She pulled on sweatshirt and sweatpants and went in search of coffee, badly needed with only a few hours’ sleep. She heard voices as she approached the salon, then discovered those voices were the latest newscast on the widescreen.
The broadcast was in English from a French news affiliate. Images from the attack at the restaurant the night before flashed across the screen—armored vehicles, emergency personnel, soldiers in camouflage with masks pulled up over their faces so that only their eyes were visible. Like actors in some macabre horror film, with weapons that had become almost commonplace on the streets of Paris, and the bodies of people who had been inside enjoying an evening out—couples, young,middle-age, and a child whose lifeless hand spilled over the edge of a stretcher.
“The latest attack in an increasingly long list of attacks over the past three years, even as authorities and military have a heightened presence across the city of Paris. Three people are known dead, with several more taken to area hospitals. No word on their condition. We will have more information at the midday.”
“It has been on all the news channels this morning.”
She didn't hear Luna come into the salon, wasn't even aware she was there until she spoke. She stood a few feet away, a long braid over one shoulder, the images that flashed across the screen reflected in her eyes.
“It is not the city that I remember,” she said with a trace of sadness. Then she looked over at Kris.
“My mother was French. I was born here. I was nine when I went to live with my father.”
Old enough to remember, or old enough to forget. She didn't explain and Kris didn't ask.
“Where is everyone this morning?”
“Innis went with Anthony and Daenerys to the warehouse,” Luna replied. “There is a tournament tonight. There is always a lot of work to do to set up,” she explained.
“They need to check the game stations to make certain they are working properly. Food will be delivered this afternoon, and Innis wanted to check the internet connections one more time.
“We usually link up from the café, but with everything that's happened…” She didn't need to explain. “We'll host the games from Paris.”
Game night.
Kris had heard them talking about it the day before—high stakes, with players expected to participate from across the globe. Tournaments in the past went on for hours, sometimesdays, and with a buy-in of five thousand dollars per player, a great deal of money was at stake for the winner, and the hosts.
She went into the kitchen. Some of Daenerys's special-blend coffee was in the brewer. She poured a cup, the caffeine and cinnamon blend pushing back the lack of sleep.
“He didn't go with them.” Luna poured a cup for herself, as if she read her mind.
“He said something about a rental car, and wanted to check out an address. He had Innis pull up information before he left.” She hesitated. “You might want to take a look.”
Had she heard their argument the night before? In spite of thick walls in the old building, with six people living in close quarters, there wasn't much opportunity for privacy.
She followed Luna back into the salon, and pulled up a chair beside her in front of the wide-screen.
“It had to do with information they got last night.” Luna keyed in a link. Images came up on the screen, and she scrolled through them.
It took her a moment to figure out what she was looking at—video from a security camera. The date and time came up across the bottom of each frame.
“It is from the gallery,” Luna explained, “le Noir.”
The 'how' Innis had come by the footage wasn't a mystery. He'd obviously hacked into the gallery security system, a man of many talents.
“They went there before their meeting last night,” Luna explained.
He and Anthony had gone to the gallery the night before—something he hadn't bothered to mention at the time. Not that she'd given him much chance.
There'd been too much anger when there was no call from either of them after the attack at the restaurant, not knowingwhere either of them was, not knowing if something had happened to them.
Was that the address he had gone back to check that morning?
She studied frame after frame as Luna scrolled through—a shot from an outside camera as a large enclosed van approached down a darkened alley. Then another shot from another camera as bay doors slowly opened and the van entered what appeared to be a large garage. Another camera picked up interior shots as the van slowly pulled inside. There were several more frames as the driver and a passenger got out of the van.
It was the passenger who caught her attention—the slender build, dressed in a dark turtleneck shirt, dark cargo pants, and boots. Then the profile beneath the edge of a ball cap as the passenger turned to say something to the driver. It was only a glimpse, features hidden by shadows.
That was all it was days before, at the airport in Edinburgh, someone seen in a matter of seconds, the fight over her bag, then gone.
