Page 32 of Rogue
My wait begins. While the waiter prepares mycafeand ham sandwich with butter, I remove Jaxson’s gun from my satchel and tuck it into the hem of my full-length, boho-style skirt. My eyebrows form a deep V as I remember the bland white T-shirt I’ve paired with it. Guess I’m due for a wardrobe upgrade. I mean, as far as Jaxson’s concerned, one badass T-shirt isn’t going to be the red flag that draws him to me, right? The reality is, he seems to be doing a bang-up job of that all by himself.
I pause to contemplate the question of the day:How did he find me in a city of millions?But am interrupted by the waiter, who places my order before me on the small, red tablecloth–covered table.
I give him a friendly nod then ask, “More butter,s’il vous plait.”
He raises his eyebrows and huffs away. I roll my eyes and bite into my sandwich, finishing half of it before the waiter returns with a plate of butter.
And a butter knife, which is what I’m really after.
Perfect timing, because two men have just strolled past the cafe, and as luck would have it, I recognize the big-bellied Prick.
Coincidence? Not really. Not after my brief call to Francis, in which I revealed my current location. My former partner might be a low-down, dirty mealworm, yet he’s a predictable worm, with his motives being the only shady thing about him. My worm to manipulate. My way of luring the Pricks out into the sunshine.
I toss far too many euros on the table than what my surly waiter deserves, roll my sandwich in a napkin, tuck it safely inside my satchel, then calmly finish mycafebefore heading off to a hard day’s work.
Pedestrians act as a buffer between me and the Pricks ahead. I follow them up the busy boulevard and down a side street. Never once did they look over their shoulders. I’m impossible to spot. And besides, they’re searching for a redhead.
I catch my reflection in another storefront windowpane. Damn, I rock Malibu blond. It’s not until we hit a break in the shops, cafes, and hurried pedestrians do the Pricks stop and look around.
I lower my chin and pretend to be scoping the heel of my brown scrappy sandal for some infamous Parisian dog shit. Mercifully, there is none, and my actions haven’t drawn their attention.
No. Don’t. Look. Up. Damn it. I glance up in time to see Big-Belly taking out a long steel pipe. He jams the end of it into the sidewalk and pries open a manhole. Then both men disappear inside.
I casually approach the crooked cover. Tapping my foot, I count to fifty. Well,twentyreally—doing so using my sketchy French, which takes me just as long. People pass me by without a second glance, even when I’m crouched down and digging my stolen butter knife into the crease between the manhole and the sidewalk. Fortunately, they haven’t put it properly back into place—a sign it’s likely they’ll exit the same way as it’s fairly easy to remove.
With a momentary pause to secure my satchel against my body, I descend out of the lightness and into the darker side of Paris. Intoles Catacombes.
The metal ladder leads me deep underground. Much further down than I anticipated, and for a short spell everything is pitch black. I didn’t expect this—that Prick Novák’s headquarters might be located in the bowels of Paris. If I did, I’d have brought a flashlight. I grit my teeth and keep climbing downward. The matches I took off the bar on my way out of the cafe will have to be enough.
Except it turns out I don’t need them.
As I take my final step off the ladder, pass through a wide, arched entryway, and peer around the enormous yet vacant space, my jaw drops open. It’s like being admitted to a secretive world of craftsmen and artists, the shady sister of the Louvre. A rich, vibrant museum of the underworld. As far as the eye can see, the walls of the room are covered with artwork. Painting upon painting, mural upon mural, graffiti art upon graffiti art of stunning, elaborately detailed masterpieces.
The space is illuminated by lights secured to both the walls and by an enormous chandelier dangling midceiling. Somewhere, there’s a generator powering the place.
To my glee, there’s not a bone in sight, which is what decorate the catacombs, piles and piles of centuries-old bones, the remains of Paris’s past.
Or present—if Novák has indeed set up shop down here.
No lovers. Not a single smooching, smiling couple. Not in any artwork. Not in the flesh, either.Thank you, sweet mother Mary.I feel like fist-pumping the air.
I’m searching the large, rectangular-shaped space for another exit that Big-Belly and Company could have taken when I hear a noise from behind me. Footsteps coming from the small room just outside the entryway. Someone’s climbed down from the manhole. Turning, I press my back against the side wall, situating myself between a melancholy scene of cows frolicking in the countryside and a pierced-nosed, Mohawk-coiffed portrait of two punk rockers.Long live the mother-lovin’ queen.
With the butter knife drawn and ready, I wait for the Prick to appear. Then frown, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me, because I hear no further footsteps.
Cautiously, I approach the grand archway. Whoever—whatever it is . . . an animal? . . . ghost of a dead Parisian?—is gone.
But where?
Exiting, I look around the smaller room until I spy three steps leading up to a hole that’s barely large enough for Big-Belly to squeeze through. Where else could he have disappeared to?
Doubtful I’m making the right decision, I push my satchel through the hole then crawl in behind it. Fortunately, it’s a small tunnel that gives way to one large enough to stand inside.
It’s far too dark for comfort. I pause and listen. Nothing. Crap, I’m going to have to take a walk on the dark side.
I blindly make my way through the tunnel, running my fingertips along the wall, counting my steps and cautiously creeping forward. There’s a gap in the wall. Another tunnel, though I stay on the straight and narrow.
Something runs across my sandal and I bite back a scream.
