Page 53 of Rogue
And bones—can’t forget them. Piles upon piles can be found in the tunnels, relocated here from the emptied cemeteries after a long period of urban sprawl when graveyards were recycled into something more lively. Like trendy, cafe coffee shops. Yeah, when I finally terminate that Prick, I’m going to somewhere nice, like the Greek islands. Or Japan, where I hear they pay respects to the dead on a daily basis.
My new, tiny Montparnasse hotel is situated on a small hill near the observatory. Uphill from the underground I’m starting to despise.
Get in. Get out. Get gone. Get over on Jaxson, then get over him.
I kick a twig with my muddied black combat boot. Reminding myself I’m not allowed to think about him. Replay the frustratingnearorgasms he so capably denied me and instead bask in the pleasure of knowing I’ve at long last ditched him.
And another reason to celebrate is today I rocked the catacombs.
I overheard men arguing somewhere within the small dark tunnel located three layers down and running directly beneath the Val-de-Grâce church. A slippery slope, in both the literal and nonliteral sense, with the sewage overflow an ankle deep and at least five different non-English, non-French speaking voices. The Pricks? Yep, I believe so. Enough to give me hope that Novák will soon just be another Parisian tragedy.
I settle down on a bench near the entrance with a clear view of the single grave plot of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, two writers, philosophers, and loving partners who asked to be buried together.
Hell, even the graveyards here are romantic.
A pigeon bravely shuffles close to my boot, probably drawn in by myparfum destink-o-la. I ignore my fellow graveyard dweller, the lovers, the bird, the sadness tugging at my heartstrings . . . everything. It’s time I made this call. I can’t continue another day without confirming she’s safe. I remove the disposable phone I secured earlier from my pocket, and muttering “to hell with the consequences,” I dial Declan’s number.
The phone rings three times.
“It’s Kylie.”
“About goddamn time.”
Well, hello to you, too.“Is she okay? She escaped Oklahoma without incident?”
He’s silent on the other end.
I stand up so fast, the pigeon flies away.Oh no. No. No. No.I choke out, “Tell me?”
“For the moment, yes. She’s set up in a house in St. Petersburg. But Hayden knows.”
I grit my teeth but relax when he adds, “He’ll leave her alone. That I can promise you.”
“I’m not the traitor. It’s . . .” But I stop before finishing. If I reveal the real traitor, if Declan learns the truth, the last thing Francis will feel is a knife’s blade in his throat. And I need him to feed information about my whereabouts to the Prick.
“Jaxson’s alive, you know,” Declan informs me. “He’s the one coming for you. Boss’s orders.”
I keep quiet, not wanting to waste precious time discussing the playboy killer after me. Declan’s phone is likely tapped. Hayden’s smart, he probably anticipated I’d call to check on my sister. I’m running out of time.
“How would you go about terminating five Pricks holed up in an underground tunnel?”
“Five? Bad luck, that. And your weaponry?”
“A gun. A few stolen steak knives from last night’s dinner. Rope.”
“No knives,” he says without emotion. “Stop thinking like Diego. Do what you do best, fight like you.”
“I did blow up a manhole. Next will be a few statues . . .”
“Toxic bitch—now that’s what I’m talking about.”
I draw in a breath, thinking about events that happened back in Oklahoma after I first went rogue, when Declan caught up with me, then let me go. “Declan, why didn’t you terminate me when you had the chance?”
“It doesn’t matter now. His orders are to terminate.”
“Jaxson’s, you mean.”
“Yes.”
