Chapter 2
Paris, France
Never again would he complain about a lumpy mattress. Or about Waldo, the family dog, climbing into bed with him back home. He’d take the lumps and the wet-dog smell over dirty concrete rooftops or slimy alleys, where he’d been forced to sleep over the last year.
But for Dad…
An hour ago as dawn cracked the horizon, he’d climbed off the roof and made his way to Republic Square.
The police interest in him seemed to have died down.
He’d hustled into the subway, watching carefully for dropped money.
While he wasn’t intimately familiar with French currency, he had a pretty decent understanding of its values.
This venture to find Dad came with a set of demands that challenged his moral code in more ways than one.
He hated breaking laws—there was just no way around that, since he’d had to cross borders without valid identification.
If he’d entered lawfully, he could be traced.
If he could be traced, he could be stopped.
That wasn’t an option. Guilt clobbered him over those broken laws.
Didn’t make him proud. Which was why he kept everything else he did aboveboard.
Staying off-grid had been whack at first, but he’d learned, compensated.
Entered buildings via unlocked or opened doors.
It’d shocked him the amount of untouched food tourists left on tables.
He wasn’t nasty—didn’t touch half-eaten stuff.
But no problem downing the leftover slice of pizza because a tourist gorged themselves on bread or ate dessert.
Money got dropped. He wasn’t a punk—if he saw a large bill fall out, he returned it to the careless tourist. That’s where his rules came into play—the likeability factor, the authority rule.
People were predictable and he capitalized on that.
Some offered him something in return for their gratitude.
Around noon, he entered the internet café with enough money to pay for a couple puffy pastry pizza-like things and an hour of internet.
Used his pseudonym—River Styx, which only those versed in Greek mythology might get—to log in at a terminal in a booth near the back door.
He devoured the pastries and gulped the first cup of unlimited black coffee refills.
Amazing what a guy could get used to when money was scarce.
He navigated to the secure site Helios had set up and logged in. Sent his first chat message.
BAD NIGHT. DEVICE LOST. SEND ANOTHER. NEED CASH FOR EVENT.
Scanning the loud American couple and their two kids who entered, Dillon slurped the coffee as he waited for a response.
When the screen remained blank, he slipped over to the carafe and refilled his cup.
Toyed with buying another pastry pizza, but decided to save what little money he’d foraged.
Besides, he guessed the dinner party would have food.
He’d stuff his face there. Assuming he still went. Assuming Helios came through.
“You know what they say about assuming,” Dad had always said.
Yeah, well, Dillon had to live that right now.
The screen shifted, snagging his attention. A response awaited him.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS? AND HOW MUCH THAT THING COST ME? YOU AIN’T JAMES BOND. GO NATURAL.
Tightening his jaw at the chastisement, Dillon eyed the clock on the wall.
Helios was six hours behind him—wasn’t even dawn there.
Probably explained the snark. He set the coffee down and typed.
While he understood neither of them were loaded, Helios was far better off right now than Vagrant Dillon.
And the dude was fire when it came to white-hat hacking and digital spy-craft.
WHEN WILL THE FUNDS BE READY?
YOU ARE GOING TO LEGIT OWE ME.
Sure. Whatever. It wasn’t like there was anything but the skin on his back left for someone to take. But if it saved his dad, he’d pay anything—everything. Whatever it took. Even his own life.
He waited, still ticked with himself for losing the first one.
But he could not go to the dinner party without the device, and he couldn’t get into the event looking and smelling like an overripe avocado—and foraging in the garbage of a restaurant told him what that reek was like.
This was his one chance to get Galtieri to give up answers about Dad.
And man, he hated that he was the only one out here trying to find his dad. That there were others with endless funding and resources, all sitting on their laurels.
The screen again shifted with the newest message from Helios:
FINE. FINE. XFER READY AT 1PM.
EXCELLENT. THX. L8R.
Dillon logged out—no need to stay on longer than absolutely necessary—and left the café.
He had enough money for a shower at the hostel where he had a locker.
In there, he’d stuffed a suit someone had left on a park bench.
There was no identification, so Dillon adopted the suit that was too wide and an inch too short, but it had served him well.
And would again tonight. No tie, so he just wore it loose.
Made use of the laundry place, then stored his clothes, and headed out, ready for the gala.
First, hit the electronics store to pick up the replacement device.
He waited at the crosswalk, ready for answers.
Ready to go on with this thing. He’d been in limbo too long.
Shouts echoed up and down the street, sending his heart into overdrive. Had they found him? He glanced toward the commotion, half expecting to see authorities rushing him.
“Let her go, man!” a guy shouted at a thug who held a woman in a reverse choke hold.
Even as he watched, Dillon noticed another, more distant confrontation between a sleek black SUV and a box truck a couple blocks down.
“Easy, easy!” the first man was warning.
Dillon felt his life power down to an infinitesimal rate as recognition struck him at that blond head…the voice… That looked and sounded like—
Holy fire, what was Owen Metcalfe doing here?
Can’t be.
Gut tight, Dillon moved in that direction, feeling as if he’d transported through some time bubble as he watched Apollo barrel into the man holding the woman. The two went to ground.
Tires pealed as a black SUV careened around a corner.
This…this wasn’t just about Apollo saving some random woman on the streets of Paris. This reeked of a setup. An ambush? But…how? Who? Why?
Though he considered lending Apollo a hand, he could not get involved. Tonight was the dinner party. He had to get close to Galtieri. Pair the phone. Still, Dillon found himself aiming that way. Pacing his Scion brother.
Owen broke loose, shoved up and hurried the girl who’d been accosted into the black SUV that lurched to the curb with a screech.
Door closed, he sprinted off down an alley, apparently in pursuit of the attacker.
Apollo reappeared on the other side, seconds behind the big guy who slipped away via a panel door. As Apollo watched.
Do what?
Owen bypassed the door. Popped out on the street again.
Peripheral awareness had Dillon locking onto men loitering on the square. Talking to no one in particular. He skated his gaze back to Owen, who returned to the café as if this were any other day in Paris.
But it wasn’t. Something was happening… And he wasn’t working alone—that middle-aged guy…
Understanding dawned. Balled his fists. That guy looked a lot like Pike Auberon, CEO of Omen Tactical Group. The team Dad had been partnering with when he vanished. The guy who’d straight-up lied to Dillon’s face in Virginia, said Dad was dead.
What was Owen doing with that piece of dung?
They’d talked about this—about not working with Omen.
Dillon trailed the younger Scion member back to the hotel, watched him enter.
About to go inside, he pulled up sharp when he spotted the Omen operators loitering in the lobby and out front. Where was Atlas? Why was the team here?
Because Owen’s bait.
Diverting quickly, he overheard the barrel-chested oaf who’d played attacker earlier muttering the room number to the chief.
Dillon could only smirk, because it made this easier on him, but he also cursed them for being so careless with operational security, which could compromise his Scion brother.
He made his way around the back and found a delivery truck parked at the bay door.
While the driver chatted with a worker, Dillon slipped around the other side and snuck into the hotel.
Headed up to the third floor. A staff member held a food tray and positioned himself in front of the door to Owen’s room.
“Ah bien,” Dillon said. “C’est pour ici?” He pointed to the door as if that were his room.
The man hesitated, but nodded.
Dillon took the tray before the guy could refuse. “Je le prends.” He patted his chest to make the guy believe the food was for him. “Merci.” He waited as the employee faltered, then shrugged and left, before Dillon used the tray to shield his face. He rapped twice. “Room service.”
It took forever, doubts breeding in the back of his head that maybe he had the wrong room. What if an Omen team member was in there with him? But bait wouldn’t have company. Lone fish.
The door opened and Apollo’s bleached head was there again.
Dillon plowed forward. “Inside, inside,” he rasped, forcing Owen backward. Clear of the door, he kicked it shut.
“What is—”
He powered into the guy, whose blue eyes went wild.
“Dillon?”
Man, it felt good to hear someone say his real name. To see someone he knew. He gave a chagrined nod. “Hey.”
“What are you doing here?”
He checked the bathroom near the main door, then set the food tray on the desk across from a bed that was definitely more comfortable than the dirty roof.
Had to admit he hated that Owen was up here sitting in luxury while he was hoofing it around the world, begging and trolling tourists to keep from starving.
“You have to get out,” Owen snapped. “Leave! You could blow everything.”
That pulled him around and made him scowl. “Blow what?”
Owen seemed to struggle to put steel in his spine as he jutted his jaw. “I’m on an op.”
A dark anger flashed through Dillon as he scanned the room. “Omen.” He could not hide the acid in his tone as he faced his Scion brother. “You’re here with Omen? Are you freaking kidding me? You know they’re connected to what happened to my dad!”
Owen faltered, his mouth gaping but no sound coming from him.
That was all Dillon needed to know. Unbelievable.
Owen followed. “I’m—”
“Forget it!” Dillon headed deeper into the room. Eyed the window—good escape route. But he angled for the thick backpack on the chair at the desk. Ripped open the zipper. Rifled through it, the smell of a burger permeating his senses. Made his stomach growl.
“What’re you doing?” Owen rushed him. “Aren’t you listening? You can’t be here. You have to—”
“You have a phone on you? Credit card?”
Owen stilled. “No. I—”
“Bullspit,” Dillon growled, growing more annoyed that Owen was living high off the hog here. “They wouldn’t put you on an op—”
“I don’t,” Owen ground out. “I’m here, waiting for Saudis to come kidnap me.”
Dillon slowed, lifting his gaze to him. He eyed the door with more than a little anger.
“You serious?—No, you’re flippin’ stupid!
Saudis?” Had the kid not studied World History?
Middle Eastern history? He knew he had—they’d had the class together!
“They’ll gut you, Apollo. They aren’t anything to play around with. What’s the op?”
“I’m not telling you anything until I know what you are doing here.”
He sure had grown a pair since they’d last talked. “Chasing leads. This guy I’m tracking, who was the last person to see my dad alive, is here.” He gave Owen a look. “You seriously working for Omen? Thought you hated contract—”
“Dillon. Get out of here. You cannot screw this up.”
Two raps stilled them both and yanked their gazes to the door. “Room service for Mr. Apollo.”
“Food’s already here,” Dillon said, indicating to the tray in front of him, then he darted to the door.
“What are—”
“It’s one guy,” Dillon said. “We can take him.”
“No!” Owen hissed. “If that’s the Saudis, you cannot intervene.” He gripped his head. “You can’t be here. You’re going to screw everything up. Whatever you need, take it and go—out the window!”
“Nice to see you too.”
“Says the guy foraging for a credit card.”
Dillon smirked. “Fair.” He ducked into the bathroom and cocked his head toward the door, telling Owen to answer it.
More knocks. “Mr. Apollo, forgot your drink. Leaving it by the door.”
Even as Owen moved to the door, Dillon darted to the desk, snagged the burger, and stuffed it in his mouth.
Amid Owen’s apology for taking so long and the worker saying they’d forgotten the drink, Dillon made quick work of exiting the room via the window.
He climbed out onto the iron rail of the balcony and hiked up and away.
Hoped his Scion brother survived the dumpster fire that was Omen.
As for himself…he had a dinner party to attend.