by Seeley James
I pulled my phone up and dialed Bianca. I said, If he wants to play games, I can oblige.
Bianca Dominguez was an MIT graduate and star at the NSA before Ms. Sabel tapped her for president of Sabel Technologies. Despite having twenty thousand employees reporting to her, she always took my calls. Even when I called before dawn in DC. Because she owed me.
I was the guy who introduced her to her wife a couple years ago.
She answered in a hazy voice. “Jacob, what is it this time?”
I looked over at my CIA buddy. “Can you hack the video system at Église Saint-Sulpice in Paris and give it to Emily?”
Bianca’s wife, Emily, was a star reporter for the Post who once saved my life by shooting a guy in the face. I owed her. She’s one of those instinctive journalists. Emily would watch the video and know exactly how to present my case to the public. Bianca promised to have it done in an hour.
I rose and picked up my bouquet for Jenny. “Nice try, Zack. You forgot to mention what happened to the last guy you had inside.”
“What’re you talking about? What guy inside?”
“I never work with people who lie to me.” I leaned down, grabbed his throat hard, and squeezed. “Don’t mess with me, Zack Ames. You tracked sixty-eight guys going off the grid after Kraków. I took down two. But you’re only looking for sixty-five. That’s one man short. Zack.” I kept squeezing as I lifted him out of the chair. “He was your undercover guy. He’s dead. That’s why you didn’t know the target. Yet you were only minutes away. If you’d been honest with me, told me you had a problem, I would’ve been glad to help.”
CHAPTER 6
It was all I could do not to shove people off the sidewalk as I stormed down the boulevard. Zack Ames, Nuristan Zack, an agent who got away with war crimes, asked me to help him. That took some balls.
I wasn’t aware of where I was going. Next thing I knew, a bus unloaded what seemed like ten thousand Canadian tourists in front of me. The red maple leaf motif was a dead giveaway. They rounded the bus and held up their phones to take selfies with the Eiffel Tower. Which meant I’d walked off my anger for a couple miles. Before I could get my bearings, another bus pulled up and disgorged what seemed like ten thousand Chinese. Why do people go to the landmarks in a foreign country when they’re guaranteed not to encounter any of the country’s people or culture there?
I shook my bouquet at the Chinese. “Buy a coffee table book and spend the day in Troyes instead.”
I was invisible. They didn’t even notice me.
Mercury hooked a thumb in his toga. Why you unloading on these poor bastards, homie? If they don’t get a selfie with the Mona Lisa and the Iron Lady they’ll forget they were ever here. You think they’d rather spend their vacation in an authentic sixteenth century village no one’s ever heard of? Oh hey, but let me tell you, we had us some good times back in Troyes when it was called Tricassium. That’d be a major stop on the Via Agrippa. It’s a shame Tricassium fell on hard times for a thousand years. That’s what they get for going Christian. Oh, that reminds me, did I ever tell you how many shrines they built for me on the Via Agrippa?
I said, I don’t care.
You what? Mercury said. Ah. I see. This isn’t about tourists or CIA agents. This is about Jenny.
My personal god sure knew how to throw some butt-hurt into a conversation.
Mercury peered at me. What d’you see in that girl, anyway?
I said, I like the way she fits inside my shoulders when I wrap my arms around her. The way she always looks for a mutually agreeable answer instead of arguing. The times she puts her foot down when something’s important to her and doesn’t when it’s not.
Mercury said, She’s not pretty enough for you.
I said, She’s perfect. I wouldn’t trade her for Doutzen Kroes. She’s in a class of her own. I can’t wait to see her again. Why hasn’t she texted me back?
Mercury said, Why not ask her? Tuck your tail between your legs and go back to the hotel, dawg. Oh wait, I know why. And you know why too. Cause you’re getting dumped. Oh my Venus, I’d think you’d be used to that by now.
I said, I’m not getting dumped. She just had something to work out, that’s all. Maybe she took sick. Or. Maybe she wants to get kinkier. Take it to the next level.
One thing was for certain; I was dying to see Jenny. I was afraid to look at my phone. What would it mean if she hadn’t replied? It was time to bite the bullet and find out. That sent me on a mission back to our suite.
After a couple wrong turns on the crazy streets of Paris, I swirled through the Hotel Lutetia’s revolving front doors. The hotel’s entrance is a labyrinth of chambers, the first being the concierge. He greeted me with a big smile and a salute.
He said, “Your guests are waiting for you in the Bibliotèque, monsieur.”
My stride carried me past his station as his words sank in. What guests? As I stepped into the next chamber, the lobby, the clerk waved to me with a big smile and a glance at my bouquet. She pointed across the small space where a phalanx of people milled about. As the mass of humans looked up from their phones, they began shouting questions at me, mostly in French. As a group, they blocked the elevators and seemed overly aggressive about their enthusiasm. A couple phrases in English came through the tangle of words, “hero of Saint-Sulpice” and “savior of the congregation.”
Their flashes flashed, and their questions poured out so fast, I decided to check on my “guests” in the Bibliotèque. The chattering group followed me to the “library,” a small room with a handful of books in front of the Bar Josephine. In it was a cameraman with a big lamp in one hand and a video camera in the other.
An attractive middle-aged woman rose from the chair next to him and put out her hand. “Hey there, Jacob. I’m Brynn. Y’all are the toast of Paris today, aren’t ya?”
Her deep Southern accent took me by surprise. I shook her hand with a quick and confused glance at the cameraman. My entourage followed, tapping my shoulder and snapping pictures. A few more English questions popped out of the French mesh. “Was this a Sabel Security operation?” Another asked, “How did you spot the terrorists?”
Brynn’s smile disappeared. She turned to the others and shouted in French and added a few elaborate Italian hand gestures for good measure. The crowd quieted and retreated. Brynn scowled at the last guy hanging by the entrance. “Go on now, scat.”
Mercury beamed from the bar in the next room. This is it, homeboy! You’re about to get interviewed on TV. Don’t forget to say something nice about your favorite deities. Jupiter has a lightning bolt for those who fail to honor and praise the gods.
I stared at him for a moment.
Brynn gently tugged my bicep until I faced her. She looked down at the hunk of muscle in her hand. “Oh my. Um. Emily and I are working together on your story. She said you’d give me an interview for TF1.” She smiled.
“Did she?” My voice sounded hollow.
I wanted to find Jenny. I wanted to know why she ghosted on me all morning. I looked over Brynn’s shoulder at the empty hallway.
Brynn’s voice dropped an octave. “She told me if you were hesitant to remind you that you owe her.”
And I did owe Emily. My life. I said, “An interview would be nice. Can I run up to my room to change?”
“Hell no. We have to get edited and posted on the site in five minutes. Those other hounds out there are posting as we speak. These days, a scoop is only a scoop for ninety seconds. Sit down.”
Her last statement had a dominating undertone. I plopped into a comfy chair. The cameraman walked a big circle around Brynn. When he found the angle he liked, he turned his flamethrower at her. She produced a microphone out of thin air and posed. The cameraman gave her hand signals to turn left and right in small increments. When he was satisfied, he gave her a thumbs up. Without looking at me, she pointed to a spot that formed a triangle between the three of us. She said, “Stand there. Lose the flowers.”
I lef
t my bouquet on the side table, rose, and stood where she wanted.
Staring into the camera lens, she streamed French for thirty seconds. Somewhere in the flow was my name and the church. Then she turned to me and dropped back into an easy Southern drawl. “Major Pavard insists the video is inconclusive and some of the witnesses say you attacked innocent parishioners. Everyone else in the world thinks you’re the Hercules of Paris. Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Stearne?”
Before I could answer, she repeated the question in French then stuck the microphone under my bottom lip.
“Yeah. Uh. Well. They… I…”
“Merde!” Brynn rolled her eyes.
The sunshine stopped pouring from the cameraman’s lamp. I was blinded by darkness.
“I do apologize, Jacob.” Brynn was smiling when my vision came back. “Emily forgot to tell me you’re slow as molasses. So, let me prep you a bit here. I’m fixin’ to ask you some questions about what happened this morning. There’s been some confusion going on, and the authorities haven’t been helping none.”
I said, “Major Pavard got the wrong impression when he arrived on the scene and won’t let go of it.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Didn’t Emily get the video released?”
“She did that. But you were damn near underneath the camera, all three of you had your backs to the lens, and the action’s a tad confusing. It appears those boys had machine guns out when you tackled the first one. Anyone who looks closely can see one of them aiming his assault rifle at the crowd. But it went by in a blur.”
Mercury leaned over the cameraman’s shoulder. Is this for real, bro? You killed two bona fide terrorists, and nobody believes you?
I said, Don’t worry, she’s a friend of Emily’s. She’ll get the public straightened out.
At that moment, just over Brynn’s shoulder, Jenny appeared—looking like Venus in the flesh.
Brynn was talking, but I couldn’t hear her over the sound of angels singing.
Mercury said, Those aren’t angels, dude. Those are the Vestal Virgins praying for your soul.
I said, Is that a good thing?
Mercury nodded. Sometimes. Mercury stopped nodding and started shaking his head side-to-side. Not this time, though.
Brynn squeezed my bicep again as I started forward. She looked pissed. “Did you hear a word I said?”
“Give me a minute, Brynn. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t you dare give your first interview to some floozy.” Brynn was looking over her shoulder at Jenny when she tightened her grip, then turned her dagger-gaze back to me. “We have to get my interview done and posted right now.”
I used my master sergeant voice. “Sit down, Brynn.”
She dropped into the nearest chair with frightened eyes. Her cameraman did the same.
I grabbed the bouquet, crossed to Jenny and stopped close enough to hold hands, not close enough for a hug. She made no indication she wanted me closer. Her hands were behind her back. Her face downcast. Behind her was a roller bag. I held the flowers between us.
“I, I…” She glanced up but couldn’t hold my gaze.
“You’re leaving.”
“Yes.” She grabbed my arms as if to hold me in place, not letting me get farther away or closer. “It’s not you…”
Mercury stood behind her. Oh dawg. How many times have you heard this refrain? More than ‘this little piggy went to market.’
I said, Shut up.
“You bring out the animal in me and … OK, that part is delicious, um, that gladiator outfit and the voice … Listen. I’m just not ready to be an animal again. I don’t feel right about it. You’re the first man I’ve been with since the rape and … I’m not ready.”
A hundred spears with blades of razor-sharp steel drove deep into my chest. I couldn’t breathe.
She let go of me and half-turned to leave. She hesitated.
I said, “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait—”
Before I could finish, she looked up. “Don’t wait for me, Jacob. I’m not playing a game here. I don’t want to be pursued. Quite the opposite. I may not ever be ready for … You’re a great guy. You deserve someone less damaged.”
She put a finger across my lips and kissed me on the cheek as my heart shattered like a crystal vase dropped from Saint-Jacques Tower. Then she grabbed her roller bag and fast-walked down the hallway.
I said, You can take me across the Acheron River now. I have nothing to live for.
Mercury said, Don’t be like that, homes. You’re gonna have your heart broken a lot worse’n this many times before you die.
I said, Thanks. So helpful.
Brynn stood at my shoulder, startling me. “Did you just dump Jenny Jenkins? Hoo-boy! We’re going to be doing two interviews.”
CHAPTER 7
Ten minutes after she finished an interview that made me look like a hero, Brynn was still begging me to spill about my relationship with heiress and convicted murderer Jenny Jenkins. I refused. Call me old-fashioned, but I think there’s something sacred about romance. Even if Jenny’s dismissal sounded distinctly unromantic and quite permanent.
Brynn promised the backstory on Jenny would cement my place in history as a real celebrity. I didn’t care.
Finally, Brynn gave up. She asked me not to talk to the other reporters. About that time, the hotel manager came in and asked me to talk to the other reporters. He wanted them out of his lobby. We negotiated a twenty-minute head start so Brynn and Emily could post the exclusive interview on their respective websites. And I agreed to address the others in a group and be cagey with my answers. I still owed Emily.
All of that happened. The other reporters loved me. Their enthusiasm and my despondent replies cast me as a casual hero. Killing mass shooters before they mowed down hundreds of worshippers was no big deal in the life of a decorated veteran. Or so I made it sound, but not because that’s how I felt about it. Truth was, I never really heard their questions. All I heard was Jenny saying, “I’m not ready.”
An hour later, I made it back to my penthouse suite. It was the nicest hotel room I’d ever stayed in. Except. It was empty and quiet.
I made my way to the balcony where the staff had left a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice with two glasses. On the table next to it sat a vase full of flowers larger and nicer than the wilted ones still in my hand. I tossed mine on the empty chair. Beyond the balcony, the golden dome of Les Invalides glowed in the midafternoon sun. In the distance beyond that, the Eiffel Tower crammed thousands of tourists into sweaty elevators.
It was a beautiful view on a gorgeous day, yet it did nothing for me. I left.
After wandering for an hour, I began to long for the sound of a human voice and a cold beer.
I walked by a bar called the Junkyard. It sounded like the right place for my mood. It was dark, had a TV playing a soccer game, and only four patrons plus a bartender. Two of the customers watched the soccer game. I pointed at the only draft tap they had. Apparently, France is not big on beer.
The bartender set the foaming glass in front of me but didn’t let go. He knitted his brow, tilted his head, looked me over. He smiled and let go of the glass. “Gratis, Jacob Stearne.”
The others in the room looked over. They raised their glasses and smiled at me. They toasted me in French. Saturn only knows what they were saying. A nice lady about twice my age came over and asked for a selfie in terrible English. After she took hers, the rest lined up. A series of flashes later, I was blind. When my vision cleared, two more glasses of beer waited for me.
Mercury took the stool next to me. Classic move, dawg. Get dumped, get plowed. You’d make a better redneck than a Caesar. It won’t help the shitstorm that’s coming your way, but at least you won’t feel it when Paris turns on you.
I waved my arm at my admirers. Why would Paris turn on me? They love me.
Mercury said, You’re a bit blank right now, brutha. Getting dumped out like yesterday’s
bedpan has done clouded your mind. You didn’t even notice that movie-star looking guy following you.
I said, Probably just a fan too shy to ask for my autograph.
Mercury said, Don’t listen to me, bro. What could the messenger of the gods possibly be telling you that you don’t already know? Damn mortals.
The game on TV took a halftime break. A newsman came on, and my picture appeared. His voice was in that unmistakable mode of saying, “Stay tuned for this surprising revelation.” Sixteen advertisements followed. Then the news guy came back. The inset picture of me was very different. When you’re about to kill someone, your face contorts with rage—because you tend not to kill people when you’re happy. The picture of me was damn ugly. A parishioner had taken it with a phone. From that angle, I was clearly killing a man who had a rifle pointed at the ground.
The anchor’s voice was gruff and getting gruffer. My name came out of his mouth like an f-bomb followed closely by the words damnés Américains. Everyone in the room turned to me. The bartender picked up the beers. Someone took a picture of me at a distance. He said something in French that ended with Twitter. The others agreed with him. I slid off my stool and wandered back out to the streets.
Mercury walked beside me. Toldya, young blood.
I said, What the hell was that all about?
Mercury said, Zack Ames. He said turning him down would be a mistake.
A car raced down the narrow lane and slammed on its brakes when it passed me. Three men jumped out wearing ski masks. In perfect English, one of them said, “You’re Jacob Stearne, the asshole who killed those guys.”
I stood still. Antagonizing people when they’re wrong is as effective as posting facts on Facebook. Packing my Glock at the small of my back, covered by my jacket, turned out to have been a smart move.
Mercury said, You thinking of pulling a piece now, homie? Like, killing three more guys on the same day is gonna improve your situation, how?
