Page 197 of Secrets Beneath the Waves

Graham laughs at my attempt to lighten the mood. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

I frown. “Not much, but I’m sure you didn’t either.”

“How about we get you home. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

I shrug. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping tonight. I don’t trust Rourke to come through, which means I’m going to need to keep digging up every angle I can.”

“I’m happy to help,” Graham says as we head toward the darkened exit instead of going back to the party. “But what about a walk first? I know I need to clear my head.”

Graham is right. The night air does me good and takes off a layer of stress from the evening. Farther out from the Louvre, the streets are livelier. Small groups of tourists linger outside cafes, snapping selfies while sharing late-night drinks. A biker flies down the narrow lane that’s lit by the soft glow of streetlamps.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

I laugh. “Starving, actually.”

He stops in front of a small crêperie stand that’s still open, its neon sign flickering above us. A minute later, he hands me a wrapped crepe filled with Nutella.

“You’re really starting to spoil me.”

“I’ll make a note not to make it a habit,” he says as we start walking again. “Do you like to cook?”

“Absolutely not. My mom gave up teaching me years ago.”

“What makes me believe that statement is tied to a specific event?”

I take a bite of the crepe and let it melt in my mouth. “I decided to make homemade mac and cheese when I was about fifteen. I even followed a recipe. Everything went fine—or so I thought—until it was discovered I used condensed milk instead of evaporated milk. Needless to say, it tasted awful, and to this day, Mom’s never let me use her kitchen again.”

“Ouch.”

“What about you?”

“I confess, I mainly eat takeout, though I can make a pretty mean pasta dish.”

“You’re really good at what you do,” I say, changing the subject before taking another bite.

“You sound surprised.”

“Working with new people and building trust is challenging, especially in our job.”

“So you’re saying you trust me?” he asks.

I hesitate at the question, but the answer somehow comes easily. “You kept me safe today.”

“And I see why they trust you with the heavy stuff.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll have our driver pick us up now.”

Back at the office, we split up. Graham starts pulling surveillance from the streets near Oumar’s apartment along withthe closest Metro lines, while I push away my fatigue and dig into encrypted channels and chatter tied to arms movement. Two hours later, Hawke joins us, and we manage to keep working by keeping the coffeepot full and working our way through a bag of French sugar puffs someone left behind in the break room.

The call from Rourke comes sooner than I thought. I answer my phone and put it on speaker so Graham can hear the conversation.

“You were right,” Rourke says. “We have a problem.”

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

[Ransom Countdown: 6 Hours, 53 Minutes remaining]

The street’squiet and the sky dark as Graham drives us toward our destination. I’m uncomfortable with our planned meeting place with Rourke, a parking garage next to a nondescript office building that’s still closed for the night. After getting barely two hours of sleep, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m tired and irritable, and my early morning double espresso has only increased my anxiety. Searching surveillance and chat logs half the night turned up nothing, which means Rourke is currently our only lead if we’re going to rescue Oumar in time.