
“What’s your favorite letter, Kylie?”
My eyes widen. I don’t dare ask why. Y or F.U. I’ve been warned.
“Now that you mention Veronica. Know what one of your kind replied?”
I frown. My kind? I don’t dare look over at the silent man in the cell next door. Mr. F.U.
“A friend of yours, the man I caught with that whore.”
“Fire’s ready.”
I stare at Novák. Not really seeing him . . . all I can see is Jaxson’s face. “There’s worse,” he’d said.
Relax. Breathe. Don’t lose control. “I haven’t the foggiest notion who you are talking about.”
“Sure you do. Francis told me all about you two. You’ll never guess what letter he chose . . .”
My eyes widen.
Jesus. Oh no no no.
This is what Jaxson meant by “I’ve been through worse.” The Prick branded him. Burnt a letter into his skin. His beautiful body . . . his skin . . . branded.
It’s my fault. I was late.
“He chose K. That’s how I know you’re working—sleeping—together.”
Oh sweet mother Mary. No. No.
I feel like throwing up. Or screaming. Red is all I see. Red blood. Red roses on a grave. Heartbreak, heartache red. Love red.
“F.U.,” I say.
“Aw, fuck me a duck,” my neighbor curses, but he sounds so far away.
Novák swirls his nunchucks.
But all I can think about is another time, another place, another man standing before me, and how much I suck at knives.
One chance.
For my papa.
For my own revenge and redemption.
For Jaxson.
I calmly slide the knife out of the elastic of my panties and position my fingers lightly on the handle.
With lightening speed, I bring my arm up, bend my elbow, and make a small adjustment to my wrist before snapping it forward, taking note of the exact moment when Novák’s eyes widen with understanding.
The knife spirals twice then lands precisely in the center of the Prick’s throat.
All catacomb hell breaks loose.
Men start screaming.
My prison mate is laughing.
And then there’s a BOOM, and the catacombs begin to rumble. Stones fall from the ceiling. Walls collapsing. Men felled by what has to be the worst-executed explosion known in the history of mankind.
I dive for the mattress and pull it over me.
There’s gunfire. A lot of gunfire.
Then everything settles.
“She’s over there,” I hear the Irishman shout.
I try to push the mattress off of me but it’s buried beneath debris. My unprotected calf aches, cut open by falling stone. Matter of fact, my entire body aches.
But nothing is going to wipe the smile from my lips.
I’m alive.
Novák’s dead.
And as I inhale the sweet aroma of hydrogen peroxide, I’ve never felt more certain about anything but this: Jaxson has come for me.