Achilles (Discarded Heroes: Scions #3)

Chapter 1

Six Months Ago

Paris, France

“Arrêtez, police!”

That was his cue not to stop as the officer demanded but to break into a sprint across Vend?me Square.

Only a fool thought they could get into the Ritz Paris hotel, sneak up to a luxury suite, slip inside said suite, and scour it for a laptop, forgotten phone—a ludicrous hope but one harbored all the same—and exfil without being seen. Or caught.

Maybe the police were pursuing a petty criminal.

Well. Some petty criminal other than Dillon Jacobs.

He checked his six using the sleek black hood of a Bentley Bentayga unloading passengers in front of the hotel. Time to run. Muttering an oath, he monitored for moving vehicles. That split-second recon warned this would be close.

Dillon too late saw the door of the Bentley flinging open into his escape route.

Rolling around the obstacle, he noted a beautiful brunette emerging with a handful of shopping bags.

A man reached toward her, his hands jabbing into Dillon’s corrected trajectory.

Like lightning, he careened between the two.

Accidentally clipped the bags from the woman’s hands.

Startled at his sudden intrusion into her path, she pitched backward to avoid colliding with him. Staggered.

Dillon caught her shoulders even as she bumped against the tail of the luxury car with a yelp. Was she hurt? “You good?”

Molten, hazel eyes—no, they were more than that, much more—slammed into his. Her perfect pink lips parted. Holy wow, she was beautiful! This had to be fate.

The thought rattled him as a flurry of French erupted from the man. The beauty scowled at Dillon and jerked from his grip. Her gaze struck something behind him—the way things were going, probably the police—and she pushed him away.

Already off-kilter, Dillon stumbled away from her, feeling like destiny was being ripped out of his hands. Hey, idiot—cops, remember? He glanced back and found them surging in his direction.

Exfil now!

“Arrêtez! Police!” they shouted again.

Calm, cool, collected facade abandoned, Dillon winked at the woman and muttered an apology, then bolted across Vend?me Square.

A horn blared. Brakes squealed. He thudded against the vehicle, rolled over its hood, and kept moving on the other side.

Cursed himself for being sloppy as he whipped around the bronze central column—which looked more green than bronze, even at this late hour and lit by floodlights.

Had to respect that Napoleon replaced the statue of himself with a monument made of 1,200 enemy canons—a powerful statement—but the iconic sight stood in the gaping middle of a large square that left Dillon wide open.

“Arrêtez!”

Sorry, dude. Not happening. Heart pounding in cadence with his shoes, he pushed himself hard. Could not afford to get strung up this close to answers. The thudding of pursuit was slower but not slow enough.

Get moving!

He cleared the square, banked right onto the side street, and sprinted for all he was worth, knowing every second mattered if he wanted to escape.

Once past the first building, he plastered himself into the slightly recessed area of the second structure.

Effectively hidden from the corner view of the street, he had seconds before being discovered.

Shadows concealed him as he seized advantage of the classic architectural style to scale the walls.

The limestone ledges were perfectly spaced to create handholds.

Parkour skills had served him well on this mission to find his dad.

Hearing the clap of the officers’ boots on the street below, he didn’t look down but instead focused on a cat-to-cat move, hiking up onto the ledge of the second story.

Climbed on the balcony’s iron rail and leapt up, grabbing the third-story overhang.

He repeated the move to gain the rooftop.

Caught it and hauled himself onto the roof.

Pulse jagged, he wanted to lie there, catch his breath, but the beam of the cop’s torch traced the edge.

They weren’t going to give up easily. While the distinctive architecture of the Haussmann-style homes benefited his ability to reach a high vantage, the roofs were another matter.

Between skylights, dormers, vents, and chimneys, he had his work cut out for him.

Navigating the tricky surfaces, he trained his ear on the street.

Heard shouts moving down the street on a parallel course with him.

Anger simmered. Every building and rooftop he cleared meant more distance between him and his target. Gritting his teeth, he paused on one of the rare flat roofs and looked toward the green column of Vend?me Square, still visible in the night sky. He itched to go back, but if he did and got caught…

Get him tomorrow.

Right. Couldn’t do that if he was locked up.

Sighting the parking garage he’d scouted previously, Dillon slipped and slid toward it.

At the overhang, he hopped out into thin air, rotated his body, and as he plummeted, snagged the ledge, breaking his descent.

Gently landed on a balcony rail. Released himself.

Caught the next one, the impact vibrating the wrought-iron rail against his palms. Once more.

Then, with a check down the length of his body, released the first-story residence’s rail.

Dropped to the street and pitched himself in the direction of the parking structure.

Pulling into the shadows, he sprinted down the street.

Aimed right just as headlamps and swirling lights swung onto the narrow road, cluttered on the left with café tables.

Dillon bolted down the cobbled street, banked left, and found a duck-through alley. C’mon, c’mon, he mentally prodded the police, just give up. Nothing to see here.

The high-pitched nee-ner nee-ner of the siren proved relentless.

But Dillon hadn’t come this far, spent the last fifteen months chasing down leads, finally ended up in the same city as Massimo Galtieri to end up in cuffs.

Pushing himself, he drove his body as hard as he could, working to increase the distance between him and the authorities.

Stayed in the shadows. Headed toward the Seine.

By the time he reached the park stretching out before the Louvre, he appreciated the burn in his lungs.

This years-long endeavor had built him into the best shape of his life.

Even if food was scarce and the nights long, he’d find Dad.

Prove wrong every single government entity that had declared Max Jacobs dead.

No way a Jacobs died like that, without a fight. Without a body to bury.

Calves tight and side cramping, he slowed to a walk.

As he wove beneath some trees, he shrugged out of his black jacket, moving deliberately toward the next road that crossed the famous river.

He turned it inside out and threaded his arms back through it.

The green wouldn’t be too noticeable in the night light, but at least it wasn’t black, which authorities were no doubt looking for now.

From the pocket, he pulled out a black ball cap and tugged it on.

It was a simple but hopefully effective way to deter first glances.

The faint nee-ner swelled for a second—along with his heart rate—then faded again. He nailed the next right and crossed the Seine.

Blue lights swirled.

Jaw tight, he tugged the cap down, glanced over his shoulder before changing to the other side of the road, and spotted a police car emerging from a side street.

Good night, they were relentless.

Head down, Dillon debated running. That would def draw attention. Every step felt leaden as he homed in on the densely packed residential buildings, certain he could lose them there if—

Tires pealed. Blue lights swam toward him.

“For the love of…” With a grunt, he threw himself down a side street with little light and worse line of sight.

He broke into a sprint again, anxious to increase the distance.

Darted around a corner, effectively plunging into darkness on the narrow alley-like road with no streetlamps.

Perfect for concealment. Not so much for navigating.

As he jogged, he eyed rooftops, searching for a quick place to hide.

Moving, he clung to the buildings and shadows, working in his favor. Right turn.

This time of night, most people were in their homes. Which meant he wouldn’t have many witnesses, but it also meant he would be the standout lone wolf prowling the streets.

A baby’s wail jerked his attention to a woman pulling a writhing, howling child from the car. Bags of groceries hooked over her arms, she lost hold of what looked like a diaper bag. Stared at it for a long second but then hurried up the steps, aiming for the door.

Swirling blue lights crawled the buildings, tracing them, as if searching for the bug-bitten superhero. The police car glided onto the narrow street.

I must be cursed.

To change up his appearance, Dillon shrugged out of his jacket and folded it under his arm as he reached the woman, still wrangling the screaming child as she stabbed a key at the lock. Her flat door finally swung open.

Dillon snagged the diaper bag from the sidewalk, hustled the five steps up to her stoop, watching as she set down the groceries inside the door and flicked on the foyer light. Not wanting to alarm her, he pushed pleasantry into his voice. “Voilà, madame.”

She turned and, finding him on the step, started. Almost simultaneously came the anticipated explosion of light from the police car that blinded her. Shrinking, the thirtysomething woman shielded her eyes.

Dillon did the same, holding his hand up—an effective way to protect not only his eyes but his identity—as he looked toward the car. Y’know, as if he were any other Joe. Because what criminal would just stand on a doorstep and look at the very authorities he was trying to evade?

He checked the woman, realizing she hadn’t taken the bag yet.

In her eyes radiated concern and uncertainty that had paralyzed her.

Still proffering the diaper pack, he silently begged her not to shout or scream.

That look on her face said she had connected the dots and guessed the police were patrolling her street, so he touched the babe’s head.

Hoped it didn’t make him seem like a creeper.

“Merci,” she finally murmured, the thanks lost amid the baby’s wails. Her gaze bounced between him and the police.

“Voilà,” Dillon said as he casually reached around her, depositing the bag inside the foyer. Stepping back, he hated the way she’d tensed and glanced askance at him, as if he were the criminal the authorities thought.

She wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t have to like it. In fact, he hated it. But this mission was necessary. When he noticed the wash of blue vanish from the walls, he retreated to the narrow sidewalk. “Bonne nuit.”

Her reciprocal “good night”—which sounded uncertain but relieved—scampered after him as he headed in the direction the cops had taken, wagering they wouldn’t backtrack.

At least this way, he’d be behind them, able to eyeball and anticipate their movement.

But when he hit the main road, the blue lights were gone.

Donning his jacket again, he switched the baseball cap for the warm beanie, hunched into the jacket, and continued down the street.

After another twenty minutes passed without incident, he spotted a flat-topped roof and scaled up to it, the surface still warm from the long-gone sun.

He lowered himself against a chimney, folded his arms over his chest, and burrowed into the corner.

Tilting his head back, he grunted at the smudge of black overhead, wishing for the canvas of stars.

But in even that he was defeated, thanks to the City of Light’s ever-present illumination.

Elbows on his knees, he hooked his hands over his head and scratched his shorn hair.

Man, he’d screwed up tonight. He’d been so close to Galtieri.

Took a risk he shouldn’t have. While he’d gotten away, it’d been close.

Too close. Cost him time. Maybe got his face on some feeds.

Now the Ritz would be on alert tomorrow night for Galtieri’s dinner party.

Gut rumbling with hunger, he felt his ribs poking out.

Being on the lam didn’t make for fattened calves or a full stomach.

Clenching his jaw, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

His gut grumbled again, hunger gnawing at his insides.

In the morning, he’d grab something to tide him over.

How much did he have left? He reached in his pocket for his money…

and faltered when he felt only the fabric lining.

His heart skipped a beat, but maybe he’d put it in the other pocket. He checked. Nothing. Empty.

No no no.

It wasn’t just the money that had taken a week of tourist trolling to accrue. It was the device. The one Helios had sent so Dillon could pair with Galtieri’s phone.

“Augh!” Dillon smacked his head back against the chimney. Again. Again. He jabbed the heels of his hands into his eyes as he growled. Without the device, being here in Paris—which had taken him weeks to effect—was pointless. A waste of time and resources.

But Galtieri was here. If he didn’t figure something out, the billionaire connected to—responsible for—Dad’s disappearance would leave the city. No guaranteeing he’d go back to his Italian villa, but even if he did, it’d take weeks or months before another opportunity presented itself.

Frustration soaked his muscles, making them heavy, aching.

Like his soul. Now he had to find more money.

Republic Square was the place to do that.

If he could get money, maybe he’d be able to reach Helios in time.

But the chances he could get another device before tomorrow night were pretty much nil.

God, I need a break. With the way things were going, he should add a qualifier. And just so we’re crystal, not a limb.