him a debt: her life.
A heavy sigh and Bill dropped the phone,
picked up the bottle of cherry-flavored chalk. He’d give her a
little leeway; let her do things Kizzie-style. But if she did find
something and lied to him instead, one phone call would have
Kizzie’s debt paid in full and the account closed.
Permanently.
July 27 th
Paris, France
I n the fifteen
minutes since she’d climbed into the passenger seat of the Citroën
SUV, Phil had looked out the driver’s side window three times. The
quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Paris had a few expensive
shops nestled amongst row houses and efficiencies. A medium-size
café occupied the corner diagonal to their location. To find only
one in a city where cozy bistros outflanked golden arches 100:1 was
a rarity.
“How’s Zlata?” Kizzie asked, if only to
break the silence.
“Safe.”
Good. Zlata saved her hide in Helsinki.
She’d repay her one day, but for now, knowing Xander kept his word
was enough.
“Where’s Tweedle-dumb, anyway?”
Phil shrugged. “We’ll go soon, just need to
take care of something.”
With the sun well on its way to New York,
the café was well lit. Still, dark shades covered Phil’s eyes, the
wicked scar that crossed one of them peeking out from underneath.
He angled his head toward his lap where an iPad streamed an old
black and white film: Lolita.
Didn’t guess Phil for the classic movie
type—too artsy for hired muscle—but then, Kizzie knew little about
him. Less about his no-good boss. She added ‘old movies’ to Phil’s
factoids file, just under ‘dirty jokes’, ‘loyal’, and ‘lethal’.
Short list.
She’d worked with less.
Kizzie liked the guy, despite his being a
threat to national security. Plus Phil was the closest person to
Xander. Without a doubt her pre-op Intel on Duquesne lacked a
considerable amount of detail—her ass cheeks could attest to that
fact—and going back through Langley for specifics would alert
Connolly, bumping Phil to the head of the pack as a source.
She dug in her backpack for her binoculars.
Small but high-powered, the photo-capable field glasses would get
her a peek at whatever Phil found so damned interesting.
The café’s terrace was empty, an earlier
rainfall forcing the handful of diners inside. A party of three
laughed over some story or other, wine glasses full of red. Another
group of seven—eight, one just dropped into a seat—dined near the
back, chatting away. Nothing uncommon. She sifted through the
place, stopped on the corner booth farthest from the door.
“A couple months without me and you find new
eye candy, Phil? Did your marriage proposal mean nothing?” Her mood
turned from mock anger to mock distress. “I mean, sure you didn’t
get me a ring, but still…I thought…I thought we really had
something…” A theatrical sigh and Kizzie lowered the binocs.
Phil’s mouth twitched. “Don’t know what
you’re talking about, darlin’.” He checked his watch and then his
attention went back out the window.
“Hottie Mc’Hot Mama you keep checkin’ out,
ten o’clock. Don’t pretend you don’t see her; just makes the end of
our short engagement all the more hurtful. I’ll have to cancel the
cake and flowers…and just what will I tell our guests?” Gasping,
she touched the back of her hand to her forehead, earning a
chuckle.
Lenses up again, Kizzie gave the woman the
once-over: Middle Eastern or North African descent with a little
something else mixed in, though what and from where Kizzie couldn’t
be certain. Not so much petite as svelte, with a poise discernible
even at a distance. Olive skin, strong nose and thick, shaped brows
over wide eyes all properly proportioned in a heart-shaped face.
Short onyx hair styled in chic finger waves hugged her scalp. Not
everyone could pull off vintage Hollywood starlet, but this woman
owned it. A regal air surrounded her—either from old money or
married into it.
A heavy sigh and Bill dropped the phone,
picked up the bottle of cherry-flavored chalk. He’d give her a
little leeway; let her do things Kizzie-style. But if she did find
something and lied to him instead, one phone call would have
Kizzie’s debt paid in full and the account closed.
Permanently.
July 27 th
Paris, France
I n the fifteen
minutes since she’d climbed into the passenger seat of the Citroën
SUV, Phil had looked out the driver’s side window three times. The
quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Paris had a few expensive
shops nestled amongst row houses and efficiencies. A medium-size
café occupied the corner diagonal to their location. To find only
one in a city where cozy bistros outflanked golden arches 100:1 was
a rarity.
“How’s Zlata?” Kizzie asked, if only to
break the silence.
“Safe.”
Good. Zlata saved her hide in Helsinki.
She’d repay her one day, but for now, knowing Xander kept his word
was enough.
“Where’s Tweedle-dumb, anyway?”
Phil shrugged. “We’ll go soon, just need to
take care of something.”
With the sun well on its way to New York,
the café was well lit. Still, dark shades covered Phil’s eyes, the
wicked scar that crossed one of them peeking out from underneath.
He angled his head toward his lap where an iPad streamed an old
black and white film: Lolita.
Didn’t guess Phil for the classic movie
type—too artsy for hired muscle—but then, Kizzie knew little about
him. Less about his no-good boss. She added ‘old movies’ to Phil’s
factoids file, just under ‘dirty jokes’, ‘loyal’, and ‘lethal’.
Short list.
She’d worked with less.
Kizzie liked the guy, despite his being a
threat to national security. Plus Phil was the closest person to
Xander. Without a doubt her pre-op Intel on Duquesne lacked a
considerable amount of detail—her ass cheeks could attest to that
fact—and going back through Langley for specifics would alert
Connolly, bumping Phil to the head of the pack as a source.
She dug in her backpack for her binoculars.
Small but high-powered, the photo-capable field glasses would get
her a peek at whatever Phil found so damned interesting.
The café’s terrace was empty, an earlier
rainfall forcing the handful of diners inside. A party of three
laughed over some story or other, wine glasses full of red. Another
group of seven—eight, one just dropped into a seat—dined near the
back, chatting away. Nothing uncommon. She sifted through the
place, stopped on the corner booth farthest from the door.
“A couple months without me and you find new
eye candy, Phil? Did your marriage proposal mean nothing?” Her mood
turned from mock anger to mock distress. “I mean, sure you didn’t
get me a ring, but still…I thought…I thought we really had
something…” A theatrical sigh and Kizzie lowered the binocs.
Phil’s mouth twitched. “Don’t know what
you’re talking about, darlin’.” He checked his watch and then his
attention went back out the window.
“Hottie Mc’Hot Mama you keep checkin’ out,
ten o’clock. Don’t pretend you don’t see her; just makes the end of
our short engagement all the more hurtful. I’ll have to cancel the
cake and flowers…and just what will I tell our guests?” Gasping,
she touched the back of her hand to her forehead, earning a
chuckle.
Lenses up again, Kizzie gave the woman the
once-over: Middle Eastern or North African descent with a little
something else mixed in, though what and from where Kizzie couldn’t
be certain. Not so much petite as svelte, with a poise discernible
even at a distance. Olive skin, strong nose and thick, shaped brows
over wide eyes all properly proportioned in a heart-shaped face.
Short onyx hair styled in chic finger waves hugged her scalp. Not
everyone could pull off vintage Hollywood starlet, but this woman
owned it. A regal air surrounded her—either from old money or
married into it.
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