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59

Eva

They’re armed with Glocks, which I appreciate. No cheesy antique weapons here. There are three of them. We don’t have the time to ask who sent them.

It doesn’t really matter, I guess. They didn’t come to talk.

One shoots Jonathan in the arm. Another aims at me but Jonathan charges him, so quickly and so ferociously that the man falls back—I’m guessing he’s heard of Jonathan. A reputation can be a weapon.

Jonathan pulls his gun and blows the man’s brains out right there in the street. That kind of decisive action tends to end a party quickly.

Most of the time in this job, hesitation is what kills you. If you’re the kind of person who can stick to their guns—metaphorically speaking—you’ve won half the battle.

Jonathan tosses me the man’s Glock as the other two men try to find cover.

I shoot one in the back. The third man runs.

“You let him go!” I say to Jonathan. I meant it as a joke, but I should have known better. Jonathan takes off after him.

They disappear down another alleyway. I hear the crack of a gunshot.

It’s kind of funny, actually, how quickly we end this assassination attempt. These poor guys probably planned this; they probably took time strategizing and encouraging each other, and now they are all dying in the street.

I meet Jonathan in the alley next to the third body.

“Do you want his gun instead?” he asks. “I don’t think he ever took a shot.”

“Sure,” I say, making the trade.

“We should probably leave Paris, just to be safe,” Jonathan says. “We don’t have a cleanup crew on this one.” He’s right. We need to run. We need to hide. At least until we’re feeling better. Until we have some kind of plan. We can’t just keep thwarting public assassination attempts.

Jonathan is examining his arm. I forgot they shot him. I watch in fascination and horror as he removes a bullet fragment from his deltoid.

“Ouch,” I say. “Wait—they shot you.”

“I am aware,” he says, gritting his teeth as he removes another fragment.

“I mean, you and not me. I’m the defector.”

He looks up. “You’re right.”

“If they think we’ve joined up, they’re gonna bring out the big guns, aren’t they?”

“Probably.” He doesn’t look impressed by their first attempt.

I scan the alleyway, expecting more assassins, but Paris is quiet. “Why don’t they just let us go?” I ask. I know it’s kind of a naive question, but it seems wasteful to go after us. “I mean, wouldn’t it be easier for everyone to just part ways amicably?”

“They’re afraid of us,” Jonathan says. “Because they can’t control us.”

“What do we do now?” I can barely think straight. So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours. I told Jonathan I loved him. I died. I killed someone. It’s been kind of a lot.

I want to go back to the hotel and take a bath, like I do after any other job. Only this isn’t a job anymore. This is my life now.

Jonathan takes my hand and starts toward a busy street, probably thinking we’re safer with an audience. “Have you ever been to the Cotswolds? Charming piece of English countryside: woodlands, stone walls, thatched-roof cottages.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“My handler lives out there. We need to find out everything we can about the network.” As Jonathan speaks, he bunches the sleeves of his shirt and jacket, hiding the bloodstains with a practiced hand.

“Sherri said there was an administrator. We should focus our efforts on finding them.”

“What kind of person would start a murder-for-hire business?” he muses.

“Someone who likes money more than morals.”

“I’m not sure if that narrows it down.”

We reach the main road. It’s sometime between morning and night, but the city isn’t completely asleep, not ever. This is the crossroads hour. Revelers are returning from the Great Last Night while early commuters charge past, scowling at the limp boys at bus stops, the girls sharing the last cigarette.

We disappear seamlessly into the crowd. We’re experts at it. We’ve been doing it our whole lives.

“Why do you want to see your handler in person?” I ask. “Can’t we just call him?”

“I don’t trust him…I mean, I don’t trust him without a gun to his head.”

I think of Sherri, who’s lied to me all along. Do I still trust her? I remember how panicked she sounded on the phone when she told me I was the mark this time. She warned me. She didn’t have to. She could’ve just cut and run. “My handler lives in London. We can see her, too.”

“Perfect.” Jonathan checks his watch. “The first Eurostar leaves in two hours. We need to be on that train.”

“Fuck.” I can’t catch my breath. Anymore. Ever.

Jonathan stops in his tracks. He turns to face me. He looks deeply into my eyes, like he did on the train all those months ago. I want to wish I had never met him, but I don’t. I don’t wish that.

“What do you want to do?” he says. “Tell me, and we’ll do it. Whatever you want.”

Decisive action. He’ll do whatever I say. He would stay here. He would go down in blazes. He would die. He might even enjoy it. But I don’t want that for either of us. I want us to make it out of this alive.

“Remember you said one day we’d go back on that train?” I ask. “The sleeper train from Florence to Paris. Same car. Just the two of us?”

“Yes.”

I swallow. “Let’s go to England. Let’s find out who’s trying to kill us, and let’s murder the fuck out of them.”

He kisses me.