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“What?” I snap as I shove a rattled hand in my hair.
Marshall cuts right to the reason for his call. “We have a lead.”
I sit bolt upright, pitching the sheet off. “Someone saw her?”
“Someone saw Pavel. And there was a woman tailing him.”
“Jesus!” I’m scrambling off the bed, shoving my legs into my jeans. The bedroom door smashes into the wall and back at me when I throw it open. As I storm into the shared sitting room of the suite, I’m yelling. “Andre, get up. Someone spotted Pavel and possibly Simona.”
I turn my attention back to the phone. “Where were they?”
“Avenue de l’Opéra. Pavel was buying groceries. A woman, similar build but with dark hair in a black cocktail dress was seen exiting the store and following him for a few blocks, following his turns.”
With my heartbeat pounding in my temples, I half yell, “That’s fucking amazing. That means he’s staying near there.”
“Exactly my thought.”
Andre’s dressed and at the door with his twin holsters full of guns in less than a minute. I toss him the keys to the rented car. If there’s one thing the man does, it’s drive fast in jacked up city traffic.
It’s a quarter to midnight when we make the address where they were last seen. Half hour has passed. A lot can happen in that time. My gut was in a knot, my heart in cardiac arrest the whole drive.
“I’ll work the southern blocks,” Andre says as he gets out of the car.
I head in the opposite direction. Praying for anything. Any sign. Any clue.
People brush past me, dressed for late dinners or going to bars. Laughing. Talking in French. It’s a busy area. Music and traffic noises suffuse the evening air.
For the first few minutes, I feel acutely overstimulated. Like a dog that's been let loose on the hunt. I’m not good in that state.
Something you pick up when you’re practicing wartime medicine—You have to slow down to speed up.
I stop, stepping to the edge of the sidewalk, and press my back against the brick wall. Taking a few slow breaths, I reach for the calm that I know I have within me. That’s when I can do almost superhuman things. When I can tune into the most subtle details.
Four young women, chattering in French, round the corner and pass me. A cloud of expensive perfume trails along behind them. Two of them look back over their shoulders at me, laughing throaty, appreciative laughs, letting their eyes trace over me from foot to head.
They’re all in cocktail dresses and impossibly skinny high heels. Obviously, they’ve been somewhere classy. I’ll start there. Maybe Simona was dressed like that for a reason. Maybe she wants to fit in.
Now, to follow them, or go in the direction they’re coming from?
The cell phone of one of the women rings. She’s talking loud enough for me to hear. I just pray my French is good enough.
Thankfully, she keeps it simple. “Oui, encore deux minutes. Commandez nos boissons, s'il vous plaît.” Yes, just two more minutes. Order our drinks, please.
Ah, so they are on their way out for the evening. I fall in behind them, keeping plenty of space.
The woman was right. Two minutes later, they’re walking into a club-restaurant combo. It’s teeming with people. Beautiful. Dressed to kill. I’d never get inside in the jeans, plain black t-shirt, and leather coat I have on. So, I make a turn and cross the street, looking for a place to wait.
But I’m drawn up short when I hear, “Mr. American!”
I’m brisling with annoyance when I turn. The brunette, the one who got the phone call, is standing with her hand on her hip. In accented English, she says, “You want to come inside? I know the owners.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
She studies me for a moment. “Pity. It would be nice to spend some time with you.”
“I’m not looking for—” I forget all about talking to the woman when the crowd parts enough for me to see in through the window. It’s her. Simona, sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, close enough to the windows to see outside.
I’d know her anywhere. Even with dark brown hair and thick red lipstick on. I instantly recognize her.