Chapter 11
Eleven
Omar didn’t sleep until the sun was high over the fields and Marielle insisted he go to bed.
“You’ve been up all night,” she said, her hand on his arm. “I’ll keep watch.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to stay beside her on the sofa, their shoulders touching, watching the empty road for threats that might never come. But exhaustion pulled at him like gravity.
When he stood, before he moved toward the bedroom, he caught her hand. “Elle.”
She looked up at him, those dark eyes searching his face.
“When this is over—when we’re safe—I want to take you on a date. A real one.”
Her lips parted in surprise. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then she rose on her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t like the kisses on the yacht—practiced, performative, calibrated for cameras. This was raw and honest. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. She tasted like tea and something indefinably her.
When she finally pulled back, her palm pressed gently against his chest. “Go. Sleep.”
“Elle—”
“We’ll talk about this. I promise. But right now, you need to rest.”
He nodded, too tired to push.
He fell asleep to the sounds of Marielle and Hanna in the kitchen. Water running. The clink of dishes. Low voices murmuring in a mix of English and French. The domestic rhythm of it lulled him under.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept when the shrill ring of a telephone jarred him awake.
A landline.
In the dark room, he thought he must be dreaming. Who even had a landline anymore? But the tinny ringing persisted.
He fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table and clicked it on. Yellow light flooded the small bedroom, and there it was—an old rotary phone, cream-colored plastic yellowed with age.
The door opened. Marielle and Hanna appeared, both looking as confused as he felt.
He flashed Marielle a questioning look. She shrugged.
He picked up the receiver. “Hello? Err, all??”
“Omar? Your accent is trash.” His sister’s voice crackled through the line.
“Leilah? What the hell are you doing calling me here? How did you even find me?”
“Settle down, bro. I just placed the call in case we got a bad number. Your company counsel was afraid he’d reach some little old French lady who would spit rapid-fire French at him.”
“Not sure your high school French is up for the job either,” he jabbed.
“You’re a dolt. I do the race at Monaco every year. My French is miles better than Ryan’s. So long as we’re talking about engines, flags, and tires.” She laughed her bold Leilah laugh, and he caught himself smiling.
After loud rustling and low voices in the background, Ryan Hayes came on the line.
“Omar. Listen carefully. We got the number from Trent.”
“How did Trent—?”
“That’s not important right now. What is important is that you stay put. Do not go to Marseille. The flat is being staked out.”
Omar’s stomach tightened. “By whom?”
“U.S. feds. But we’re not sure which agency yet.”
“Could it be Secret Service?” Omar asked, thinking about Bradford Hampton and his detail.
“I doubt it. But out of curiosity, why?”
“Long story, and I think for now you’d rather not know it.”
“Remember, I’m the company attorney. That’s why I’m the one calling. This conversation is privileged. You can tell me.”
“Yeah, but attorney-client privilege doesn’t mean jack if the call’s being monitored.”
“Is it? Being monitored, I mean.”
“I don’t know, Ry. You tell me.”
“I’ll find out,” Ryan promised. Omar knew his best friend would do it. He’d burn through favors and contacts to get the answer.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Remember. Stay put. Avoid Marseille no matter what happens. Got it?”
“Got it.”
As Omar ended the call, he heard his sister yelling in the background, “Love you, cou-cou!” This was clearly directed toward Marielle.
He ended the call and looked at Marielle and Hanna, both standing in the doorway watching him.
“Did you catch any of that?” he asked.
“Enough of it,” Marielle said. “The safe house is compromised. We stay here.”
“Your government is hunting us,” Hanna added flatly.
They looked at each other for a long moment, and a weight settled over the room. They were isolated, hunted, and running out of options.
Finally, Omar broke the silence. “Anybody want to play cards?”