One. He knew he was under suspect and wasn’t taking chances.
Two. He wasn’t taking chancesandwas moving away to keep from prison if found out.
Nothing said guilt like fear.
Nothing was here to find then, and so with less evidence than she’d like, but a healthy dose of confirmation, she made her way from the study, found the room and window, and exited, collecting her boots and lacing them as she crouched behind the bush where she’d hidden them.
A prickling shiver went up her back and she froze, listening.
The sound of breathing reached her ears a moment before her eyes caught movement near her. From the side of her boot, she withdrew a small dagger and closed her eyes, giving herself over to the senses that worked best in the dark.
The person was oblivious to her, that much was clear. A voice mumbled something in French under his breath. A hand touched the stone, making a sweeping noise as it traveled along the windowpane just above and to the left of her.
A boot stepped two feet away, and she glanced down at it.
Three things happened in quick succession.
One. She ambushed the man, kicking her newly tied boot into the back of his knees and sending him forward.
Two. She placed the knife at his throat now that he was on his knees.
Three. She silenced whatever words he was about to say with a slow press of her cold blade to his neck while whispering, “Shhh.” She crooned, nearly purring the word. It always came across far more menacing than a yell. As if she enjoyed the fact she could take or give life.
The man froze, his breath coming in short gasps.
“One-word answers.” She spoke in a low tone. “Who are you?”
His throat bobbed with a swallow, and the knife scraped across his Adam’s apple. “Jacques Flore.”
She pressed the knife in a fraction of a millimeter. “That’s two words.”
He was frozen, and she continued.
“Who are you for?”
“France — but—”
“Two words again.” She tsked her tongue and stepped with the heel of her boot onto the back of his calf, grinding.
He stiffened with pain.
“Jaxsen.” His tone was hoarse, and she dug the knife in farther.
“What did you say?” she growled.
“You must be Jaxsen. I was told about you… by Jon Sharpter.”
Jaxsen relaxed her hold slightly. Jon was her superior officer, and he wouldn’t give her name to just anyone.
Which meant only one thing.
He was on their side.
“Why are you here?” She released him slowly, keeping her knife at the ready.
“Same reason you are, but we need to go. This is far too conspicuous.”
“I’ll follow you out.” She watched him warily, knowing it was far more defensive to follow than to lead and give a potential threat your back.
