Page 6 of French Escapade

Ken

Jimmy’s sleeping. The ability to nap at will is his superpower. For a few minutes, I thought he was going to let the cute Air France flight attendant talk him into spending some quality time with her to help him forget Marie, but no. He’s actually not even mentioned her name since he told me she was gone. It’s as if she never existed.

I don’t care if he never wants to see her again. I, for one, intend to chase her down. I’m not giving up my half of our Xbox without a fight.

I’m angrier by the minute.

Angry at Marie.

Angry I was prohibited from contacting Madison on my last mission.

Angry at Madison. What the hell was she thinking? Didn’t she see that it was crazy to run away to another country, on the spur of the moment, with a guy she didn’t even know?

Miranda, her BFF, was even more worried than me when I called her before going to the airport. Madison had sent her some scary messages as well. Between fits of minor hysteria, she managed to tell me that they had met those two guys in a nightclub. I refrained from asking what they were doing there a week before finals. The question would have been counterproductive. I intend to ask Madison when I find her.

Two dudes took them out to trendy places several nights in a row, and then suggested a weekend in Paris.

Both Madison and Miranda were all in. A weekend in Paris? Fabulous! And then Miranda chickened out.

Why? Because her dad keeps the family passports in the safe where he stores his gun collection, and she wasn’t brave enough to ask him to open the safe for her. I shake my head, wondering why I didn’t do the same.

To kill some time during this never-ending flight, I try to come up with a plan based on the little information I have. It’s a professional hazard. The Army has drilled into me that if you fail to plan, then you’re planning to fail.

What I know is: her room number is 320, in a hotel facing the sea, rented by a guy who goes by the name of Arkady.

Oh, and if what Madison told Miranda is true, it’s a ritzy place. In Paris, they were in a five-star palace. The pictures posted by my sister on Instagram should help us find the one in Cannes.

Instagram; another reason to be angry at my sister. I’ve told her again and again that, given the sensitive nature of my job, she has to stay away from social media. Never mind the fact that today I’m sort of glad she didn’t listen.

There’s no Madison Dylan online … but MadMaStar is everywhere the kids hang out.

The good news is that MadMaStar has somehow paid attention to her pain-in-the-ass brother’s lectures. Her face is nowhere to be seen. There are pictures of her sparkly sneakers, her multicolored lacquered nails, the rainbow of her hair colors, and her weird hairdos, but none of her face. She did listen to some of it, after all. Well, sort of. I take my comfort where I can find it.

So, here’s my plan—we land, find the hotel, grab Madison, and the kid and I go home. Jimmy can stay for a week if he wants to roam around the south of France. But I’m not about to treat Madison to a week on the Riviera to reward her for running away like that with a guy she barely knew.

A fast commando operation, andvoilà.And when we get home, I’ll lock Madison in her room until she graduates … taking her classes online.

As Jimmy sleeps away the hours, I stretch my legs in the galley. The flight attendant is doing some administrative work on her tablet. She stands as I arrive.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asks in English.

“Just a glass of a water, please.”

Her smile widens when I answer in French.

“Coming right up,” she says switching to her native language. It’s so nice to meet an American who speaks French.”

“Foreign languages are sort of my jam,” I tell her, while taking the glass she offers.

“Really? If someone had asked me to guess what line of work you and your buddy are in, I would have said you were in the military.”

“Interesting, what gave it away?”

“It’s in the details. The way you hold yourself. When I look at you, I think hard work and discipline,” she answers spontaneously.

“Well you’re right,” I answer and laugh. “You called it right. I’m military and a linguist.”

“It’s not the whole answer. There’s a lot more going onunderLos Alamitos than people suspect. It’s true that Jimmy, Mouss, and I spend about a third of our duty hours training allied forces on simulators. Other times we assist in real time from thousands of miles away.

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