Page 27 of Rogue
There’s another reason that stone-cold killer let you go. You’re just in denial.
“Where are you?” Francis asks, predictably.
“I’m at a lovely little corner cafe in Montparnasse. Actually, it’s called Cafe Montparnasse. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt this relaxed. I took a mental-health break. No weapons. No worries. Just me and jolly Paris.”
There’s silence on the other end. No warnings like, “No weapons? What a dumb amateurish move, Kylie.” Nothing.
“Are you still awake?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he snaps.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“If there are ten men after me and I terminate three of them, how many will still be left, jonesing to kill me?”
“What? Do the math,” he grounds out. “Seven.”
“Seven?”
“Are you deaf? Seven.”
“And of all the ex-military guys, hard-core fighters, street-bred men, why do you think I chose you to be on my team? I mean, I could have had a butcher like Broken-Nose. Or any number of ruthless men. But I helped carry you through Hell Camp.”
“Uh, hem, I don’t know.”
“Because I trusted you.” I pause and listen to his sharp intake of breath before driving the nail home. “You’re the only friend I have.” True, yet unfortunate.
I wait for him to say, “You’re my closest friend.” Because, let’s face it, I am. Or was. But the line is dead silent.
If I wasn’t counting on him flushing out Novák’s men. If I let myself dwell on why I didn’t inform Hayden of Francis’s drug problem and my partner’s growing resentment toward our boss. I clench my fingers tightly around the phone. Francis is the real traitor. Who’s in cahoots with Novák. Sold TORC out. Pinned the blame on me. Got Jaxson killed . . .
I smile because in the list of wrongs he’s done, Jaxson’s death has always been the worst of it.
“I better go, Francis. If it’s okay, I’ll call you tomorrow for an update. Keep your ear to the ground for me, okay?”
“Sure, Kylie,” he quickly replies.
How does that expression go? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?
I’m so pissed off, I leave a half-full coffee behind as I toss a few euros on the table and head out.
Turning down a side street, I swiftly stalk down the sidewalk, searching for the perfect place to smash the phone into tiny, little lying bits.
I spot an old brick house. Perfect. Setting my satchel on the ground by my feet, I raise the cell phone in my hand and whack it against the wall. One. Two. Three.
I hold it up between my fingers to assess the damage.
Jesus. For a cheap phone, it’s well constructed.
I hear a zinging nose and immediately freeze. Then, to my horror, the cell phone shatters into pieces.
An excellent shot this time.
A sniper shot.
Holy sweet Mary, how did he find me?
