Tomorrow, I’d go.
I took one last look at the river, at couples leaning into each other, at life continuing without hesitation.
“Okay, Rose,” I murmured softly. “I’m coming.”
Tomorrow, I would start with the clinic.
6
KANE
Iwoke to a hand on my shoulder.
The attendant stood over me, apologetic, speaking softly in accented English. "Monsieur, we have landed. Your car is waiting."
I blinked, disoriented.
I'd slept.
Through the entire flight. Through descent. Through landing.
When was the last time that had happened?
Never. Not since the military. Maybe not before. I always woke when planes touched down, when engines shifted pitch, when anything changed. Vigilance didn't have an off switch.
Except, apparently, it did now.
I sat up slowly, noting the empty whiskey glass on the tray table, the cabin silent except for auxiliary power humming. My body felt rested in a way I didn't trust.
"Thank you," I said, voice rough.
She nodded and retreated.
Outside, Paris greeted me with cool air and overcast skies. The private terminal was minimal—discreet security, people paid not to ask questions.
A man in a dark suit stood near the exit. No sign. No gesture. He simply looked at me.
I looked back.
"Mr. Black."
I nodded.
He gestured toward a blacked-out SUV. "This way."
The vehicle was anonymous, designed to blend. He opened the rear door and I slid inside, duffel beside me.
No conversation. No music. Just the engine's hum as we merged onto the highway.
The driver handled the vehicle like he'd done time in a combat zone.
Not erratic. Efficient. Smooth lane changes, constant mirror checks, positioning for exit options. The kind of driving you learned when vehicles became weapons.
Former operator, maybe.
I didn't ask.
Forty minutes later, after two long stints in Paris traffic, we turned onto a quieter street.
