Page 54 of Rogue
I scowl. “What does he have to do with what I asked you?”
“Fuck, Kylie. My reasons won’t make a difference now.”
“Fuck, Declan. Tell me.”
“That day in the great room, after Jaxson went after Hayden—”
“—while you stood by, isn’t that right . . . ?”
“Jaxson made me swear that if Hayden ever sent me after you, I’d give you a chance.”
“What?” I gasp.
“An eye for an eye. He saved my ass once. So I saved yours.”
The cell phone shakes in my hand. “He made you promise not to hurt me?” I ask, my tone filled with disbelief. Declan, after all, operated by a strict code of honor. To defy Hayden . . .
He’s silent. Probably scratching his thick head over this screwed-up situation. “I better go,” I say, ten seconds away from any state-of-the-art tracking device honing in on my disposable phone.
“Tell Hayden if he lays one finger on my sister, I’ll be coming for him.”
“I told you. He won’t.”
I scowl. Clearly Declan is touched in the head when it comes to our ruthless boss.
“Tell him the matter of who’s snitching TORC secrets will be resolved shortly, with or without his hired help breathing down my neck.”
Declan snorts, then lowers his voice. “A word of advice . . .”
“Yes?”
“Terminate Novák.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Yeah. But don’t jerk around. Do it quickly.”
“You said it first. Time’s up. Bye.” I disconnect, stand, and pitch the phone into the air, watching it land then roll across Jean-Paul and Simone’s grave.
Best get moving before my lover buries me as well.
15
Paris
On a different day, for a different girl, with a different purpose in being here, the narrow, winding streets of Montmartre—with its bright storefronts, streets artists and acrobats, diverse mix of laid-back locals and fussy tourists, and chocolate shops selling mouth-watering slivers of divinity—would have felt like a home away from home.
Instead, I’m stuck watching locals shop and tourists’ profiles being sketched and everyone around me eating chocolate like it’s their last supper.
Even the Pricks I’m following.
The sunshine should feel welcoming after days tracking them underground. Except wouldn’t you know it’s raining?
Not that a little drizzle stops the locals or tourists. Or me.
I bought an umbrella with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it, so I blend in with the tourist crowd. Following and watching the three Pricks work out some kind of business deal with six Frenchmen.
As discreetly as possible, I snap pictures with the disposable camera I purchased. I’ve already written down the license-plate numbers of the three black Mercedes parked at the foot of the hill. Yeah, I’m beginning to hate that car. Bad enough the City of Love is the unsuspecting host to a strengthening global criminal cell. Giving the local police a heads-up that their own countrymen are bedfellows with Novák’s men is my gift to Paris.
