Forty-four
French expletives burst from Jolie’s mouth and burned through the air and into the minds of the crowds. A mish-mash of red, green, and blue frosting stuck to the front of Jolie’s belly like encrusted jewels. His fingers were curled into fists. I had to warn him. His life was in danger.
“Savvy. What did you do?” Dad asked in a low voice.
I spoke out the corner of my mouth as Jolie advanced through the crowds, the cameras and press following him. “Nothing really.” Just stole his pastries. And freed his hostage.
“Um, Savvy?”
“Not now, Dad. Evil is nigh.”
“Your tray.”
Zut alors! The whole middle section slid forward. Reaching around with a forceful shove, I pushed the whole masterpiece back into place.
“You!” With one word, Jolie commanded my attention.
I slowly faced him while the tray balanced precariously on my arm. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Jolie narrowed his eyes. “It is too late for that.”
A man with curly hair pushed through the wall of people. He gripped a digital tape recorder and a pencil stuck out from behind his ear. Jolie moved his killer glare to the reporter. I swallowed what little spit was in my mouth and tried to find the courage to tell Jolie he was in a lot of trouble. Like someone might try to plant a bullet in his chest.
Jolie spoke in rapid French and the reporter backed away, cowering. To my right at the perimeter of the contest, Malcolm moved closer to us, slipping in and out of the crowd like a stealthy predator. I scanned the mass of people until I found the mime to my left. I didn’t know what he had to do with Malcolm yet, but he was connected. That I knew. He did his mime thing, and with every exaggerated motion, he moved in. Possibly for the kill. I had to get close enough to talk to Jolie without anyone else hearing.
I goaded him. “Mr. Pouffant, I understand we’ve had our differences, but really, if you were to be honest, you’d see that I was not the aggressor in this unfortunate situation.”
Jolie chuckled and faced his fans. They echoed a forced chuckle. “Silly girl.” He made a cuckoo sign, like a fourth grade boy would to a girl who teased him. “You do not know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, I do.” I stepped closer to him and lowered my voice. “Your life is in danger.”
As Jolie laughed hysterically, Malcolm and the mime closed in. My limbs trembled and blood pumped through my heart so fast it scared me.
“Um, Savvy?” Dad whispered. “The cakes!”
I didn’t take my eyes off Jolie, while keeping the pastries balanced. It seemed rather silly that I gripped the pastries as if they could protect me. Use the revolver, a tiny voice inside my head commanded. The cold metal of the barrel pressed against my lower back, hidden away.
Dad stepped forward. “Now, now, Mr. Pouffant. I’m sure we can work things out here like reasonable people.”
Jolie’s eyes flashed. “Reasonable? You Americans are not rational. Your daughter attacked me earlier with her zapper. How is that for rational?”
Dad hooked is arm through mine and pulled close to me. “Is this true?”
“Yes.” I was done lying. “But only so I could search his shop.”
Jolie eyed the pastry cakes on my tray. “And she is stealing cakes for an entry.”
My face burned. “Only because you destroyed my entry before I even got here. Don’t you dare try to deny it.”
“Like you had a chance of winning? That is a joke.”
Why did I want to save this man?
Dad puffed out his chest. “My daughter can bake a mean birthday cake. Watch it.”
My throat tightened. He’d stuck up for me. That rarely happened. Ever. During Spy Games, I always disappointed, always made the wrong choice, always caused a scowl to cross his face.
“Way to go, Dad,” I whispered.
“Oh, how touching.” Jolie smirked. “I do not have time for this petty back and forth.” He signaled to his guards. “These people are disrupting the Extravaganza. Escort them to the exit.”
The power-hungry pastry chef, beloved by his country, running illegal scams of some kind behind his wall of scones and croissants, turned his back to me. But I had to make him believe me. Jolie’s goons ripped Dad away from me.
“Savvy!” Dad cried.
He fought against the men holding his arms. When the crowds started murmuring and even more attention swung onto Jolie, he motioned to the men to stop dragging my dad away.
The tray weighed on my arm and on my mind. I grabbed a hunk of cake. Blue, green, and white squeezed between my fingers. It felt squishy.
“Hey, Jolie!”
Right as he turned, I threw it. It was a silly, two-year-old thing to do, but I couldn’t help it. The man infuriated me. And I had to warn him.
The cake landed in Jolie’s beard and dripped onto the front of his shirt. He reached his hand up only to smear the colors into his beard. Slowly, his hand went from his beard, to the frosting on his shirt, and down to the sides of his pants. His fingers twitched. He shifted back and forth between his feet as if ready to run or attack. A low growl sounded in his throat and rose to a loud pitch. He rushed at me, arms outstretched, aiming for my neck.
I waited until the last second and then slammed the tray into his face.