I shook my head, unable to hide my awe. “I’ve stayed in five-star hotels with my family before, butthisis beyond.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll come back sometime when we can actually enjoy it.”
The doors opened in sequence; the drivers popping out to help with the bags. Gwen met us at the curb, her blue pumps soaked but her smile bright as ever.
“First priority is inside. I’ll check the perimeter. Parker, you’re on comms with Wrecker. The rest of you—upstairs, low profile.”
Even in English, the words came out like orders barked on a drill field. It was strangely comforting.
We followed the valets in, our boots squeaking on the marble. The lobby was a dream: two stories of crystal and gold leaf, a fireplace as big as a Volkswagen, and the air thick with the scent of peonies and whatever expensive cleaning fluid the French used to polish centuries of secrets. For a second, I almost forgot why we were here.
The night manager appeared, a wisp of a man in a silk suit, his face an unreadable mask of efficiency. He spoke rapid French with Gwen, glancing at the rest of us only when absolutely necessary. He pointed us toward the private elevator at the end of the hall.
In the glass, I caught our reflection: six shadows, moving as one. Even Wrecker, who could never pass for anything but dangerous, managed to look like just another American tourist with too much gym time and not enough sense. I pressed close to Jess, who kept one arm braced protectively at my back.
The elevator ride was slow, old gears grinding up through the levels. We spilled out onto the penthouse floor, where the suite door opened at Gwen’s touch. Inside, the suite was absurd: three bedrooms, each with its own velvet-draped balcony; a kitchen stocked with enough wine and cheese to feed a small army; a living room with a view of the Eiffel Tower, lit up like a promise. The moment the door latched, the spell broke. Everyone went to work.
Parker and Wrecker set up laptops at the dining table, unzipping cases and laying out an arsenal of gadgets. Papa disappeared into the kitchen and returned with six tumblers and a bottle of whisky, pouring two fingers for everyone, noquestions asked. Doc checked all the windows, running a hand along the frames, then set up a med kit by the fireplace.
Jess pulled me aside into the hush of the master bedroom. “You okay?” he asked, searching my face.
“My legs are shaking,” I admitted.
He smiled, softening. “If they weren’t, I’d be worried. We did good tonight. Tomorrow is what matters.”
I nodded. I felt confident next to him; like I was more powerful than I was alone.
He held me for a minute, his chin resting on my head, then kissed my hair and guided me back to the main room. Papa handed me a glass. I took it, letting the whisky burn a line down my throat.
Through the balcony doors, the city glimmered. I could see the lights of Montmartre, and I imagined my sister somewhere out there, maybe even seeing the same sky. Maybe feeling the same fear.
We gathered around the table, each of us silent, waiting for Gwen to report back. I drank my whisky and let the warmth spread through me, chasing away the last of the cold.
After ten minutes, the suite phone buzzed. Jess answered, listened, then hung up. “Clear for now,” he said. “No tails. We hold here until dawn, then Gwen takes us to the rendezvous.”
I nodded. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, but the determination in my chest burned hotter than ever. I would find my family. I would get them out. Nothing else mattered.
The others drifted off to their rooms in ones and twos. Jess stayed beside me on the couch, arms wrapped tight around my waist. We watched the city together, neither of us speaking.
Somewhere out there, my sister and mother were waiting. And this time, I would not let them go.
We made it back to our beautiful bedroom suite where I showered off the day’s travel and dressed in my comfortable flannel pants and sweatshirt. Jess pulled me to his chest when we made it to the bed. Sleep came easy and dreamless. The only thing I carried into the dark was hope.
Chapter 22
Arsenal
Iwoke to the silence of the Paris penthouse, the sky still black outside the cathedral-height windows, and for a moment, I’d almost forgotten where I was. The suite’s air hung heavy with last night’s cologne of jet lag, city rain, and suppressed fear. I padded barefoot through the hushed corridors, shirtless, scars and all, straight to the kitchen and the squat Italian espresso machine, a brushed-chrome cannon that hissed and gurgled with every shot.
By my second cup, I felt human; well, as human as Iwas. By the third, I was a goddamn machine.
The penthouse had three bedrooms—Harper was dead asleep in ours, her hair a lion’s mane spilled across white linen—but I needed a table, a big one, with good sight lines and bad chairs. I found it in the glass-walled “library” off the main hall: a twelve-seat slab of reclaimed oak, flanked by shelves of unread hardbacks and a disused wet bar. I dragged in a stack of tourist maps, the latest intel from Rafe’s Birmingham office, and a roll of Paris street grid printouts that Wrecker and Parker had marked up on the flight. Every marker was a wound: blue for safe houses, and green for likely routes. Our last intel had put Brie and Nanette with the Renault Pack. Figuring that remained the same, we’d marked that area in red. By the time the sun edged over the Seine, I had the city’s skeleton sketched in front of me like a murder board.
At 6:04, Wrecker stomped in, already in jeans and a gray tee, hair still wet from the shower. He poured himself a mug, ignored the little cup the Italians wanted you to use, and leaned over my shoulder. “You sleep?” he asked.
“Some.” I flicked the topmost printout. “You see this?”
He did. “Renaults moved their base of operations from the outskirts to right here.” He pointed at the block just west of La Défense. “That’s a change. They usually keep a low profile in suburbia.”
