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La Marseillaise
(The Marseille Song/Song of Marseille)
prologue
On the patio balcony of a bar in the heart of Paris, she leaned back in an elegant, woven wire chair and exhaled tobacco smoke. Her cotton-candy pink manicured nails held the casually smoldering cigarette delicately and she tilted her head to the side, long red hair falling playfully over one shoulder and wispy styled bangs lightly brushing her eyelashes.
She smirked at a the lazy joke one of the Russians was telling in his thick, lilting French and lifted her eyes to the sky, drawing her lower lip between her teeth in a bitten pout.
Smoking was not something Jennifer Shepard regularly did, and cotton-candy pink was not a colour she had any love for, but tonight in Paris she was not Jenny Shepard, and part of her personal touch to her elaborate cover was that she distinguish the woman who didn't really exist from the woman who did.
The little things mattered, her ex-Marine of a partner told her; nothing so intricate she couldn't remember, but just enough so she didn't drown in her false life. She smiled a somewhat troubled smile to herself, thinking about him, and tangled thin fingers in the double string of pearls at her neck.
She was alone tonight; Gibbs was somewhere in Les Visenet cozying up to a blonde Russian bombshell's notorious hooker friend. Knowing him, he'd have her charmed and spilling secrets in a mere week—without ever laying a hand on her, if Jenny had her way.
The glamorous conglomerate of trussed up thugs she was observing tonight were talking nothing but women, wine, and wicked behavior. Not a whisper was heard about gun running, arms dealing, or human trafficking, and so it was just another night for Jenny to gain their trust; one step towards infiltration. She diligently showed a practiced lack of interest in the Russian; she wanted him to come to her, as that would ensure he felt in control and able to trust her.
The Russian spoke to her, asked if she'd enjoyed his jest, and she answered in a manner that was both coquettish and unconcerned, expressing more interest in the sleazy French businessman sitting next to her. He was yet to be profiled by NCIS, and this was only the second time she had come across him. According to sources, he was a mid-level pimp who specialized in Middle-Eastern women—and used his brothel to launder money for the Russian.
He was handsome in a filthy way, and Jenny had no problem enticing him a little if it meant he'd brag about his business and give her details on all the pies the Russian had his fingers in. The more he talked, the later she stayed at the upscale bar, and the easier it was to forget the clusterfuck that had muddied her mind since they had returned from Marseille eight days ago.
She ran her fingers through the pearls and lowered them into her cleavage, watching the Frenchman's eyes follow them lustily. She smirked and took another drag of the cigarette, nodding her head demurely when he offered to purchase her a drink. Conversation turned to Cold War political grievances as a glass of red wine was placed in front of her, and the woman the Russian had on his arm started kissing his neck lasciviously.
Jenny looked away, bored. She felt the Russian's eyes on her, she smiled at the Frenchman, and she thought of Gibbs. She felt a flash of misplaced jealousy as she wondered what he was doing with the blonde Russian's whore. She shouldn't care; it didn't matter.
The Frenchman's hand ran over her knee, pushing her dress up, slipping upwards inside her thigh—dangerously close to the weapon she had concealed there. She slapped his hand away; batting her eyelashes and tapping out her cigarette with a shy, fake laugh.
"Gérard," she trilled girlishly. She puckered her red lips and tossed her hair. She made a comment to the effect of him not having bought her enough drinks for that, and he smirked eerily at her.
She turned away, and found the Russian pulling his little tart's hair. The woman looked uncomfortable, but said nothing, and in the next moments, the evening was over; the Russian was dismissive of them all, clearly intent on taking his woman back to wherever he hid out when he was in Paris.
For the benefit of her cover, Jenny implied reluctance to part with the company; she pouted and simpered and then finally agreed that they would meet again next time—and next time she would have the information the Russian wanted, because that is who he thought she was, after all—a French national, turned Bolshevik-wannabe
She allowed Gérard to escort her out, his roaming hand around her waist. He kept his other hand tucked subtly into his pocket, but she was trained and she knew it to mean he was carrying. They were an eye-catching group—arms dealers did so love hiding in plain sight—covered in glitz and smoke and mirrors, and the Russian, his woman, and the others departed in a trickle, taking their time and drawing no suspicion from the sparse Parisians out this late.
Gérard suavely offered Jenny line after line, coaxing her to come home with him, and she toyed with him—ensuring the Russian's last eyeful of her that night was one that involved Gérard kissing her a little too hard. Alone on the streets finally, she pushed the French pimp away and turned up her eyes in a doe-eyed way, refusing him.
He grabbed her arm and bent it behind her back, pulling her closer, and she winced, taken aback. He was just a grunt, one of the Russian's cronies; he was not supposed to be dangerous—
Jenny planted her feet as he ran his hands over her roughly, lowering his mouth to her chest. She realized he wasn't taking no for an answer; she realized she was in a bad position.
She bolted backwards.
"Non," she barked at him angrily. She spat a batch of choice swear words at him in French and stomped her foot to indicate hurt feminine feelings, but anger flashed in his eyes and he came after her, grabbing her and forcing her into a slim alley between the bar they'd just come out of and an empty restaurant.
He shoved her against the wall, and her head throbbed as it knocked against stone.
"Non," she snarled again, fighting him. He pushed her hands back, raked them along the rough wall so her skin tore, and then grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down to her knees in front of him, executing a frighteningly skillful move that ended with his knees hitting her shoulders right at the painful joint intersection and pinning her down.
She tried to scream, her breath catching in her throat in silent terror. Cotton candy pink nails or no, she was Jenny Shepard now—and she was scared, and she had no back up. He was bigger than her, definitely stronger than her, and she couldn't get to her weapon.
She struggled to move her arms, but he slammed his knees into her harder and she cried out, pain rocketing through her. He brought his hand to her jaw and held tightly, so tightly she felt the skin bruising, and then he cracked his knuckles across her cheek sharply.
She spit at him, and gnashed her teeth. He yanked her head back by her hair, fumbling with his zipper with his other hand. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and clamped her mouth shut, biting the insides of her lips until her eyes watered. He forced her head down, and still she held her mouth tightly shut. She flinched away from him, refusing to open her eyes. He raked his hand down over her face and covered her nose, closing her airway, and finally the urge to breathe was overwhelming and she parted her lips desperately.
She choked in air and pressed her lips together before he could shove her mouth down on him, but she didn't have enough time to clam her teeth down. He pushed his fingers between her lips and yanked at her teeth, pulling her mouth open, and rather than acquiesce, she bit him.
He swore and knocked her head back. Spots exploded before her eyes, but still she forced herself to shake off the instant dizziness and take the opportunity to thrust herself at him, throwing her entire body weight into his knees and taking him down. Even disoriented, the bastard was stronger than her and he fought back hard, enraged by her little teething exercise.
He tried to pull the thin straps of her black cocktail dress down, but she threw a punch at him and thwarted him; he broke her pearl necklace instead. The beads clattered around them and she struggled hard to get him off of her. He reached between her legs and she screamed at the top of her lungs, to scare him, to draw attention—anything.
She felt his hands brush the gun and in the split second that he paused in shock, she threw him onto his back with the muscles of her thighs—just like she had Gibbs, in a different scenario, in Marseille—and she fought him down onto his stomach, riding a rush of adrenaline that told her get him down or get raped.
She got her gun into her hands and one of his hands behind her back, panting hard. Her eyes stung, her head spun, and she felt her throat tightening, like she was about to vomit and cry all at once. She suddenly felt very young and very green; she didn't know what to do with him—let him go, and she wouldn't be safe; but take him in? She could blow her entire cover—she needed Gibbs to tell her what to—
He wrenched with his body, nearly throwing her off of him, and she lost her balance, flung to her hip on the cold ground of the Paris alley. He rolled towards her, swearing violently, calling her all sorts of violent names, and she grit her teeth, scrambling to her knees in a haze of pain and lunging at him.
She shoved him back to the ground, her hands shaking with fear and disgust, and her thoughts crashed together in her head—frightened, unclear thoughts. She jammed the gun into the back of his neck, yanked up his sport coat to cover her hand and his head, trapping the fun in the little cloth tent it made, and fired.
She gasped at the sound of the gunshot and hot, coppery blood and pale grey brain matter splattered over her hand.
prologue
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