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Flicka von Hannover
I couldn’t set this one on fire.
Flicka strolled around the park, watching Alina out of the corner of her eye to make sure she didn’t take a tumble or wasn’t mistreated by the other children. Alina was savvy, though. Other kids didn’t mistreat her. If anything, she was the bellwether sheep that the other children followed around theplayground, especially now that she was babbling French more fluently.
The Russian guards were becoming more comfortable with the park now that they’d been coming for several weeks without incident. Flicka smiled serenely as she snapped her shiny Hannover armor shut around herself and watched for any little opening where she might grab Alina and bolt.
The guards weren’t that lax, unfortunately,even when they were stomping their feet and blowing into their hands against the cold.
She was becoming desperate, though. Raphael was quietly more distressed every day. Valerian seemed angrier at supper in the evenings, though it was hard to tell with him. His smile at Sophie’s conversation seemed more strained, and he spoke less, even aiming fewer veiled threats at Raphael.
Which meant Raphaelmust already know all the threats.
More people were walking in the park on that wintry day than on previous days that week. The weather had been stormy, lately, and this was the first crisp, sunny day.
Flicka’s long-taught sense of situational awareness noted the odd increase of people, but they seemed to be a cross-section of Swiss society that didn’t set off alarm bells. Older men and women,at least as far as she could see under the mufflers and hats, shuffled along the salted sidewalks, and people in suits paired with long, formal coats walked briskly like they had somewhere to go and were taking a shortcut through the park.
As she was strolling along the sidewalk, her eyes on Alina to make sure that she wasn’t taking off her mittens again, a man bumped her, apologized, and wason his way. Flicka recovered her balance and looked around.
The Russian guards had jumped when it happened.
One was holding Alina in his arms. Alina’s pale green eyes were wide above her blue muffler, but she wasn’t crying.
Two others stood beside Alina’s captor, facing away.
Three more burly Russian guards had triangulated Flicka in case this was an escape attempt. She waved them off andcontinued walking, her head held high.
The man holding Alina gently set her on her feet and straightened her hat, pulling it down to protect her ears before he let her run off and rejoin the other children.
Flicka walked casually around the playground, greeting and talking with the other nannies and grandparents, and gave no indication that the man who had bumped her had shoved something intoher coat pocket.
She felt it with her gloves, cupping her hand around it to hide its outline and weight.
It was a flat tile, thinner and longer than a deck of cards.
A cell phone.
In the car, she slipped it out of her coat pocket and into her boot, really glad she was wearing ankle-high boots that day. Knee-length would have been too difficult. Anything lower wouldn’t have hidden it.
At theMirabaud estate, she went into a bathroom and powered it on.
A text flashed on the screen.
If you’re being held against your will, call or text me. I will send everything that Monaco has to rescue you. The army. The Secret Service. Everything. I will do everything to bring you home. Keep this phone with you. We can track it. ~Pierre
There was only one contact in the phone: Pierre Monaco.
That bastard must have a secret phone line as well as a secret email account.
Damn it, she’d been hoping for a gun or something else, not an invitation to sexual and reproductive slavery from her ex-husband.
And yet, if it would save Alina’s life—
Flicka frowned and considered the phone, heavy in her hand.
