The Blonde Identity (10)

“That I did steal,” he said, but she put it on and didn’t say another word.

*

She didn’t know how long they walked down the narrow, winding streets of Paris, changing directions and dodging into alleys, doubling back and altering speeds. But they never, ever stopped.

“Should we get a taxi or something?” she tried after a while.

“Nope.”

“Am I slowing you down?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m sorry.” She was fully limping at that point. Her toes felt like bloody stumps.

So she wasn’t expecting him to say, “Oh, no. The limping’s fine. Limping’s good, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

“People notice gaits,” he went on, more patient than she would have expected. “Posture. Body language. They don’t know they’re noticing it, but they do. You really want to lose a tail? Put a pebble in your shoe and something heavy in one pocket. But, hey, we don’t have to because you’re limping!”

“Uh . . . yay?” she said.

“That’s the spirit!” He pulled her down another street.

“So if we’re not going to a hotel or the embassy, where are we—”

“To a safe house.”

“Oh, and we’ll be safe there?”

“Yes,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You can tell because the word safe is right there in the title.”

She wanted to snarl at him. Or shout. Or cry. Or curl up in the snow and wait for the plows to come and push her away, but the man had blood on his hands, so the least she could do was keep walking.

*

It wasn’t the nicest street or the shabbiest. Not the newest or the oldest. The apartment building was utterly nondescript in every way. But he was careful as he approached it, and she let herself have a small glimmer of hope that safe houses might come with soup and cocoa and tiny marshmallows. And also Band-Aids. She really, really needed a Band-Aid.

But as they neared the door, he shifted suddenly, steering her into an alley as if that had been their destination all along.

He was always cautious, but he was practically pulsing with awareness as he pulled out his gun. “Here. Hold this.”

“I don’t know what to do with that!”

“I didn’t say do something with it. Geez! No! The last thing I want is for you to do something. Just”—his tone was especially gentle, like he was handing her a newborn baby—“hold it.”

So she took it. The gun was heavier than it looked and warm from his hand and she was so focused on not accidentally shooting them both that it took her a moment to notice—

“Are you making a snowball?”

“Yup.” He pressed the snow together, packing it tight; then he rose and tossed it at a third-floor window. But the alley was narrow and the window was high, and the snowball landed against the underside of the sill with a splat.

“Shit,” he said, then he bent down and made another one, aiming for the tall window like they were at some kind of carnival and he was trying to win her a prize.

“Um, just out of curiosity, why are we throwing snowballs at a window?”

“The paint on the door was chipped. I just need to check on something,” he said as the third snowball crashed into the glass.

The sound was so loud it almost echoed, and she worried someone might come investigate and find her holding a gun that had recently shot a very large number of very large men.

But he just stood there for a long time, quietly staring up, until—“Hey!” He sounded almost hopeful and more than a little bit relieved. “I guess we’re clear.” He gave her a smile that could fire the sun.

And then the apartment exploded.





Chapter Nine





Him


“Shit. Shit. Double shit. Shit.”

“Language,” the woman beside him said, sounding far too prim for someone who still had a Glock in her hand and—Oh shit, he realized. She still had his Glock in her hand.

“I’ll take that.” Sawyer grabbed the gun with his right hand and reached for her with his left, felt her delicate fingers interlace with his even though that had to be sloppy tradecraft. Hand-holding. It served no purpose whatsoever and slowed reaction times by at least a second. But her fingers were like ice and her eyes were huge, and she was shaking despite the orange-red flames that were breaking through the—

Oh right. Flames. Windows. Explosion. That’s what made Sawyer pull his gaze from hers and drag her to the end of the alley.

“Uh . . . what just happened?” It was a fair question, but he was still too mad to answer.

“Shit! That was my second favorite safe house.”

And that seemed to be the thing that threw her because she blurted, “You have two safe houses?”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, lady, I have way more than two. That was just my second favorite.”

Black smoke billowed behind them, and sirens blared in the distance, coming this way fast, so Sawyer let go of her hand and tugged off his cap—crammed it in his pocket—and threw an arm around her shoulders because that was actual tradecraft.

Covers come in all shapes and sizes, and right then the best place to hide was in the middle of the sidewalk. Head down. Beautiful woman beside him. Looking to all the world like two lovers taking a stroll through falling snow.