Chapter 3
3
CHERISE
P aris, France
Present Day
I press my back against the headboard of the hotel bed, gripping my cell phone like it’s the last solid thing in my world. My pulse beats erratically, a hammer against my ribs, refusing to settle. It’s only been a few days, but I’m on the run with no way to get out of France. All I have is a small bag with a few clothes, my French and American passports, the file and flash drive I removed from Hector’s safe, and all the cash I could put my hands on. If I use a credit card or my passport, he’ll find me—that's part of his job—tracking people. I’m not safe. Not even close.
The faint hum of traffic in the 20th arrondissement of Paris filters through the cracked window, muted and distant—like a world I used to belong to but now watch from behind a pane of glass. It feels surreal, like I’ve slipped into a different life, a cruel joke where every step I take leads me deeper into a nightmare.
I close my eyes, but the memory crashes in like a tsunami.
Lyon felt colder that evening, the damp air pressing against my skin as I unlocked the door to the house I once called home. The scent of Hector’s cologne was subtle but suffocating—woven into the very walls. He never changed it. A testament to his arrogance, his obsession with control.
I moved fast, barely breathing, as I made my way to his study. The mahogany desk gleamed under the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows. I knew exactly where he kept the safe, hidden behind the bookshelf, cleverly concealed beneath a false panel. Hector was meticulous, but not infallible.
I crouched, pressing my fingers against the tiny indentation at the edge of the shelf, feeling for the release latch. A soft click sounded as the panel shifted. The safe was old, a model I had memorized the combination of years ago. My fingers moved on instinct, spinning the dial. Four numbers later, the lock released.
Inside, several stacks of cash, as well as my U.S. and French passports, sat atop a stack of documents. I grabbed some of the cash and both of the passports, about to close the safe, when a name on one of the files made my pulse stutter.
René Vallois, the notorious arms dealer. I’d become obsessed with the man. For someone who was supposed to live and work in the shadows, he seemed perfectly comfortable living in the light.
Fear and nausea coiled in my belly. I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t look. But my hands betrayed me, reaching for the file, flipping it open.
At first, it was nothing more than financial records—wire transfers, offshore accounts. Then, photos. Blurry surveillance images of men exchanging crates and armed guards stationed at a private airstrip. Notes scribbled in Hector’s precise handwriting.
And then, the actual proof.
A signed agreement between Hector and René Vallois, detailing arms shipments disguised as Interpol asset seizures and attached to it a flash drive. Hector wasn’t just laundering money—he was supplying high-powered weaponry to one of the most dangerous arms dealers in Europe.
My breath left me in a silent gasp.
I had been married to this man. Slept beside him. Trusted him... and he was a traitor.
The sound of footsteps behind me turned my blood to ice.
"You shouldn’t be here, Mrs. Pardo."
I spun, my heart slamming against my ribs.
A man stood in the doorway. Not Hector. But someone just as dangerous… one of Hector’s men.
He was tall, dark-haired, wearing an expensive suit that did nothing to soften the menace rolling off him. His eyes flicked to the open safe, then back to me.
“Put the file back,” he ordered, his tone smooth. Controlled.
I forced my voice to stay even. “I know who you are, and you need to move out of my way.”
He chuckled, the sound low and knowing. "That’s not how this works. René doesn’t like when people go poking around where they don’t belong. And Hector? He won’t be pleased to know his ex-wife has been playing detective."
René. His name wrapped around my throat like an invisible chokehold, squeezing the air from my lungs. I’ve read too many articles about him. Seen too many news stories on his dealings around the world.
I took a step back, angling my body toward the desk. He saw it, his gaze sharpening.
"Don’t make this difficult, Cherise."
The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine. He wasn’t bluffing. If I didn’t leave here now, I wouldn’t leave at all.
Holding onto the file and the flash drive, I moved fast, reaching for the heavy paperweight on the desk and hurling it at his face. He dodged, but it gave me the opening I needed. I sprinted past him, my heels slamming against the hardwood.
He caught my wrist, yanking me back hard. I gasped, twisting, my knee connecting sharply into his groin. He let out a strangled curse, his grip loosening just enough.
I didn’t hesitate.
Grabbing the nearest lamp, I swung it straight into his head. The crash of ceramic exploding filled the air, and he crumpled to the floor.
I ran.
Down the hallway, out the front door, lungs burning as I tore through the streets. I didn’t stop, didn’t look back, disappearing into the night.
I knew what Hector was capable of. Knew that if his men caught me, I would just disappear. I’d never even make it to the headlines. No one looks for someone who no one knows is missing. I had no choice.
I should never have stepped foot back in that house. I knew better. But I went anyway, convinced I could slip in, grab my passports and some cash, and leave without incident. That was the plan—quick, clean, no complications. But life doesn’t give a damn about plans.
The peeling walls of this hotel room feel smaller by the second, like they’re closing in, suffocating me under the weight of my own choices. Or maybe it’s fear. The kind that grips tight, relentless, refusing to let go.
A few days. That’s how long I’ve been running. A few days of an anonymous hotel—always looking over my shoulder—changing my name, my hair, everything, just to stay ahead of the men who want me dead.
But deep down, I know I can’t outrun them forever. I know I need help, but I have no way of getting out of France without Hector finding me.
I stare at my phone; the screen blurred from the contact of my fingertips. There’s only one person left who might be able to help me. Someone I met a while back at a party. Someone who recognized the look of a woman who was in a desperate situation but had no idea how to get out of it.
Jordan James-Fitzwallace, or as she likes to be called, JJ. The name alone sends a pulse of something sharp and electric through me. It’s funny, but I’ve kept her card with me—protected and hidden. Instinct, I guess. Some part of me knew I’d use it someday. That day is now.
I take a steadying breath, dial her number on the card she’d slipped me that night at the gala, and press the call button. It rings. Once. Twice.
“JJ,” a woman answers.
“Hi. It’s Cherise Pardo. I need your help.” I say. My voice is small and unsure.
“Finally! I was wondering when this day would come. Let me put my husband on.”
“No, JJ. I’d rather deal with you.”
“Okay. I can understand that, but we’re going to need Cerberus’ help. Are you safe? The first step is to make sure your location is secure?”
“I…I think so. For now. I’m in a hotel room in Paris.”
“Where?”
“The 20th arrondissement. A cheap hotel. They didn’t ask for identification.”
JJ chuckles. “No, they wouldn’t in that section of Paris.”
“I also got a burner phone and destroyed my old phone before leaving it in Lyon. I’ve read enough romantic suspense novels to know that I needed to do at least that much.”
“That’s smart.”
The praise is a balm to my weary mind and soul.
“Fitz is saying Hector already has people looking for you,” she continues. “So, let’s change the game up and, as my friend Olivia, the sword fighter, says, put the little bastard on his back foot. Fitz is writing me notes. You’re to stay in your room—don't leave for any reason. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer the door. Don’t look out the window. Do you need food or anything else?”
“No, I picked up some bread, cheese, salami, fruit and a box of auburn hair dye before I came here.”
“Good. For the next forty-eight hours, keep yourself isolated—don’t see anyone, don’t talk to anyone, don’t even open your door or your curtains. We'll have tickets and new identification slipped under the door of your hotel. The ticket is for the train to Monte Carlo.”
“Monte Carlo?” I ask, confused.
“Cerberus is opening their newest satellite office there. No one knows about it. They’ve been keeping a very low profile. Do you think you can do all that?”
I’m not sure and I hesitate, saying nothing.
“Cherise. Do. You. Understand?” she asks. “If you’re not up to it...”
“Yes, I understand, and I can do this… I have no choice.”
“We can figure out something else…”
“No. I can do this.”
“Good. If you need anything, you call this number.”
The line is silent, and I wonder if she’s hung up on me.
“Cherise, are you still there?” asks JJ.
“Yeah, I’m here.” I’m now terrified that I’ve involved my new friend in my disaster of a life.
“We’re going to get you to safety. Okay? We’ve got you, I promise.” JJ tells me and I’m instantly relieved and determined to be my own savior. In the background, I hear JJ’s husband tell her to get off the phone, as it’s not safe for me to be on any phone for any length of time. “Okay, Cherise. We’ve got to hang up, but call if anything happens, okay?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Okay. Thank you, JJ.”
“Always,” she says and then the line goes dead.
Late in the afternoon the next day, someone slides a thick manila envelope under my hotel room door. When I look out through the peephole, I don’t see anyone in the hallway, but I don’t open the door either.
I pick up the envelope and tip the contents onto the bedspread. Inside are my new identification papers—including a passport—along with colored contact lenses, train tickets to Monte Carlo, a small key, a timeline with detailed instructions, and a photo of a logo labeled Opus Noir .
I’m instructed to place all of my belongings—save the clothes on my back—in a plastic bag to dispose of at the train station. The key is to a locker where I will find new clothing that will identify me to the Cerberus operative meeting me in Monte Carlo.
I wonder how I will recognize the operative. I smile as the answer to my question is at the bottom of the timeline. My contact will be a tall man with a muscular build and a ball cap with the Opus Noir logo. I laugh at my disappointment that we won’t have some secret code phrase.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m in expert hands. This is really happening and for the first time in weeks, I allow a small bit of hope to settle in my stomach.
* * *
Today’s the day. I rise from the bed, grabbing my bag and moving toward the bathroom mirror. My reflection stares back—haunted eyes, sharp cheekbones, hair now a deep auburn instead of its usual chestnut brown. Not the best disguise, but it’ll do. I can explain away the difference in hair color by telling anyone who asks that I wanted a change.
I reach for the contacts included in my care package, which will turn my usual green eyes into icy blue ones. A small difference, but one that might buy me a few extra seconds if I run into the wrong people and will get me through customs.
I walk out of the hotel and don’t look back. I paid for my room in advance with cash when I checked in. My new identity is in place, a forged passport tucked safely in my bag, and my train ticket to Monte Carlo secured. Now, I just have to make it there alive.
The train station is a swarm of bodies, voices blending into a cacophony of languages—Italian, French, English. I keep my head down, shoulders hunched, slipping between clusters of travelers as I move toward the locker, retrieve the clothing waiting for me there, and slip into the restroom to change. Once I have on my new clothing, I walk out, disposing of my old clothing in one of the trash bins as I make my way to my platform.
I can feel the paranoia sinking in. The phantom sensation of eyes watching me. Every scrape of a shoe against tile, every flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, makes my pulse spike. I step onto the train, sliding into a seat near the back, my gaze tracking every single person who boards after me.
The businessman in the navy suit, scrolling through emails. The mother with two restless children, adjusting their coats. The older woman reading a paperback, her lips moving slightly with the words. None of them are a threat.
Then, a man steps into the car. Dark hair, expensive suit, and sunglasses. He moves with controlled ease, scanning the rows as he walks. I go rigid. My grip on my bag tightens. He keeps moving, passing by without a glance in my direction. I force myself to breathe. Not every well-dressed man is an assassin. Not everyone is hunting me, but I can’t take chances.
The train lurches forward, and I settle in, pressing my fingers against the cool metal of the window frame. I have eight hours until Monte Carlo. Eight hours to convince myself that making that call to JJ was the right thing to do. But then, what else could I have done?
By the time the train pulls into Monaco’s Gare de Monte-Carlo, exhaustion has settled into my bones. The station is sleek, modern, carved into the cliffs above the glittering city. A world of wealth and excess stretching beyond the platform.
I step onto solid ground, my bag slung over my shoulder, eyes sweeping the terminal. I don’t feel anyone following me and for a second; I think maybe I’ve won a minor victory, but then, I feel it.
A shift in the air. A presence behind me. I turn—fast, ready to run, and collide with a broad, unyielding chest. Strong hands close around my arms, steadying me. Keeping me in place. I see the ball cap, but then my breath catches when I see a ghost. I don’t have time to question what is happening because my knees begin to buckle as everything fades to black.