Chapter 13 #2
Dani typed the Peace Makers into the search engine of Brock’s phone while she waited for him to get ready.
She’d showered and dressed after a grumbling Brock allowed her to change the dressing on his shoulder.
She’d slept better than she had in years and felt more like herself than she had in days.
Even without a drop of caffeine her brain was working at breakneck speed despite the early hour.
She clicked on the Images tab and picture after picture of the symbol came up.
No doubt the symbol on Sven’s neck linked him with the group.
Going back to the search engine, she scanned the web searches. Several articles popped up.
Random pipeline bombings in Iran and Saudi Arabia appear to be tied to extremist group the Peace Makers.
Authorities suspect the cult has over two hundred members across Europe working in clusters.
Detective Luis Benoit of Paris’s terrorism unit warns the public that a telltale tattoo could symbolize cult relation.
“Ready to go?” Brock stood at the bathroom door. Steam billowed into the hall at his back. The long stubble that she’d grown to like over the last couple of days was gone. The short beard, now trim and neat, brought out his golden skin and the bright green streaks in his eyes.
She stood from the bed and adjusted her pale pink pullover. “You clean up nice,” she said, as she fit her feet into her shoes.
His eyes danced over her face. “Not as well as you.” He grasped the doorknob and opened the door. “We’ll grab you a new hat today. Better to keep changing our look.”
He peeked around the corner before motioning her to follow. He shut the door firmly and she fell into sync beside him.
“I found this,” she said, as they stepped into the elevator. “It’s not much but it gives us an idea about the group.” She passed him the phone, whose screen displayed the article she’d been reading about the Peace Makers.
“Hmm. Interesting. I wish we could find an individual’s name—that would be our best shot.” Brock pocketed his phone and her face twisted with doubt.
“I’ll look more later. Hopefully Sven’s place will give us a lead.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Four people stood waiting to get on the elevator in the lobby and parted a path as she and Brock exited. Her arm bumped against a black peacoat.
Dani’s skin bristled. Her heart raced and a warning siren screeched in her head. She turned just as the elevator door closed. The blonde woman’s hard brown eyes stared at her.
She linked her arm with Brock’s and he closed his hand over her wrist. Her lungs squeezed, and she moved swiftly across the burgundy-and-gold carpet.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s here.” Dani clutched his arm tight against her side. “The woman from the train. She just brushed past me.”
Brock shoved open the hotel’s glass door.
Picking up his pace, he whisked her to the curb then lifted an arm in the air and pulled her back against his side.
The deep frown line in his forehead and the crush of his arm against her shoulder made panic skid down her spine.
A taxi separated from the slew of traffic moving down the road like thick blood through a clogged artery.
He yanked open the door and she slid across the leather seat so he could sit next to her.
The fact that he hadn’t wasted a second to question her but had gotten her to safety first revealed just how uneasy he was.
Dani leaned toward the driver and recited Sven’s address in the best French she could speak. The driver said something to confirm and pulled away from the curb.
“Are you sure it was her?” He swiveled in his seat to look out the back window.
“Yes. Positive.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “I think. Yes, it had to have been.” The sliver of doubt pried at her memory, picking it apart. She shook her head. No, it was her. “She stared me in the eye. I mean, I saw her face for only half a second, but it looked just like her.”
Some of the angst left Brock’s body. He reached across her, grabbed the seatbelt, and buckled it at her hip.
After fastening his in place, he caught her hand.
“I’m sure you know what you saw, but I hope to hell you’re wrong.
” He clicked his tongue. “It’s weird, though.
She followed us at the train station and could have reported us while we were en route, yet she didn’t.
And if she’s here again without cops . . . it doesn’t add up.”
“I know.” She massaged the tender skin next to her ear. “You must think I’m crazy.” She blew a breath through tight lips. “I might be.”
“You’re not crazy. Maybe she has a doppelg?nger who was pissed you didn’t move out of her way fast enough.” He squeezed her leg. “Look, I trust whatever your gut says.”
“My gut instinct is entirely unreliable right now.” She dropped her head back to the seat and stared out of the window.
Had she imagined the woman? Brock was right.
She wouldn’t follow them aimlessly without reporting them.
If it was the same woman from the train station, she would’ve sent the cops to the hotel, not been there searching for them.
Unless of course she was after the formula.
Worry oscillated against her ribcage. But if that were the case, the woman would have been sneakier and approached them without pause.
The cab slowed in front of a four-story apartment building.
Brock paid the driver and they got out. The building was far from something Dani would expect to find in Paris.
Chunks of stucco broke away from the wall and rust corroded the wrought-iron balconies.
Several other four-story buildings lined the street, all lacking landscaping.
Chairs, boxes, bicycles, and dead plants were scattered along some of the patios, making the neighborhood that much uglier.
“Tell me you’ve never been here before,” Brock whispered, as he opened the door to the vestibule. A young woman in jogging clothes breezed out the door leading to the lobby. Dani caught the handle and Brock followed her inside.
“No, I haven’t. When I met him a few years ago, I remember seeing pictures of his apartment overlooking the river.
It looks like he’d come down in the world.
” Her gaze landed on a tattered brown couch with questionable blotches on its cushions.
Her stomach clenched. “I hate to think what brought him to this point.” She tilted her weight to one side and peeked down the hall.
“I don’t think there’s an elevator, but that must be the stairwell,” she said, pointing to a steel door off the main area of the lobby.
He grunted. “Fuck, it stinks in here.”
She’d been breathing through her mouth since they entered the building. The stench of cigarettes, onions, and a bodily fluid she didn’t want to identify forced itself into her nose. She pressed her knuckles to her nose. “God, it’s awful.”
Once they reached the fireproof cement corridor, Brock climbed the stairs next to her. “I don’t like the sounds of this guy.”
She curled her fingers into her palm to avoid grabbing the handrail. “This isn’t like him at all. Sven was always high maintenance and liked the best of everything. This is . . . strange.”
“Is it the right place? How’d you get his address?”
“He gave it to me when I arrived in Geneva in case of emergency.”
“Hmm.”
She opened the door to the third floor and speed-walked down the hall. With every stomp of her foot dust kicked up from the threadbare carpet, which had probably never seen a vacuum. She stopped in front of the unit marked 304 and nodded at the door.
If she were a little more polite, she would have opened it herself, but if there were ever a moment to latch on to chivalry . . . She had no desire to touch that doorknob coated in god-knows-what germs.
Instead of grabbing the knob, Brock’s fingers hovered over the door’s wood casing. “This was kicked in.”
She narrowed her gaze to the tattered wood around where the door met the jamb at the lock. He pressed his forearm to the wood and she leaned into his side as the door buckled.
Brock’s hand hovered at the small of her back as they crossed the threshold together.
Although it was midafternoon, the apartment was dim.
Thick blankets hung over the only two windows in the living room, blocking out most of the light.
The metallic click of Brock’s gun being removed from behind his back raised her hackles.
He closed the door. “Lock’s busted. Wait here while I do a sweep.”
She knotted her fingers at her stomach and studied his back as he moved into the kitchen and flicked on the light.
The gun at her spine warmed her skin. A plate of half-eaten food sat by the sink and several flies buzzed around it.
Empty takeout cartons sat on the kitchen table, but despite the trash, the area was free of clutter.
A navy-blue coat hung over the back of a chair and a lone pair of men’s running shoes sat overturned at her feet.
She had the impending sensation that someone was home.
Brock moved into the darkness of the living room. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned. His rigid shoulder blades bunched even more. “You need to see this, babe.”