“Auriez-vous une cigarette?”
“Non,” I answer without bothering to glance his way.
“Sure?”
“Sorry.”
“American?”
“Non.”
“That’s not true, is it, Ezekiel?”
I’m already sprinting, but it’s too late. Within seconds, I’m hooded and riding in the back of a van. I remain completely silent as a barrage of questions in English and scattered French come at me from all sides while my backpack is ripped from my arm and unzipped, but I know I’m safe there. I’ve rid myself of anything that indicates I’m anything other than a college student, but these guys know better. I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong, and I will either die for it tonight, or I’ll be warned in a way I’m probably not going to like.
“Should have stayed in America,” one of them grunts as I maintain my count, tapping my thigh with my finger.
“How is American pussy?” One of them fires from my left. My silence buys me a busted lip, but I maintain, clearing my head from their distraction and keep counting.
From what I can tell, there are two of them, aside from the driver. Ignoring the noise, I tap my fingers on the leather behind me.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Sometime later, we slow, and I note the noise of construction to our left, despite the time of night. I hear the distinct clang of a gate when one of them exits the van before we drive through. In the next minute, I’m whisked out and dragged through a gravel parking lot, a doorway, and hauled down some steep steps. When a door closes behind me, the overpowering smell of urine hits while the hood is ripped from my head. Blinking to adjust to the light, a man comes into focus a foot away, older, early-fifties, his more salt than pepper hair neatly trimmed, face impassive, eyes dull. Just behind him stands Palo, the man I inquired about at the strip club last winter, and I see no recognition in his eyes for me. My attention flits back to the man in front of me as he inspects me carefully.
“You’re better looking than your father.”
I can only assume it’s Abijah he’s speaking of. Beau was far less radical, and I can’t imagine him tied to the man standing in front of me.
“Speak.”
“I don’t remember Abijah.”
“He was a good soldier. It’s a shame his mind betrayed him.”
“My mother hated him. I’m loyal to her.”
“I was very unhappy to hear of Celine’s passing. Tragic. She was beautiful.”
“She was murdered.”
His face remains impassive, but in his eyes, I see a shift.
He’s sharply dressed, his taste expensive. I’ve never owned a suit, but if all goes well—and this isn’t my last night alive—I’m determined to get one of my own. My thoughts drift briefly toward Dominic and the idea that call may be our last conversation. I touch my index finger and thumb together.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Pourquoi es-tu en France?”
“Here for school. Just a student.”
“Tell me what need a student has in recruiting my men?”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“I didn’t know they were your men.”
“Ignorance is not an excuse.”
“Je ne fais pas la même erreur deux fois.” I don’t make the same mistake twice.
He mulls it over as if deciding how he wants his steak cooked, but it’s my life on the line. But it’s traits like these, his body language, his ability to exude strength with presence alone, the consideration of his words before he speaks, and the even tone in which he speaks them that keeps me fully engaged. That and his fucking suit—double-breasted, flawlessly tailored.