Chapter One
The sounds of her heels echoing against the pavement and her harsh breathing were the only thing she heard. She didn't dare to glance back to see if he had gotten closer. All that mattered at the moment was getting away. Where? she thought as the panic rose again. The street was deserted but for the occasional passing car. It didn't help that she was in a strange city. Having run so far already she was in a portion of Paris that she hadn't seen on her few tourist excursions. The buildings were all dark, closed up, and she couldn't tell as she raced by whether they were shops closed for the night or closed permanently. God, where can I go?
The balls of her feet ached with each rapid step she took. Of course she would be running – for her life, it seemed – on one of the rare occasions she wore high heels. Expensive high heels at that. More than once she thought of taking them off and running barefoot. Her main reason for not doing so was the man who had followed her from the museum. Also, a good bulk of her savings had been parted with to attain the turquoise Louboutins and the thought of throwing them away seemed absurd even in her current frame of mind.
A dark sedan screeched to a stop at the corner and her heart plummeted with dread. Another one? She stopped, clutching a light pole to hold herself up as her knees weakened. She gasped for breath and could only stare as the passenger door opened. The tall man that exited the vehicle frightened her with his dark expression and she began to shake her head. No. Please, no.
"Annette? Get in," he ordered, his English accent surprisingly calm. His eyes were on something behind her and she gasped as a gun appeared in his hand. "Fuck," he muttered. Long legs carried him in her direction and he grasped her bare arm. "I said get in the car—"
"No, please, don't—" she cut off with a cry as she was jerked forward. Her hand slid off the light pole just as something ricocheted off the light pole. The object whizzed past her cheek to lodge in the side of the building on the corner. A bullet. He'd shot at her.
She stumbled as he brought her closer to the car. "Get in the fucking car unless you want to die right here," he instructed.
She nodded, numb with fright as he stepped between her and him. He maintained a firm grip on her arm, backing her into the vehicle. The sudden gunshot startled her but she had no opportunity to cry out. Her wrist was caught in another large hand to guide her as she struggled to climb into the car. One heel caught in the tulle skirt and she was vaguely aware of the ripping. More shots were fired. Squashed between the two immense men she clasped her trembling hands in her lap, glancing down at the hand that still clutched her wrist.
"Go," the Englishman commanded. The acrid smell of gun smoke filled her nostrils as the hand holding the gun braced against the dash.
"Did yeh get 'im?"
"No. Fuck."
Tires squealed against the pavement, the car lurching forward before the Englishman closed the door completely. The sound of glass shattering brought a scream from her throat, and she felt a hand on the back of her head, forcing her to lean forward as the remains of the rear window exploded across them.
"That fucker almost got us."
"Want me to drive back 'round so yeh can take 'im out?"
"No. It's too dangerous. We have to get her to the safe house before his friends show up."
"Hard to believe a bastard like that even has friends."
Stomach churning, Annette kept her head down even when the hand pulled away. They continued to talk, speaking of coded messages and headquarters. Someone named Stephanie would be pissed about the damage to the car.
"Alright now, Miss Jacobs, yeh can sit up now."
The driver. Was his accent Irish? Slowly she raised her head, which swam as bits of glass rolled down her back. She blinked, hardly seeing the lights and buildings as the car sped through the city streets. The cool spring air whipped through the car thanks to the shattered rear window and she shivered. Trembling hands lifted to pluck glass from her hair. "Wh... Who are you?"
"Me name's Stephen, Miss. But yeh can call me Ste."
She nodded, stomach twirling as he made a sudden turn. "A-and how do you know my name?"
"We know a bit more than your name." This from the Englishman. When she glanced over she saw he was reloading his gun. In the dim light she noticed a bleeding nick on his cheek.
"Where are you taking me? I have to get back to the museum—"
"Afraid we can't let you do that, Miss Jacobs. Too dangerous." He tucked the gun away inside his jacket then reached to wipe the blood from his cheek. "We're taking you somewhere safe, don't worry. You can trust us."
"I was just chased for I don't know how far—"
"'Bout three kilometers," Stephen put in.
"Yes, thank you. I was just chased for three kilometers—"
"In high heels, no less. Good on you, Miss Jacobs."
The Englishman was laughing at her. The sound didn't come from him, but his grin spoke volumes. "I had a gun at my back, I was shot at, and I have no clue as to why any of this happened. You expect me to trust you? How do I know you're not with him?"
"If we were, would I have been shooting at the bastard?" He wiped at his cheek again.
"I don't know. Why is this happening?" As she spoke she uncurled her fingers from her small clutch purse. She remembered the hand reaching for it, the fear that she was about to be mugged in the middle of the party. She had maintained a death grip on it throughout, though, and now reached inside. Had she known what would happen, she would have gladly handed it over. The white handkerchief she pulled out was utterly feminine, a froth of lace edging the thin linen, but she folded it in half and reached to press it to the cut on his cheek.
"We'll tell you everything you need to know when we get to the safe house."
"Could you at the very least tell me your name?" she requested.
"Stu." He reached up, slipping her hand from the cloth at his cheek. "Pleased to meet you finally, by the way."
"'Finally?' What—"
"Goin' through the back," Stephen announced. The car bounced over uneven pavement after being guided between two buildings. When he cut the headlights she saw only the faint outline of a door at the back. None of the windows inside gave off light, and there were no other cars that she could see.
Had they brought her here to kill her?
"Blackout curtains, Miss Jacobs." Stu opened the door and climbed out, eyes scanning the immediate area. When he reached to help her out she hesitated.
"S'alright, Miss. We're the good guys." Stephen patted her arm. "Ah'll be in after ah get rid of the car."
Yes, that made her feel better, Annette thought sarcastically. Nodding, she slid across the seat, wincing as glass scraped at her flesh. Stu's warm hand grasped hers and then she was out, immediately looking for a way to escape. When the car door slammed she jumped.
The hand moved to her arm and he guided her towards the door as the car eased off into the night. As they approached she heard the slide of locks and bolts from inside. Her steps faltered when the door opened, a shaft of light falling from the crack.
Stu's grip tightened to keep her from backing away. "It's only Drew. He's one of us."
"How many of you are there?" she asked warily, giving up on flight. There had been so many turns and roundabouts that she would never find her way back to the museum.
"Just the three, but we're part of a larger operation."
The door shut behind them as soon as they were inside. A large room was before her. She saw the table across the way with computers. One wall was taken up with monitors and she realized each showed an area of the building, inside and out. There were a variety of take-out boxes littering a table; the smell of stale food permeated the air. A set of iron stairs led up to she knew not where.
"Alright there, Miss Jacobs."
She turned her wary gaze on the owner of the Scottish accent. English, Irish, Scottish. Would the next person she met be Welsh? "I..." She trailed into nothing, not knowing how to reply to such a statement. It wasn't a question. And she was certain she couldn't classify herself as alright for the time being.
"Drew, shut up." Stu's hand moved to rest on her back. She felt him tense as his palm lay over her bare skin. "Miss Jacobs, there's a room upstairs ready for you. When Ste gets back one of us will go to your apartment and get some of your things, but for now you can get the glass out of your hair and change."
Without waiting for an answer he guided her up the stairs, hand warm against her skin. Still wary, she let her eyes dart about for a possible escape route as they passed the first room on the left. A small bathroom. The second door on the right he opened and she took a deep breath when he stepped inside before her.
"Not very charming but decoration was the last thing on our minds," he explained when she entered the room.
Annette looked around, noting a utilitarian feel to the bedroom. A lamp on the nightstand, next to a bed that was covered with a plain blue comforter. A table beneath the blacked-out window coupled with a straight-back chair and a tall bureau made up the only furniture. The wooden floor featured a blue area rug and she nodded. "And how long am I going to be held prisoner here?"
"As long as it takes." He motioned to the bureau. "We weren't sure of your size but there are a couple things in there you can change into. Bathroom across the hall if you need to wash off. You might want to, there's a bit of blood on your back." He rubbed his fingers together as he spoke and she saw the trace of blood there.
The idea of removing her clothes while strange men lingered practically outside the door didn't appeal to her. But she nodded, arms folded tightly across her middle. Purse still clutched in her hand, she gasped when he plucked it from her grasp. "What—"
"Your cell phone."
She cringed when he flipped it open, his brutish fingers pushing around the contents before finally curling around her phone. She had forgotten it was in there and wondered if she would have been able to call for help.
"The people we're dealing with are very smart, Miss Jacobs. It's possible they know as much about you as we do, and it's possible they know more. Sophisticated criminals can find you in seconds nowadays." He looked at her phone for a few seconds. "Good. You had it turned off completely."
She could only watch in horror as he pried off the battery cover. Fingers now nimble, he plucked out the battery, slipping it into the pocket of his slacks. A small cry bubbled up her throat as he snapped the phone in two. The sound of plastic splintering seemed to echo within the room and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
"We'll get you a new one when this is all over. And don't worry, I made sure Cody backed up your contacts and everything earlier today." He jammed his hand into the purse again, this time coming out with her keys. "We'll need these."
Annette didn't want to know who Cody was. "You just—" She shook her head. "When am I going to find out what this is all about?" she asked, changing topics. "You promised answers, and I want them."
"When Ste gets back. Now please, try to calm down. Freshen up. There's toiletries in the top drawer." Stu turned at the doorway. "The window is sealed, by the way."
With that, he left the room. The door clicked shut behind him and for one brief, horrible moment she thought he was going to lock her inside. But she heard his steps retreat down the hall. And she breathed a little easier.
When he entered the building, his gaze immediately moved around the room. It was second nature now. He shut the heavy door and fastened the locks once spying Drew at the computer.
"Where's Stu?" he asked.
"Upstairs. Her Highness informed us the clothes in her room are too tight, so he's trying to find something she can wear until we get her apartment cleared." Drew's eyes never left the computer screen a he spoke. One hand reached out to grasp the can of Pepsi next to him. "We sure as hell got ourselves a real pip this time."
"She's not the dregs of society we're used to dealing with," Stephen agreed as he shrugged out of his jacket. "Send a message to Cody. Tell him the car's in the drop-off spot."
"Will do."
Stephen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he entered the room further. He winced at the grit of safety glass still clinging to his shirt and knew a shower was in order. But it would have to wait. There was too much to do at the moment. Stepping over to the coffeepot on the counter, he poured himself a cup and took a sip. He winced at the taste; it had obviously been sitting too long. Too impatient to wait for another pot to brew, though, he took another sip as he approached his makeshift desk.
"Ah, shit."
Drew's outburst had him turning in that direction. When he saw the photos loading on the screen, he released a string of curses. His coffee was forgotten as Drew brought up the first.
The woman was still wearing her dress. Had he not seen her enter the museum earlier that evening he would have now thought it to be crimson red. But the memory of white ruffles floated in his mind and he realized the dress was soaked with blood. Her face was a blood-splattered mask of pain; her fingers curled as though reaching. Spikes through her wrists held her against the the door.
"Bloody hell."
Stephen glanced from the close-up image of the woman's neck to see Stu standing next to him. The face of his closest friend was a stoic mask, but Stephen saw the disgust and outrage in the man's eyes.
"It's a crucifix," Drew murmured. "The ankles lashed together, the arms outstretched. I'd bet anything she was stabbed in the side."
"At the museum, though?" Stephen asked in disbelief, turning his attention to the gaping wound on the woman's neck. "Any leads?"
"Not yet. She was found when they were closing the museum." Drew reached for his Pepsi again. "Says here she went looking for Miss Jacobs and never came back."
"Marie Bertrand," Stu sighed. "The bastard couldn't get Miss Jacobs so he got her friend."
"Or he's telling us he can do whatever the fuck he wants," Stephen muttered.
"What about Marie?"
The sound of her voice, tense and worried, caused all three men to turn. Stephen cursed himself for not hearing her approach. Eyes wide with anxiety, she showed no hint of trepidation as she crossed the room. She was staring at the computer screen. And when she turned those wide eyes on him he couldn't find the words. "Ah..."
He looked to Stu, who seemed to share his discomfit. The Englishman cleared his throat and gestured aimlessly at the computer. "She was found dead a little while ago."
"Marie's d-dead?" she whispered.
Fuck, Stephen thought. He should have known she would overhear them. Too late, he slipped his body between her and the computer to shield her from the photos on the screen. "Annette—"
"H-how?" she choked out. She was pale, eyes filling with tears and he knew she had seen the photos. The gruesome images of what had once been her closest – and only – friend in Paris.
"We don't know all the details yet," Stu answered gently.
"She was fine at the party, though. The last time I saw her, she was laughing and... He did this, didn't he? The man who was after me." One hand raised to cover her mouth. "Why? Because he couldn't get to me?"
Stephen met Stu's questioning gaze and nodded. There was no need to be delicate. "Yes and no. We think it's because he wants to make a statement."
"His way of scaring you into coming out where he can get you," Stu added.
Annette closed her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. "The blood," she whispered. "Marie hated the sight of blood."
"He probably knew that. The bastard knows everything."
Stephen winced at the hard tone his longtime partner and friend used. He saw her shoulders rise and fall, heard the shuddering sigh. He knew she was fighting the tears that continued to fall. Then came a sharp sob that was like a knife through his chest. Without thinking he reached for her. She wasn't like those he and his friends usually protected. They were frequently contracted to keep the lowest of the world's underbelly alive when in reality they would have loved to put the bastards out of their misery. Annette, though...
She tensed at the first contact, then quickly turned into him. Her hands fisted in the front of his shirt as her body shook with the force of her sobs. Not expecting her to cling to him, Stephen was at a loss and carefully put his arms around her. What he had meant to be a comforting pat on the shoulder had turned into an embrace. Looking over her head to Stu, he scowled at the look of amusement on the Englishman's face.
"One of us should get over to the apartment," Drew announced. He stood, draining the last of his Pepsi before tossing the can into the bin. "I'll go. Is there anything particular ya need, Miss?"
"Fucking idiot," Stu muttered. He reached into his pocket, then dropped a set of keys in Drew's hand. "Just get what you can."
"Th-there's a photo," she sniffled as she lifted her head. "On the dresser. My grandparents. Please."
Drew nodded. "Right." He shrugged on his jacket, ponytail swinging as he reached for the gun lying on the desk. When it was tucked into the back of his pants he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry about ya friend."
Annette nodded, pulling away from Stephen. "Could you get my messenger bag? It's on the couch."
"Not a problem."
Stephen turned to check his phone as Stu saw their coworker out. "Del Rio wants us out of here by dawn," he announced. "Ah'll start packing."
"I want the same thing." Stu began to roll up his sleeves. "I'll start down here."
"What can I do?"
The tentative question was a surprise. Looking over his shoulder he saw her, standing in the center of the room. She looked lost. Frightened. The baggy t-shirt and sweatpants threatened to swallow her whole. "Ah think we can handle it."
"Please. If I sit I'll think about..." She looked to the computer screen, which was now dark. "I'll go crazy. Something to keep my mind off it is what I need right now."
Stephen ran a hand down his face as his phone beeped with another message. Grateful for the diversion he pulled it up. "Drew's at the apartment," he told Stu. Turning his attention back to Annette he sighed. "Ah guess yeh can pack some food for the trip. Don't worry with gettin' everythin'. "
"Thank you," she whispered. Her hands swept over her tear-stained cheeks. She headed for the kitchenette. Then, turning, she met his eyes. "And... Thank you for saving my life."
Stephen nodded, watching her move across the room. His fingers moved over the screen of his phone, composing a message to Drew so he would know to hurry. There was no time to waste now. He pocketed the phone and turned his attention to the computer. Thank you for saving my life.
His only hope was that he could continue to do so.
Drew thanked his lucky stars for the charm that he had been born with. It had helped him in school, when he'd been less than interested in studying. The girls he lamented to had been eager to help him finish reports. It had helped since he'd finished as well, allowing him entry into places his coworkers would have been barred from. A tilt of the head, a certain smile, a few ingratiating words, and women were usually eating from the palm of his hand.
As he'd neglected to get the pass code for the security lock on the outer door of Annette's building, he had to lay the charm on thick. He knew the face of the older woman that eyed him suspiciously. He knew she ventured out rarely, so he went for the old tried and true. His girlfriend lived in the building and he was hoping to surprise her when she got home from work. He had a key but couldn't remember the code. Would it be too much to ask...
Success. He was always a bit surprised when it worked on those older than him. He expected them to be more suspicious, though they rarely were.
He took the stairs to avoid sharing an elevator with her. Annette's apartment was on the third floor, the last one on the left. He entered, grateful no lights were on as he closed the door behind him. The curtains were open. The city, which never slept, gave enough light to cross the room. There was a lovely view of the building across the alley and if one stood in the right spot they could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. He leaned close to the glass and saw his car where he'd parked it, behind the Dumpster at the end of the alley. He yanked the curtains closed then switched on the nearby lamp.
He started in the bedroom. A small overnight bag would have to do since they had to travel light. Though he considered himself a connoisseur of women he had no earthly idea what she would need. Deciding on the basics, he began tossing clothes inside.
"A wee bit organized aren't we?" he asked aloud upon finding her shirts arranged by color. Each drawer of the dresser was the same. Everything folded neatly, sorted by color. "And a little racy, too," he mused as he came across several pairs of lacy panties.
The closet was more of the same. Meticulous organization, right down to the shoes lined up on the floor. He grabbed what he assumed to be the most sensible pair, tossing another pair into the bag just in case. Two jackets, the toiletries lined up on the sink in the bathroom, and the bag was full.
The photo she'd requested was where she'd said it would be. He picked up the small silver frame, taking a moment to look at the old black-and-white picture. Her grandparents, in their twenties he guessed, seated on a couch. A boy around the age of two was perched on the man's knee; a bundled baby in the woman's arms. They looked exhausted. They looked elated. They looked as though their lives were filled with love.
Slipping it into his pocket, he picked up the bag and left the room, remembering to turn off the light.
He was in the living room when he heard it. He wasn't quite sure what it was. A shuffle. A heavy breath. A metallic click. Whatever, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He cautiously moved to the sofa, eyes scanning the room as he scooped the papers and laptop into the waiting messenger bag. One hand reached behind him to grasp the butt of his gun as he straightened.
The small closet. He had checked it when he'd come in and vividly remembered having to give the door a firm push to make sure it closed. It was now ajar. Eyes narrowing, Drew slid the gun from the back of his pants. His thumb turned off the safety and he took a step back.
A silencer, he realized as the door swung open. The bastard had a silencer. He spun out of the bullet's path and heard the shattering of glass as his finger squeezed the trigger. The door splintered and he fired again as a figure stepped out of the closet.
He recognized the tattooed arms. The beady, piercing eyes. The evil smirk. Even as the man staggered back he was smirking. His gun skittered across the floor as he slumped against the wall, one hand rising to clutch his shoulder.
"You tell your boys to let her go." Blood spilled between his fingers and Drew leveled the gun, prepared to fire again. "Blasphemers must pay for their sins."
A heavy fist pounded on the door of the apartment. In French, a deep voice demanded to know what was going on. Drew stepped over to the dropped gun, one eye on the bleeding man as he stooped to retrieve it.
"Finish me," the deep voice insisted as Drew backed to the window.
Drew shook his head. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket and reached for his phone. "I think I'll leave that to whoever sent ya here. He won't be too happy with ya now, will he?" he asked. There was no time to dally.
"My master is fair and just. The wicked shall pay."
"And the meek shall inherit the earth. I know." Drew reared back and slammed the butt of his gun into the window. It cracked and with two more blows he was able to step through onto the fire escape. Relative safety, he decided with a cursory glance around him. He kept his gun at his side as he descended, eyes moving side to side to assure himself he was still alone. As his feet hit the pavement he heard a distant siren.
He dialed Stephen's phone as he began to sprint down the alley. "On my way," he announced. "Tell Del Rio to send someone to the apartment. I ran into an old friend."
"Who?"
Drew flung open the door of his waiting car. The bags were tossed into the passenger seat and he reached for the key tucked in the visor. He took a deep breath to calm his frazzling nerves, starting the car.
"Drew," Stephen called.
He didn't dare turn on his headlights yet. Maneuvering the car down the alley, he waited until he was nearly a block away before flipping the switch. Then, hearing Stephen say his name again, he answered him. It was one word, but one they both knew well. One that he knew meant more trouble than they'd originally thought.
"Orton."
A/N: Yes, oh my gawd, it's a new story. I'm not going to apologize. This idea has been nagging me for weeks and I've finally gotten it sorted out in my mind. As it's my first long AU fic, I'm rather excited. I do hope you've enjoyed it. A tip of the hat to Amber for her unfailing support. A cheer for Jojo for her constant encouragement. Their excitement is contagious and I couldn't love them more. :)