Chapter 10
Ten
Marielle grabbed the keys from Omar’s hand as they reached the Peugeot.
“I’ll drive,” she said, already moving toward the driver’s side.
“Why?” He didn’t argue, just opened the passenger door.
“Because I know where we’re going.”
Hanna climbed into the back seat. “Where are we going?”
“Beats me,” Omar said, buckling his seatbelt.
Marielle started the engine, checked the mirrors, and pulled out of the alley. She drove fast but smoothly, navigating the narrow village streets with the muscle memory of someone who knew the route, even if it had been nearly two decades.
“Omar,” she said as they climbed away from the coast. “Lose your covcom.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“Throw it out the window. Now.”
“Elle—”
“Now.”
His jaw worked. She could see the conflict on his face. The device was their lifeline to Potomac, to Jake, to any hope of backup or extraction.
But he knew as well as she did that they had to cut all ties. He sighed, rolled down the window, and tossed the covcom into the darkness.
“We should destroy it,” he insisted. “Go back and—”
“No time.”
“Wait. Phones.”
She nodded. “Good call. Mine’s in the backpack.”
As he dug the device out of her pack, she pressed the accelerator, putting distance between them and the village. In the rearview mirror, she clocked Hanna sitting perfectly still, her face blank, even as Omar gently pried her phone out of her hands.
Shock, Marielle recognized. The woman had hit her limit.
Hadn’t they all?
They drove in silence for several minutes. Omar kept checking the side mirror, watching for pursuit, as he removed three tiny SIM cards, rolled down his window, and let them flutter out into the wind like high-tech butterflies.
A few kilometers later, Marielle’s pink phone went flying out the window and into a ditch. Around the bend, his phone followed suit and landed in a small pond. Last, he pitched Hanna’s phone into a culvert.
Finally, he asked again. “Where are we going?”
“My grandmother’s vacation cottage.” She glanced at him. “Well, it’s mine now. I inherited it when she died.”
“Where?”
“It’s between Aix-en-Provence and the medieval hilltop village of St. Paul de Vence.”
“What’s the town called?” he asked as he pulled a paper map out of the glove box and began unfolding it.
She laughed despite herself. “It won’t be on the maps. It’s too small. But it’s very real and very remote.”
“How small?”
“Very. It’s a hameau, which translates to hamlet, but it’s not what you would think of when you think of a hamlet. There are literally a handful of houses. No church, no government building. Certainly no hotels or restaurants.”
“It sounds perfect.”
She smiled. It did.
The sky lightened as they drove inland, the darkness softening to gray at the edges.
They passed through sleeping villages, their shuttered windows and empty streets giving them a ghostly quality.
The road climbed through terraced vineyards and olive groves, the landscape opening up into rolling hills.
By the time they reached the cottage, the sun was rising over the hills, painting them in shades of gold and amber.
She turned onto a rutted dirt road that wound between stone walls draped with wild roses. The structures scattered across the hillside were mainly abandoned or used only seasonally, according to the notaire who settled her grandmother’s estate. Not that you’d know it by the taxes.
“Are we close?”
“Yes.”
“We can hide the car in there.” Omar pointed to an empty barn with sagging doors.
She maneuvered the Peugeot into the barn and killed the engine. For a moment, they all just sat there, breathing.
Hanna’s voice came from the back seat, thin and fragile. “Are we safe?”
“For now,” Marielle said, which was the most honest answer she could give.
They climbed out. Hanna swayed on her feet, and Marielle caught her elbow. Omar forced the barn doors closed and shouldered his pack along with Hannah’s.
Marielle led them across the field to the cottage.
Her cottage. It was small, with stone walls, blue shutters, terracotta roof tiles.
Ivy crawled up the front facade. When she spent summers with her grandmother, they’d leave Paris at the height of the heat to come to the cottage.
And, to Marielle, it was like something out of a fairytale.
She went around to the side patio, crouched beside a large ceramic planter filled with dried earth and dead stalks, and retrieved a key from underneath.
Omar stared at her. “Are you serious?”
She looked up. “What?”
“A key under the planter?”
“She was a ninety-two-year-old retired perfume maker, not a spy.”
“Fair.”
She unlocked the side door, and they stepped into a small kitchen. Dust motes danced in the early morning light filtering through the windows. The air smelled closed-up but not unpleasant—old wood and dried herbs and something floral.
“This way,” Marielle said, leading Hanna through to a bedroom. The bed was made, the linens ancient but clean. Her grandmother had always kept everything ready for unexpected guests.
Hanna sank onto the mattress and closed her eyes.
“Try to sleep,” Marielle said gently. “We’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
In the kitchen, Marielle filled the kettle and set it on the cast-iron wood-burning stove.
She found a long kitchen match and lit the fire.
There was wood loaded in the stove, and it caught immediately.
It was a small miracle, as she dutifully paid the bills but hadn’t visited the cottage since her grandmother’s death.
Omar was already investigating the cupboards. “Flour. Salt. Baking powder.” He held up a tin. “Still good. If I had olive oil, I could make a quick bread.”
“You’re in luck.” She reached into Luc’s go bag and pulled out a small, metal tin.
“You’re kidding? Who packs olive oil in his go bag?”
“A Frenchman,” she deadpanned.
She leaned against the counter and watched him work, his movements economical and practiced. The simple domesticity of her brewing tea, him baking bread in the middle of a crisis should have felt absurd. Instead, it steadied her.
While the bread baked, she pulled out the compact and flipped it open.
Nothing. The mirror stayed dark. No lights. No message.
She pressed the button. Waited. Still nothing. Snapped it closed, and then open again. No lights.
“Dead?” Omar asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Completely.”
“Could the commando team have disabled it?”
“They’d have to know about it.” She met his eyes. “And they’d only know about it if someone inside Potomac was dirty.”
The words hung between them, heavy with implication.
“We don’t know that,” Omar said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“We don’t know anything anymore.”
Terror settled on her chest like a weight. They were alone. Cut off. No team, no backup, no way to call for help. And somewhere out there, a commando unit was hunting them.
The timer on the stove beeped. Omar pulled out the quick bread, golden and steaming. The savory smell that filled the small kitchen was comforting, promising safety. But she knew that promise was a mirage.
They took their tea and a plate with the bread to the small living room. A worn sofa faced the window that looked out over the hills. They sat side by side, keeping watch even though no one could have followed them here.
Right?
Marielle sipped her tea. The warmth spread through her, but it didn’t touch the cold knot of fear in her stomach.
“We’ll figure it out,” Omar said quietly.
“Will we?”
“We have to.”
She nodded, too tired to argue. Too tired to think. The adrenaline that had carried her through the night was gone, leaving her hollowed out and heavy.
She felt herself listing sideways, her head finding Omar’s shoulder. She should stay awake. Keep watch. But her eyelids were so heavy.
Omar’s hand moved to her hair, stroking gently. His touch was warm, steady, anchoring her.
“Sleep, Elle,” he murmured. “I’ve got watch.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to insist they take shifts, that she could stay awake. But it was futile.
The last thing she felt as she drifted toward sleep was his lips press against her forehead in a gentle kiss.