Page 75 of Rogue
Along with the worrying—yeah, I know. I should have had a second flute of Kir Royale.
Will there be any backseat passengers? Will they throw something, or somebody, inside the trunk? What if the seat is jarred and the ribbon snaps? Or the most likely of scenarios—them getting a flat?
I brace myself as footsteps approach. Doors open then close. The Mercedes engine rumbles to life and, yes, oh yes, we’re off without a hitch.
I feel like humming a Frank Sinatra tune, “Luck Be a Lady.” A song I always believed is about a gal sticking with her fella. So not my type of song, though I plan on sticking like Gorilla Glue to these two fellas.
With nothing else to do, I listen to them talking, getting used to their mixed dialects. Russian? Middle Eastern? Spanish?
“Did you rent the vans?”
“Yes. After we load the boxes onto the cargo ship, we’ll use bleach to wipe the vans down before dropping them off in Marseille.”
“Novák will be pleased.”
“Do you think Farhed will promote him?”
“Perhaps. Thisisthe largest shipment we’ve sent to Mexico City.”
Interesting. I always imagined the Prick to be the boss, but as Hayden suspects, it appears Novák reports to someone higher up in his organization. Does Hayden know?
The topic changed away from Novák kissing this Farhed fella’s ass, but I stored it away in my memory banks. About twenty minutes later, the Pricks park the car.
I patiently listen to their footsteps fade before pulling the ribbon. The backseat folds forward. I scooch over onto the smooth leather, then climb out the back.
With my satchel firmly fixed over my shoulder, I survey my new surroundings. Sophisticated. Upscale. Old world meets modern marvelousness. A far cry from the catacombs, where I assumed they’d be headed. Eager to report back to Novák and pass off their large envelopes.
Damn it, the man is more elusive than a subway car during a Metro strike.
I quickly catch up to the Pricks. Yet shadowing them proves challenging.
We’ve entered into a stunningly exquisite glass-covered shopping gallery called Galerie Vivienne. Another girl would have stopped to appreciate the mythological-themed mosaics on the floor, the broad, glass-encased arches overhead, the shopping. Gorgeous, simply gorgeous.
But I shake off that girl. Glass is everywhere, in the sparkling-clean storefront windows, in mirror and arches, and even in the form of a mirrored makeup compact fixed to a mannequin’s hand. I scowl down at my reflection in the polished tiled floors. Everywhere I look and all I can see is me. Jesus, it’s like I’ve entered a fun house of mirrors.
I fall farther behind, still attempting to shadow them in this gallery of unforgiving light. One of the Pricks anxiously glances over his shoulder, and I freeze like one of the shop mannequins. I can’t think of a more horrible place for a bulletfest. Mercifully, he turns his attention to the art gallery they’ve stopped before.
As they enter it, I cautiously approach. Watch as they pass the envelopes to a dark-haired man behind a counter. Duck behind a painting set up outside the door as the men exit and head back toward their Mercedes.
My thoughts sing a little song. Not Frank this time—something more my speed, more appropriate for this must-be-hastily-made decision. “Should I Stay or Should I Go?”
Which Prick will lead me to Novák . . . Arty Prick or Cafe Pricks?
Well, as much as I’d like to return to the cafe for more bubbly . . . I enter the art gallery. The Arty Prick goes about his business as I go about mine, unnoticed, as I wait for those envelopes to be picked up.
Or, as time passes, delivered.
By the time the man clocks out, I have every nuance found within every bloody painting memorized by heart.
The man exits, taking a beautiful marble spiral staircase upward, and enters a swanky teahouse. Like many cafes, the teahouse has tables set up outside, each with decorative red and white umbrellas opened wide.
It’s a known fact that the French love their wine and cafés au lait, but in my short visit, I’ve learned taking tea is a serious business and probably the only thing they don’t thumb their noses at the British about.
I smile at the thought. But it drops as my eyes narrow on the unexpected. A well-dressed man sitting alone—Novák.
What else I don’t anticipate is my reaction. My hands shake as I dig the gun out of my satchel. My throat tightens, forcing me to swallow to clear it. Yet my pulse stays steady.
This moment has been a long time coming. Something I’ve thought about every single day since my pop’s murder. I stare at him with a sense of disbelief. It’s like graduating from high school all over again. You can’t wait for the day to come but when it does, an uncertainty washes over you. Sure, your future is bright. Your life just beginning. But there’s a familiarity with the agony you’ve grown accustomed to. Like it’s become a part of you. It’s become a motivating factor in your life.
