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Holding onto the file and the flash drive, I moved fast, reaching for the heavy paperweight on the desk and hurling it at his face. He dodged, but it gave me the opening I needed. I sprinted past him, my heels slamming against the hardwood.
He caught my wrist, yanking me back hard. I gasped, twisting, my knee connecting sharply into his groin. He let out a strangled curse, his grip loosening just enough.
I didn’t hesitate.
Grabbing the nearest lamp, I swung it straight into his head. The crash of ceramic exploding filled the air, and he crumpled to the floor.
I ran.
Down the hallway, out the front door, lungs burning as I tore through the streets. I didn’t stop, didn’t look back, disappearing into the night.
I knew what Hector was capable of. Knew that if his men caught me, I would just disappear. I’d never even make it to the headlines. No one looks for someone who no one knows is missing. I had no choice.
I should never have stepped foot back in that house. I knew better. But I went anyway, convinced I could slip in, grab my passports and some cash, and leave without incident. That was the plan—quick, clean, no complications. But life doesn’t give a damn about plans.
The peeling walls of this hotel room feel smaller by the second, like they’re closing in, suffocating me under the weight of my own choices. Or maybe it’s fear. The kind that grips tight, relentless, refusing to let go.
A few days. That’s how long I’ve been running. A few days of an anonymous hotel—always looking over my shoulder—changing my name, my hair, everything, just to stay ahead of the men who want me dead.
But deep down, I know I can’t outrun them forever. I know I need help, but I have no way of getting out of France without Hector finding me.
I stare at my phone; the screen blurred from the contact of my fingertips. There’s only one person left who might be able to help me. Someone I met a while back at a party. Someone who recognized the look of a woman who was in a desperate situation but had no idea how to get out of it.
Jordan James-Fitzwallace, or as she likes to be called, JJ. The name alone sends a pulse of something sharp and electric through me. It’s funny, but I’ve kept her card with me—protected and hidden. Instinct, I guess. Some part of me knew I’d use it someday. That day is now.
I take a steadying breath, dial her number on the card she’d slipped me that night at the gala, and press the call button. It rings. Once. Twice.
“JJ,” a woman answers.
“Hi. It’s Cherise Pardo. I need your help.” I say. My voice is small and unsure.
“Finally! I was wondering when this day would come. Let me put my husband on.”
“No, JJ. I’d rather deal with you.”
“Okay. I can understand that, but we’re going to need Cerberus’ help. Are you safe? The first step is to make sure your location is secure?”
“I…I think so. For now. I’m in a hotel room in Paris.”
“Where?”
“The 20th arrondissement. A cheap hotel. They didn’t ask for identification.”
JJ chuckles. “No, they wouldn’t in that section of Paris.”
“I also got a burner phone and destroyed my old phone before leaving it in Lyon. I’ve read enough romantic suspense novels to know that I needed to do at least that much.”
“That’s smart.”
The praise is a balm to my weary mind and soul.
“Fitz is saying Hector already has people looking for you,” she continues. “So, let’s change the game up and, as my friend Olivia, the sword fighter, says, put the little bastard on his back foot. Fitz is writing me notes. You’re to stay in your room—don't leave for any reason. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer the door. Don’t look out the window. Do you need food or anything else?”
“No, I picked up some bread, cheese, salami, fruit and a box of auburn hair dye before I came here.”
“Good. For the next forty-eight hours, keep yourself isolated—don’t see anyone, don’t talk to anyone, don’t even open your door or your curtains. We'll have tickets and new identification slipped under the door of your hotel. The ticket is for the train to Monte Carlo.”
“Monte Carlo?” I ask, confused.