Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Reaching the designated locker at the Gare de l'Est station proves to be twice as difficult now that my status has been updated from partner to wife.
My tail was blatantly obvious the second I stepped foot outside. An echo of crunching leaves behind me, the sidestepping scrape of shoes against pavement each time I moved to glance over my shoulder.
Manon’s driver was nowhere to be seen. They’d either lost interest for the day, or they didn’t expect to see Graham’s professed spouse prowling the streets of Paris after dark. Whoever has become my shadow is a new player in the game.
Or, Klaus saw straight through our ruse and decided to have me killed. The possibilities are endless.
I shrug my duffel a little further up my back as an excuse for a furtive look behind me again. My general lack of weapons has me feeling defenseless and naked.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m confident that I’d win in one-on-one combat—statistically, most opponents are drunk, overconfident, undertrained, or all three.
But you don’t take a pair of fists to a gun fight.
Or a knife fight, for that matter. Whoever’s trailing behind me is probably armed to the teeth, and they most likely have friends.
Makes me wish I brought my flimsy pocket knife.
With my imminent death in mind, I pick up the pace once the train station comes into view.
I hear their steps quicken as well. Heavy footfalls.
Definitely a man, and a lumbering, clumsy one at that.
Maybe I’d have a chance to outrun him. Best case scenario, of course, would be finding something to crush his skull with.
I don’t appreciate being followed. Who does?
I slip through the gates and barrel as nonchalantly as I can through the doors. If I can get to that locker, there will be a gun waiting for me. Disassembled. But that’s a problem for future Sloane.
Unfortunately, I picked this hour because the latest train has already left. Gare de l'Est is practically barren. There are no crowds to duck into for cover, no stunts I can pull. Just me and the haunting echo of footsteps as I home onto the locker I’m aiming for.
I press the key, left for me at the hotel’s reception, into my palm. Worst case scenario would be trying to pop an eyeball with this thing.
It causes so much blood, though. Quite the hassle.
And I like these clothes! Blood stains are incredibly tedious to remove.
My stare latches onto a huge security camera mounted in the corner. If I’m dealing with a professional, they’re not going to risk dragging a lone woman away on camera. Think of the paperwork.
Unless he’s working with a partner who’s already disabled the security system…
As I’m closing in on the locker, my brain involuntarily wanders to Graham.
We’re a package deal now. A bounty on my head means there’s a bounty on his head—and he’s folded onto an antique armchair, handcuffed to a piece of furniture.
Although, if I’m being honest, he’s most likely freed himself at this point.
And, more importantly, why am I worrying about Graham Baudelaire when I’m about to fight for my life?
My hands fly the second I reach the locker: key into lock.
Turn. I rip open the box and pray Ximena included a sizable blade in my kit.
The heavy footfalls march closer. There, in the corner beside a disassembled Glock 19, is an unassuming push knife.
Thin polymer, designed to be easily hidden and undetectable by metal detectors.
Incredibly questionable to have on my person if I’d been stopped by a customs officer when arriving in Paris.
I reach for it and shove both hands in my pockets.
The locker door slams shut.
I glare up at my stalker, expecting to be looking down the barrel of a gun. Instead, I’m looking at a burly, 6’5 bald guy in a… Hawaiian shirt.
“You,” I seethe, taking a step forward. Always forward, never backward. “You’ve been following me since Colorado.”
His ruddied pale face pinches into a frown. “You need to come with me, Agent.”
American accent. Brooklyn, if I had to guess. He sounds like someone I’d be worried to come across in a dark alleyway, but is dressed like someone’s dad on vacation. Could be a clever manipulation tactic.
The rough stippling on the grip of my knife cuts into my skin. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”
“Because we believe you’re in imminent danger.”
I pointedly scan him from head to toe. “I beg to differ.”
He opens his mouth, then ducks a fraction, head tilting how it does when you’re wearing an ear piece and you’re inexperienced. Or way too comfortable, given that this guy is clearly in his forties. “Yeah,” he says. “You were right about the attitude.”
My eyes catch on the vein in his neck. Easy target.
He reaches for something in his pocket, and I’m coiled to pounce.
“Woah, woah.” The man holds up one hand and slowly lifts the hem of his shirt, slipping the wallet from his pocket that’s half hanging out.
“Here,” he says, tossing it my way. “And you can stop pretending like I don’t know you have a knife in there. ”
I sniff in his direction and catch his wallet. When I flip it open, the glaring blue-and-white FBI badge glints under the fluorescent lights. Special Agent Carmine Gotti.
Well, that explains a lot.
And, contrarily, nothing at all.
I snap it shut and shove it in my other pocket.
“Hey!” Carmine huffs. “I’m gonna need that back.”
“For all I know you could be posing as an FBI agent. Fraud runs rampant in that agency—terrible security protocols.” I pat my pocket and raise an eyebrow. “Got a printer and a laminator? Congratulations, you’re an FBI agent.”
He scoffs and folds his arms across his barrel chest. “Everyone in the private sector is the same. All hoity-toity until you need an exfiltration.”
“At least I’m not wearing obnoxiously colored shirts in the field. You’re like a giant, Hawaiian-printed target.”
“I’ll have you know, they’re both comfortable and breathable.”
I squint at him. “Last I checked, it’s illegal for the FBI to operate in foreign countries.”
“Congrats, you passed a grade school civics class,” he replies sarcastically. “Let’s just say, this has piqued the interest of a number of countries.”
“You’re working with the French government.”
“Among others.”
Now I know he’s lying. He doesn’t have any obvious tells, which is strange for a fed, but there’d be no reason for the French government—or any government, for that matter—to feel the need to warn me. It’s usually the other way around.
Carmine pauses and tilts his head again, eyes falling to the floor.
He has the self-preservation skills of a gnat.
Or he actually believes I won’t jam this knife into his jugular if he takes one wrong step.
“Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah, you were right. Look, she’s not comin’ with me, and I don’t think she’ll take too kindly to me throwing her over my shoulder,” he says to whoever’s on the other end of his ear piece.
Right on both counts.
He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and retrieves a business card from his other pocket. No name, just an international number printed in black. His hand freezes mid-air between us for several beats before I snatch it from him and push his wallet back into his grip.
“You’ve got a lotta heat, whether you know it or not.” Carmine points to the card I’ve tucked into my back pocket. “We can protect you, Agent, but only so long as you’re useful to us. Don’t let your stubbornness etch the date on your gravestone.”
I roll my eyes, hiding the nausea churning in my stomach. “I can protect myself perfectly fine.”
“Sure you can, kid.” Carmine sucks his teeth and lifts both shoulders into a shrug. “We’re only warnin’ you—there’s blood in the water, and the sharks are circling.” He walks away before I can reply and vanishes around the corner.
I huff a sigh and scan my surroundings a few times before allowing my muscles to relax.
The locker door angled to block the security camera, I keep my chin dipped as I slip the box into my duffel and shut it behind me.
My senses remain on high alert as I walk back to the hotel at a brisker pace, palm curled around the grip of my push knife concealed in my pocket.
The relationship between the ISA and the FBI could be described as precarious at best. Contentious at worst.
They publicly take the credit for arrests while we continue to humiliate them in private.
At press conferences, they pretend to puzzle over assassinations ordered by their own government and executed by the ISA.
We exist to fill the holes left by their incompetency.
It’s not enough that they’re allowed to claim our work—they need to know they could beat us if they needed.
But they can’t, and it drives them insane.
There’s blood in the water, Carmine had said.
Of course there is. I’m not an idiot. Being shackled to a notorious thief suddenly resurfacing with little to no explanation for his disappearance will do that.
Throw in a meddling sister and an in-law with connections to the criminal underworld, and I might as well be strapped to a stick of dynamite with a short fuse.
What the FBI could never understand is that the smell of blood is familiar to me. The picture of dorsal fins swimming in my direction is merely another day on the job.
I don’t uncoil fully until I’m back inside the hotel room and Graham’s peering curiously from his armchair prison.
My duffel bag falls heavily to the floor beside my feet.
He appears unharmed, despite the indignation over being chained to an armoire.
There’s no point in wondering why a small amount of relief floods my chest.
If he’d been killed, I would be unemployed within the hour.
And cleaning up crime scenes is outrageously bothersome.
“A package came for you,” he greets, nodding to a neatly taped box on the coffee table. “Claudette said it arrived by courier.” A slow smile curls on his lips. “I had to make some interesting excuses for the handcuffs, though.”
Rolling my eyes, I slice the box open with my knife and peer inside.
Just as I expected—a limited selection of cameras for me to install tonight.
The only way for Ximena to get me proper weapons was by more clandestine tactics.
She risked her neck for the knife and handgun rattling around in my duffel.
“I hope you’re hungry.” I toss a wad of euros on the coffee table beside the box. “Dinner’s on the FBI.”