Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
One eye opens. Then another.
Graham’s bedroom door stands slightly ajar, and from my mattress on the floor, I can see shifting shadows in the dim light. The scrape of rubber against hardwood—light, almost inaudible to the untrained ear—and the distinctive slip of fabric being rubbed together.
I’ve barely shaken the sleep off when I reach for my handgun beneath my pillow, rolling out of bed and to the floor in a crouched position.
One, two, three—I slither closer to his door in languid movements, singularly focused on whatever waits for me on the other side.
An intruder is unlikely, given our suite’s location on the top floor and my hunch that Graham would be able to put up a fight if it came to it.
Which leaves Graham, the bane of my existence and current thorn in my side, attempting to flee again.
This time, I’m ready. His mistake was giving me ample time to prepare.
Shouldn’t have waited to install those cameras, I silently chastise myself, he wouldn’t have dared then. There’s no time now to think about the mistakes that seem to be seeping from every pore.
I gently nudge the door further open and peek my head through. He’s by the window, back turned to me, dressed in the same all-black clothing from the other night. I watch as he tugs on his gloves and unlatches the window. My muscles twitch to intervene.
With great effort, I stop myself, holding my breath as he shrugs the backpack on.
A good, by-the-book agent would step in and lock the situation down. They’d handcuff him to a heavy piece of furniture and report to their handler.
I never claimed to be by-the-book. It’s what landed me here in the first place, actually.
Something—that frustrating tingle of curiosity, maybe—holds me back.
I’m sick of constantly being in the dark.
The final four years of my childhood and all of my adult life have been stained with the stifling of any thirst for knowledge and, instead, marching unquestioningly forward.
It got me regular meals, a steady paycheck, a roof over my head.
Kat was right. I’m tired and I’m careless, and I’ve been this way since Chelyabinsk. I can’t ignore that anymore.
How am I going to get a straight answer from Graham without bending the rules a little more?
I have a natural penchant for it, and last I checked, Raffaele is nowhere to be seen.
In the end, it might help the mission. Or he’s simply sneaking out for a snack and a pint, and the ISA never needs to know about me flouting protocol.
For the second time since we arrived in Paris.
Graham pulls something from his pocket, and my jaw hinges open. The silver catches the moonlight for a split-second before he’s leaning outside the window, one foot on the ledge, perilously balanced while he attaches it to the end of the balcony railing.
Is he seriously going to?—
With the ease of a cat who has all nine lives remaining, he hoists himself out of the window, grips the rope, gives the grappling hook a yank, and begins rappelling off the side of the hotel with his uninjured arm.
Pardon me for underestimating him, I think, blinking for a moment before springing into action.
My sweats fly off and I waste too much time digging through the mountain of shopping bags.
I grab the darkest items I can find—black jeans and a sweater, Poppy’s trusty old boots.
I tuck my handgun under my waistband and hide it beneath my top.
Creeping out the front door, I begin a lightfooted sprint down the endless stairs.
To avoid raising suspicion, I slow to a saunter on the ground floor, smiling at the overnight receptionist as if I’m headed out for a casual evening stroll.
The tips of my fingers are buzzing once I’m out in the cold. I pick up the pace, halting at the edge of the hotel and plastering myself against the wall to stay in the shadows. There—on the other side of the road—a dark figure moves further away.
Gaze flitting up and down the street, I quickly cross and begin a tail, sticking to the edges of the path in case I need to vanish.
Either I’m an excellent stalker, or Graham’s too preoccupied to notice me. He avoids the main sidewalks, choosing to cut through unlit parks, no doubt to avoid traffic cameras. Smart.
I’m so focused on matching his footsteps that I nearly miss where we’re headed.
In the distance, marked by towering pillars and matching statues flanking the steps and perched on the roof, the Grand Palais looms. The glass panes of its legendary domed roof wink in the moonlight. A banner, reading Exposition Art Nouveau, flaps in the breeze. My stomach twists.
He can’t be serious, I’m thinking as he crosses through the trees and away from the front entrance. Of course he’s serious—I watched him rappel down the side of a hotel ten minutes ago. Apparently, he can’t hold himself back from committing crimes, even for a couple weeks. He’s an addict.
With a fresh wave of anger washing over my shoulders, I quietly draw nearer, closing the gap when he stops beside the museum beneath the canopy of branches.
“You,” I hiss, relishing in the satisfaction when his head whips over his shoulder and his eyes widen to saucers. “What do you think you’re doing? Have you gone completely insane?”
Graham glances back to the museum, recovering his composure once he’s turned to me. “If I’m not mistaken, Agent, we were sent to Paris and tasked with committing a crime.” He shrugs his backpack off. “Perhaps I’m merely expediting the process.”
I pinch my eyebrow. “Do you take me for a moron? You’re trying to get back whatever your sister decided to donate to the Grand Palais.
” He doesn’t halt, crouching to the grass and pulling tools out from his bag.
“Which is rich, by the way, because I’m pretty sure you can’t hang a bunch of paintings in your cell at the supermax,” I goad.
His eyes cut to mine, black in the darkness. “And you must truly think me a fool if you believe that’s all I’m doing.”
“Then tell me,” I snap.
Graham lets out a dry laugh. “You’re a fed.”
I reel backward as if I’ve been slapped, casting him a steely glare. “Call me anything—anything—but that.”
“Would you prefer ‘hired thug’? How about ‘mercenary’?”
My mouth opens with a response. Graham stands, a contraption in his hands that I can’t quite grasp in the dim light. I don’t put it together until he begins stepping through what appears to be a harness.
“Your shoulder.” I lurch forward and press his wounded shoulder for good measure, and he narrowly holds back a wince.
He steps away from my hand. “How do you expect to climb that wall—” I crane my neck, straining for a glimpse through the trees.
“—with one arm? What is that, fifteen stories? Twenty? The hotel was only four.”
“I’ll be perfectly fine, no need to fret, dear Wife.” Graham retrieves a black box from his bag, about half the size of his chest. “I feed the rope into one end, and it’ll take me back down without me breaking a sweat.”
I blink. “And when did you get that?”
“It was one of my few remaining belongings after my sister’s purge.”
I press both palms to my eyes. “You own the paintings. Simply ask for them back.”
“Thank you, I hadn’t considered that—brilliant,” he replies flatly. “Far too much paperwork and I’m on a schedule.”
“And—” Pausing, I scan the trees and the street behind us. Still empty, aside from the odd taxi that zips by without slowing. It’s too dark back here for anyone to see from the road. I hope. “—exactly how are you planning on anchoring yourself to the roof from all the way down here?” I finish.
Graham clasps the harness around his hips, one corner of his mouth curling upward. “Nothing a spot of free soloing can’t fix.” He motions overhead. “Once I hit the halfway point, there are grooves for skyhooks.”
“You can’t possibly be this stupid,” I whisper-yell.
He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Careful, Agent, you’re veering rather close to a compliment.”
Graham’s hands never stop moving, securing the device back into his bag and slinging the rope around his neck and shoulder.
The man’s going to get himself killed or captured, and any hopes I have of finally proving myself will go up in flames.
My life will never return to normal. The Consultant will vanish into thin air and enact whatever horrible plan he has that’s given him security to reveal his face.
My stomach flips and my fingertips feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton.
Well, I already knew I’d be committing a crime in Paris. I just didn’t know it would be happening this fast.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Unfortunately, right now it’s my job to keep you alive, and preferably out of a French prison—at least until I complete this assignment.”
“Get on with it, Agent, a guard is due to come sniffing around here in thirty minutes.”
My features tighten. “So this is the plan you’re going with?”
“Evidently,” he quips, motioning to his gear.
“And I’m not going to be able to stop you.”
“Quite.”
Silently cursing myself, I prop one hand on my hip and extend the other. Graham’s stare darts from me, to my hand, then back to me. A full-fledged smile tugs onto his lips.
I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?