Getaway Girl

by Michele Hauf

  “This has been a shell game since that first moment you picked me up for mochas, hasn’t it? You’ve been hoping I would lead you to Vital, so you could take him out. And then you’d fry me, too.”

  “We need you alive, Jamie.”

  “I don’t have any more information than Vital does.”

  I caught Sacha’s irritated grimace, but ignored him. This was my game now. And I was revving for a furious start.

  “We want to protect you, Jamie.”

  “My arse.”

  “Vital would have taken the princess in hand and then killed you. So long as the Faction kept the princess, Sacha had no choice but to keep you alive.”

  I now knew Sacha would never have harmed me—and never would. He wouldn’t have harmed the princess, either. But right now, I didn’t know if she was dead or alive.

  “You killed Max, didn’t you, Kevin? He knew too much about the Faction, and was threatening you.”

  “I didn’t go near Max the morning of his death. Don’t tell me Vital has convinced you he’s innocent?”

  “I happen to know Vital couldn’t have possibly killed Max.” If the purchasing breakfast story was true. Which I was inclined to believe. No man murdered and then stopped to purchase pain au chocolat on the way home to cover his arse.

  And how the hell did Kevin know Max had been killed in the morning?

  “Whether you went near him or not, the Faction still killed Max.”

  “You have no proof.”

  “I’ll find some.” But how did one convict a man who didn’t even exist? I was in deep, and wasn’t sure if I could hold my breath for the duration. “What about the princess? Where are you stashing her?”

  “She’s…comfortable.”

  So they did have her. Now to play this right.

  “What if I offer you a trade?” I met Sacha’s eyes and held them. His emotionless gaze offered me no help at all. “The princess for Sacha Vital?”

  I held my breath. The line remained quiet. Kevin was thinking.

  “Ten seconds,” I said. “Make your choice quickly, or you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Deal,” Kevin answered. “Be at point zero in an hour. You’ll receive further instructions then.”

  The phone clicked off, and I tossed it to the side. It landed Sacha’s lap.

  “What?” he asked.

  “He’ll meet us in an hour.”

  “With the princess?

  “Don’t know.” I shifted into Drive and spun out in a spray of gravel. “Buckle up and hold on.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Back to Paris. He said to meet him at point zero.”

  “The Arago disks,” Sacha answered. “We’re headed for Notre Dame.”

  There are 135 Arago markers in Paris. Small bronze disks set along the zero longitude line in the city—that is, the former longitude line, until it was moved to Greenwich in the nineteenth century. A small N and S mark the north and south directions of the plaques imbedded in pavement. The disk set at point zero is right before the Notre Dame cathedral in the parvis.

  Figures Eight would chose a very public place for the exchange. If he intended to make an exchange. He hadn’t specified, and I wasn’t about to start making assumptions. Assumptions got me nowhere, and usually down the wrong path.

  The Fuego rattled into Paris around 10 a.m. I contemplated parking, and jacking the sexy red (with white racing stripes) Mini Cooper nestled outside a pâtisserie, but I wasn’t a criminal. Not anymore.

  From this day forward, I’d be doing my damnedest to keep away from sorts like Eight and the Faction and—

  I swung a look across the car to Sacha. He sat with knees spread, which parted the robe to reveal his less-than-appropriate attire for a morning of sightseeing before the city’s most popular tourist attraction. Exhaustion darkened the flesh under his eyes. I knew the feeling.

  A curl of dark hair drifted over his left eye. He may not have been aware I was studying him because he kept his gaze to the street. I was great at dividing my attention between the street and my surroundings. But I didn’t linger.

  I turned my focus back to the road. A big smile pulled my mouth. Sacha’s profile was imprinted in my mind’s eye. A misunderstood little boy who loved his mother and wanted to protect his sister. There was not a single thing wrong with that.

  “Pity, I’m not dressed for the occasion,” he said as I pulled onto the pont d’Arcole that crossed before the cathedral.

  “Don’t worry, Sacha. You look so sexy in those boxers. Maybe Eight will cut you some slack. Perhaps he won’t torture you quite as long. On the other hand, he could be a jealous bastard, and will prolong your agony just because you’re cute.”

  “You think I’m cute?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “You’re refreshing in your honesty. So I’ll be frank. I have to tell you, I’m hornier than hell right now.”

  Downshifting, I slowed. Finding a parking spot would be murder during tourist season.

  “I think it’s the thrill of the chase and all that,” he added.

  “I love a man who gets off on adrenaline.”

  “And I love a woman who can drive a man to his death and make him enjoy every moment of it.”

  “My pleasure.”

  And you know what? It really was a pleasure—in a twisted, adventurous sort of way.

  I parked in the shadow of the prefect of police and together Sacha and I vacillated on whether he should come along with me to point zero. His attire would attract attention, and that was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  Sacha still sat in the passenger’s side, the door wide open, and I leaned against it.

  He checked his watch. “We’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  I scanned the parvis before the church, already peopled by myriad sorts. There were families with children and couples walking arm in arm. Groups huddled together and waddled like a flock of geese toward their photogenic destination. Two hundred tourists, at my guess; not a surprise for this early hour.

  Along the edges of the courtyard, gift stands sold overpriced metal replicas of the church front, fake holy water in glass vials with blue, white and red ribbons, and maps of the cathedral, along with some belly-coaxing sausages on a stick.

  “I could get you a Notre Dame T-shirt?” I suggested.

  Sacha brushed at a smear of dirt that darkened the leg of his boxer shorts. “You don’t notice anyone selling pants, do you?”

  “Nope. But they’ve got some shiny plastic rain parkas. Those would be keen with your rubber galoshes.”

  He shook his head and smiled. What he did next, I wasn’t prepared for, so I stumbled a little when he grabbed my hand and pulled me down to him. I landed on his knees, straddling his legs. The rough terry cloth robe I clenched in each hand, forcing myself not to touch bare flesh.

  “Promise me one thing,” he said.

  I darted my gaze back and forth between his impossibly fathomless green-blue eyes. Dead serious; this was not a kissing moment.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Promises…you know…”

  “Yeah, they’re not exactly a commodity in our line of work. Listen, I’m playing along with this whole exchanging-me-for-the-princess thing, so I figure you owe me one.”

  I shrugged, reluctant to commit to anything.

  “Just promise me, Jamie, you’ll not let the princess out of your sight until she’s handed over to her family.”

  I nodded. “I can do that.” I wasn’t sure I could, but I’d find a way. It had to be done. After surviving an attempted assassination, and then being kidnapped and transferred from location to location about Paris, the poor woman had suffered enough.

  “And another promise.”

  “You’re asking a lot, Sacha.”

  The slide of his hand along my waist, rising, embracing and becoming a part of me, disturbed me to the point I let out a little moan.

 
He leaned in, his cheek sliding alongside mine. Warm breath near my ear melted my insides. “Promise you’ll try to find Ava? You’ve been carrying around her picture, the one in your duffel bag. I gave that photo to Max the night before he died.”

  “That’s your sister?”

  Sliding his palm along my left cheek, he wouldn’t allow me to pull back. “If anything happens to me, she’s on her own. She needs help, Jamie. Direction. Clear thinking. She needs…”

  The utter agony of his emotional pain bled into my fast and furious heart. I bracketed his face with my palms and could only nod that I would. Again, I wasn’t sure how, or why I even agreed, but I felt it was the right thing. I just want to do good. No woman should be alone when there was someone who could make her world right or, at the very least, steer her toward a new destination.

  And maybe it would be a step toward making my world a little less wrong. I still clung to the destination. Now to make the journey head in the right direction.

  “I won’t stop until I find her. I promise.”

  He kissed me then. So softly, a gentle brush of his lips to the corner of my mouth. I wasn’t sure if it was a kiss, or a pause to breathe and make contact with life.

  He needed so desperately. And I was going to help him fulfill that need.

  Because it might fulfill mine.

  “Let’s do this,” he muttered. “I put my life in your hands, la lapine.”

  The statement rocked me backward. I stood, abruptly shaking out my hands and jumping in place as I blew out breaths, and summoned courage. “I can do this.”

  I think I said it more to myself than to him.

  “You still got the gun?”

  He patted his robe pocket.

  “Give it to me. You’re my prisoner, remember?”

  He stood and slipped the gun from his pocket. Looking about to ensure the exchange wasn’t witnessed, I slid it behind my waistband.

  I looked us over. I was barefoot, dressed in dirty jeans and T-shirt and had just hiked through a forest. He looked like Hugh Hefner à la Green Acres after a long day in the field.

  “We make a smashing pair,” I said. “Come on, lover. We’ve got a date to meet.”

  Chapter 22

  To say I was surprised that we, the motley duo, didn’t attract more attention was putting it mildly. Sacha and I wandered, ever so casually, to the center of the parvis, stopping about fifteen paces away from the Arago disk, which was placed in the courtyard twenty meters from the cathedral. Surrounded by a circle of concrete, the octagonal bronze disk featured an eight-pointed star and north-south directional letters.

  A bustle of Japanese tourists scrambled up to the disk, wielding cameras and chattering. Children, with seed purchased from a nearby stand, fed a flock of pigeons.

  A small boy pointed out the funny man in the bathrobe to his mother, but she just tugged the child along, casting a sheepish grin our way. I waved, smiled and hooked an arm in Sacha’s. Yes, we were comrades of the desperately weird, but we were on a mission to rescue not one, but two women.

  “They probably think you’re taking me for my afternoon stroll out from the mental institute.”

  “The hotel-Dieu is close,” I said, with a glance to seek out the institution. “Centuries ago, the place used to treat the mentally insane.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, girl.”

  Scanning our surroundings, I saw a crêperie sold thin crêpes wrapped about fruit and Nutella and enticed me with the greasy-sweet aroma of pastry. Next to that stood thin wire cages filled with peeping birds of every design, color and size. With hundreds of people milling about, I figured ninety-five percent had to be tourists. The remaining five natives blended well. Anyone could be suspect. The building tops, the ones I could see from this position, were clear. The cathedral blocked a lot of smaller buildings where snipers could easily hide and get a bead on their marks, the marks being us.

  What was Kevin going to do? Just drive up and make the exchange? Toss out the princess of pink velour and grab the king of terry cloth? I still had the cell phone. It was about two minutes to ten. All I could hope was that Eight/Kevin would call with further directions.

  “See anything?” Sacha muttered, lifting a hand to his brow to shade his view.

  “Most everyone appears to be part of a family. Very few single pedestrians. I think we’re clear on the ground.”

  “They won’t come at us from the ground. Too many people.” He looked up. “It’ll come from up high, or as a drive-by.”

  “You talk like they’re going to shoot us down in cold blood.”

  I looked to Sacha. For once, he didn’t have a silly smirk or sexy grin on his mouth.

  “You’re out from behind the wheel,” he said. “You confident with this scenario?”

  “Not a hundred percent, no. But I’ve got you as a shield, remember?”

  “That’s what I admire about you, bunny rabbit. You’re not afraid to use your resources.”

  I liked the way he called me bunny rabbit. Like a pet name. Not condescending or teasing, as Dove would put it. A little possessive, but more friendly.

  “Monsieur, voulez-vous acheter un ballon?”

  This was not good. A massive cloud of colored balloons blocked my vision of the sky and the rooftops. Sacha told the seller to buzz off in polite French, but just then, a flock of thigh-high children zoomed in for the kill. We became tangled in groping ice-cream-coated fingers and demands for “That one!” “No, the red one!” “Don’t shove!” “Moi, j’en veux!”

  “Let’s get out of here. Too dangerous with all these kids,” I said, as I tugged Sacha backward and away from the cavalcade of sugar-high innocence.

  It was the piercing shot that landed the cement about an inch from my toe that made me duck. I jerked Sacha down with me to land in a crouch. A balloon popped and children screamed.

  “Someone’s firing,” Sacha said.

  “Not with all these kids!” I leapt to my feet and charged the balloon man and the children. “Get out of here! Danger! Allez vous en!”

  The balloon seller cursed me, obviously unaware of the danger. Fortunately, the children’s parents grabbed arms and lifted frantic crying half-pints into their embraces and sped off, only knowing some crazy lady was yelling at their kids.

  Didn’t they notice as the next bullet took out a divot in the concrete? I made a bone-jarring landing on the cement. Someone tumbled on top of my prone body. My hip bones hurt; I’d scuffed my palms raw.

  Sacha’s voice hissed near my ear just as a third bullet pinged the cement two feet to our left. “There’s a sniper on top of that building to the west. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I’m with that. The longer we stay here, the more people we endanger.”

  I was literally dragged to my feet by Sacha’s powerful tug. We broke into a run in bare feet and galoshes. Dashing down a few steps and through the parking lot, I headed for the parked car.

  “No, this way!” Sacha tugged me to the right, away from the car. I stumbled behind him and down an alleyway that backed onto the hospital. “Better cover,” he announced breathlessly as we took the narrow cobbled street past a crew of curious street sweepers. “Besides, you haven’t got keys.”

  The man was thinking ahead.

  Tugging my hand from his—my palm scuffed raw—I took the lead by a few steps.

  The alley was clean and led to the back of a row of small shops and apartments. Cars lined the left side, while garbage containers and steps decorated the other side.

  “Why would they do that?” I wondered as Sacha slowed and darted between two buildings.

  “You didn’t think we’d get out of there alive?”

  I stopped, fingers clawing into my hips. Sacha surveyed the surroundings, huffing into my face.

  “You expected as much?” I was stunned. And then I could have kicked myself. Sacha had expected this danger all along. And I’d naively bet Eight would make the trade.

  A bullet knock
ed out dust of a brick from the wall right next to Sacha’s head. I didn’t look for the sniper. It had been a horizontal hit. Someone was on our tail.

  “This way.” I wasn’t in a car, but navigation on the run was my forte.

  The Conciergerie was close, but I didn’t want to go into any buildings, especially any that contained officers of the law. But if we could lure our tail close to the police…

  We made way for the waterfront skipping down the stairs to parallel the Seine. Trees shaded the area below the pont Neuf; I found a nook to rest in and tugged Sacha along. A wall, featuring a dribbling fountain, held our panting bodies up. Water glistened in waves of silver, for the opening was but thirty strides away. The river smelled awful, its stir of questionable ingredients heated to a brew in the summertime.

  “You okay?” I said back to Sacha.

  He didn’t answer.

  I spun around and found him poking at a red spot on his shoulder.

  “You’ve been hit!”

  He turned his back to me, but I spun him around and inspected the wound. The terry cloth had been torn away at the seam to reveal serrated skin and a little blood. No major damage. The seam must have lessened the impact. “It’s just a surface abrasion.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m glad it wasn’t eight inches to the right. I like my brain. It serves me well on occasion.”

  I rapped my fingers against the brain of the moment. “I like it, too. You’re a good sport, Sacha. Not too many men I know would come along for such a goofy ride.”

  “The ride has been perilous and interesting, I must admit. But you’re the goof, getaway girl.”

  “Getaway girl?”

  “That is what you do best, isn’t it? No matter on wheel or foot. You saved my ass just now. Thank you.”

  I don’t think I had ever received a thank you for driving or running, or plain getting away. It felt…bloody good.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. For the first time, I actually felt as if I’d accomplished something.

  Getaway girl? That was me.

  But we weren’t out of the woods yet.