Forty-two
The shot glanced off the wall with a spray of dust. The butler was crawling toward us, the revolver hanging from his hand. I didn’t have time to think, just react.
I’d watched just enough spy thrillers with my dad. My leg shot out and caught the butler in the face. One more kick, and his weapon skittered across the floor. His head fell to the floor and he didn’t move, knocked out.
“Is he one of the bad guys?” I asked.
“I do not know.” Aimee shook her head. “I will come back later for him. Quick. My grandfather is in trouble. I can feel it.”
I grabbed the heavy revolver and shoved it down the back of my pants just in case. It felt bulky and obvious. “One more thing. In my apartment, in my bedroom closet is a whole lot of cash. If I don’t make it, take half and give it to this man to leave once he is well. Then take the other half and leave it for my dad, for Spy Games.”
She nodded. I stood, unable to turn around and leave. She was still my friend, and this was goodbye, possibly forever. She pulled me into a hug and whispered in my ear.
“I am sorry. For everything. For not letting you know somehow that I was okay. For not telling you the truth from the start. “
We clung to each other, both of us reliving the memories, the laughter, the sharing we’d experienced in our short friendship. She was my first friend in France, and I didn’t get nearly enough time with her. I wanted to apologize for not asking more questions, for not insisting she tell me about her life. Instead I’d let her distract me and had focused on my problems. Now I wanted to hear about all her troubles with her grandparents, and her memories of her parents before they died. But the words stuck in my throat. Before I could respond, she kissed my cheeks and left with the man leaning on her. I never learned his name. We parted. Probably forever.
At the doorway, the man turned. “Stay safe. Protect your life.”
I ran back through the tunnels, my thoughts confused, my heart aching. I stormed up the stairs, down the hallway, up more stairs, and burst into Jolie’s kitchen.
Empty.
My feet felt rooted to the ground. My mind was back in the catacombs, reliving my knife-throwing and the crimson spreading across the butler’s crisp white shirt. I could’ve killed him. I leaned over and rested my hands on my knees, breathing in and out, in and out. Holy crap! I had a revolver sticking out the back of my pants.
I couldn’t think about everything he’d said, his visions, my death. Maybe he had breathed catacomb air for a wee bit too long or had his stories mixed up. I had to focus. Aimee wanted me to save her grandfather. Everything I’d worked for I had to turn away from—vindication, justification, all of it. But for some crazy reason, it felt right. I yanked off the flower pin on my shirt and crushed it under my heel, our recorded conversation gone forever, any incriminating evidence destroyed.
At the front door, I paused, scanning the Extravaganza. I needed to mix with the people. The crowds milled, the dancers danced, the singers sang, the mimes mimed and none of them knew the truth. I slipped out the door and joined the flow.
A crowd of people strutted past. Old and young, male and female all dressed in black trench coats and yapping nervously. Spy Games? A shiver ran through the core of my body. Why were they here? I thought about the times I’d zoned out at staff meetings. I thought about Dad’s plans to include a well-known businessman after the Louvre disaster. I thought about Jolie bragging how he was going to work for my dad. How? I wasn’t sure.
The teams flooded the street and sidewalks. Amidst the dark sunglasses, baseball caps, old-man hats, trench coats, and pea coats, I didn’t spot Malcolm. He was supposed to be working for Spy Games. Dad had put him in charge of a group because of his “spy look.” Please.
The groups weaved in and around the reporters and mimes looking for someone. One spy client waved his arms and shouted Jolie’s name to his group. My dad had asked Jolie to be an informant and hand out clues? Then Jolie had told the truth. He was working with my dad. This was so not in the plans. Damn.
The news Jolie had been spotted rippled through the teams. Three of them approached him like school children gathering around the most popular kid. They jostled for position. Their greedy hands reached forward hoping to touch his apron or grab the clue. I wanted to sprint forward and pull them all back, let them know that Spy Games had turned dangerous—as in life-or-death dangerous. But my feet wouldn’t move, and I watched, helpless, numb from all the surprises thrown at me.
One group, led by a tall man with silver hair—another wannabe—arrogantly pushed his way past the reporters and through the jockeying crowd. He strode up to the great pastry chef who would propel him to victory. He spoke to Jolie, and received not even a look or a wave of the hand. Red crept around the guy’s collar line and up his neck. What would he do? In front of his group, leading the charge, would he tolerate being ignored? He cleared his throat and spoke again. Spy Games’ clients pressed in on them.
Jolie took a deep breath and turned, his body expanded to full height and breadth. French sputtered out of his mouth. Too bad he was too annoyed to speak in English. Another client in a trench coat approached Jolie who threw his hands up in the air in defeat. His face turned redder and redder as the spies all called out for the clues. And then out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of dark hair.
Malcolm.