Page 2 of Rogue
I take a seat at a small sidewalk table but close enough to the patisserie window where I don’t stick out to the pedestrians passing by. Then I sip my coffee as I troll through social media, starting with that Novák’s Twitter page. Like so many other subversive leaders, he’s active online, primarily to recruit Pricks from around the world to work with him. Seems any asshole has the capacity to reach millions in the click of a button without censor.
I search for anything that’ll give me a heads-up as to where he might be found.
Back in Oklahoma, I’d had an unfortunate last-minute run-in with his mobster pal, Franco—may he forever rest in peace . . . okay,not. But aside from the firsthand knowledge the mobster’s now six-foot-under, I escaped Declan and my hometown of Shelby with a clue—the two cities where Novák might be operating from. Geneva was a bust. Which leads me to, you guessed it,Le Gai Paris.
Ironic how I’m in the City of Love, heartbroken and with murder on my mind.
I pause, my thumb going numb, and I struggle not to spit up my coffee when I catch sight of a post. It’s a call to action, with picture of me, with my vibrant circus-goth red hair and the captionkill the bitch kyliebeneath it.
My real name. Sporting my current coiffure. Except I’m wearing a classic Bruce SpringsteenBorn to RunT-shirt. I frown down at the screen. I gave up my penchant for wearing classic punk-ass T-shirts after escaping Franco’s men. And Declan . . . can’t forget him. I’ve ditched the T’s for more Parisian chic Boho dresses, fearful Diego will easily hone in on my T-shirt collection. A dead giveaway, so to speak. A petty sacrifice made in order to stay alive.
I carefully study the picture. I’m standing in front of a brick building and staring at something across the street. Oh shit, no. It can’t be. I hold my phone closer to me as if that’ll disprove what’s blatantly obvious. Someone snapped a photograph of me, standing in front of the TORC safe house. Hayden’s going to kill me for this. But that’s not what has my pulse racing.
Since going rogue, I’ve only been there once and I don’t have to see her face in the picture to know who I’m staring at. My sister, Madelyn.
Shit. Oh shit.
I squeeze my eyes closed and inhale deeply.She’s safe. Don’t panic. It’ll be just for a little longer until you can call for an update.
Still, this is worse than I imagined. I’d been nothing but careful. Who was outside the safe house, close enough to me to snap a picture? And how did it end up on Novák’s site? God, it’s like that classic seventies song, with jokers on the outside and me being stuck smack in the middle. Holy hell, who doesn’t want me dead?
I jump when a young waitress interrupts my thoughts. “Voulez-vous quelque chose de plus?”
“I’ve had enough,” I reply far too forcefully. Yeah, I’ve had enough. Time to step up my game before it’s game-over-for-Kylie. With my goody bag clutched in one hand and the phone in the other, I rush away and onto the hilly streets of Montparnasse. A sugary confection is not going to help me out of this shitty situation. But Francis might.
I stop on the corner of rue Broca and rue Claude Bernard, then dial my so-called ally and last remaining contact in TORC.
The phone rings and rings, and just as I’m giving up hope, he answers.
“Kylie? Where are you?”
“All over the sites, it appears. My picture’s plastered all over Novák’s organization. Any idea how it got there?” I demand.
“Um . . . well . . . no. Are you sure it’s you?” Francis’s voice quivers. Either he’s hiding something or coked up—or quite likely, despite the early Oklahoma hour, both.
“On second thought, it could be Jessica Chastain.”
“Who?”
I sigh. “The actress. She won a Golden Globe forZero Dark Thirty?”
“Never heard of her. Where are you staying in Paris? I can wire money to you . . .”
I stop before a pretty blue-shuttered building and turn my back to the crowds of pedestrians passing by. My reflection is mirrored back to me from the windowpane, so it’s no surprise when I spy the frown marring my forehead. I never told Francis I’m in Paris. Though besides Geneva, where else would I be?
“Which whole number falls between six and eight,” I ask him, glaring down at the phone.
“What? Seven. Are you okay?”
No. I’m far from okay.“That’s what I thought,” I reply. Yeah, little did I realize when I dubbed Francis with the nickname Worm how suitable it’d be. But I’ve known it for a while now. Nine months, to be exact.
Patience. You’re counting on him to feed information on your whereabouts to Novák, remember.
I clench and unclench my fist, once, twice. So preoccupied with getting a grip on my temper, that on the third squeeze, I almost miss it—the gentle tug on my scarf. It tightens around my neck and I hastily reach for the soft cotton material at my throat. Alarmed, I drag my gaze back to the glass just as the scarf falls lax. But when I catch a fleeting glimpse of the tall blond man out of the edge of the windowpane, I feel like I’m choking. My throat hitches and my world goes topsy-turvy.
No. Impossible. It can’t be.
“Are you going to answer me, Kylie? I can have money sent to your hotel . . .”
