Page 113 of Rogue

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It’s my fault. I was late.

“He choseK. That’s how I know you’re working—sleeping—together.”

Oh sweet mother Mary. No. No.

I feel like throwing up. Or screaming. Red is all I see. Red blood. Red roses on a grave. Heartbreak, heartache red. Love red.

“F.U.,” I say.

“Aw, feck me blind,” my neighbor curses, but he sounds so far away.

Novák swirls his nunchucks.

But all I can think about is another time, another place, another man standing before me, and how much I suck at knives.

One chance.

For my papa.

For my own revenge and redemption.

For Jaxson.

I calmly slide the knife out of the elastic of my panties and position my fingers lightly on the handle.

With lightening speed, I bring my arm up, bend my elbow, and make a small adjustment to my wrist before snapping it forward, taking note of the exact moment when Novák’s eyes widen with understanding.

The knife spirals twice then lands precisely in the center of the Prick’s throat.

All catacomb hell breaks loose.

Men start screaming.

My prison mate is laughing.

And then there’s a BOOM, and the catacombs begin to rumble. Stones fall from the ceiling. Walls collapsing. Men felled by what has to be the worst-executed explosion known in the history of mankind.

I dive for the mattress and pull it over me.

There’s gunfire. A lot of gunfire.

Then everything settles.

“She’s over there,” I hear the Irishman shout.

I try to push the mattress off of me but it’s buried beneath debris. My unprotected calf aches, cut open by falling stone. Matter of fact, my entire body aches.

But nothing is going to wipe the smile from my lips.

I’m alive.

Novák’s dead.

And as I inhale the sweet aroma of hydrogen peroxide, I’ve never felt more certain about anything but this: Jaxson has come for me.

30

Paris

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