Friday, April 8th, 2011

Paris, France - 4:26 PM

Gillian woke to the same surroundings for the second day in a row. Her head still pounded from the blow she'd received during her abduction, and the meager meals they served had done little to satiate her hunger. The last decent meal she'd had was on the plane ride over, and her stomach growled at the mere thought of the near-gourmet dish that had been served. At the time, she had been cursing Cal and his ability to talk her into things. But he'd been right in saying she was better suited for the task than he, though she suspected now he was harboring quite a bit of guilt on that score.

She rubbed her head where the one they called Emile had knocked her sideways, wincing as her fingers brushed a rather pronounced bump. She hoped it was nothing serious, but she didn't seem to have any signs of a concussion so she guessed he'd just gotten a good shot in. He'd been upset when she lashed out, her instincts taking over when one of them grabbed her from behind. But even shouting had not helped; the streets of Paris were nearly deserted at four in the morning. They'd picked her up and tossed her into their car without so much as a passerby turning his head.

The room she'd been thrown into was small and, if her memory worked properly, on the second floor of a small townhouse. She'd heard seven distinct and constant voices over the past two days, though for the last twelve hours one seemed to be missing. Her French wasn't very good, but she guessed Antoine was going to be in a lot of trouble if he ever showed up again.

She had no way of telling time other than the light peeking around the curtains. She'd been instructed the first day never to open them, and the beating she'd received for breaking that rule had taught her not to do it again – at least not when there was a chance one of them could walk in. Her internal clock told her it was probably early afternoon, and her second meal of the day would be delivered any moment.

Her thoughts wandered to her home, her friends, and she wondered what they were doing now. She had no doubt they knew she was missing, and she felt a brief moment of sympathy for her captors. Cal was fiercely protective of his friends and family, and Gillian had stopped lying to herself long ago about who topped that list. She'd be willing to bet her entire stake in the Lightman Group that Cal was pulling every string, tracking every lead, and quite probably making life hell for local law enforcement and the American embassy.

"Knock knock," came a soft voice, and Gillian snapped from her thoughts. A burly man in a black leather jacket stepped inside carrying a plate of food. It didn't look appetizing, but her breakfast had been small and she was starving. Still, she thought, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her eager and desperate. She watched stone-faced as he set it on the dresser, then turned and strode out. She heard the outside lock engage, and counted to ten before retrieving her dinner.

It was bland but filling, and she set the empty plate back on top of the bureau before resuming her position on the cot. In her mind's eye, she recalled the layout of the house insomuch as she could remember. The room she was in was at the end of the hall, just across from a small bathroom. One more bedroom branched off the hallway on the right before it ended in a narrow staircase. At the bottom of the stairs was the front door, and to the left a small foyer opened up into a living space. Behind the stairs was the master bedroom, and the end of the hall opened into kitchen, with another door leading out into a tiny yard. Not a terribly large house, but suitable for their standards.

Unfamiliar as she was with the city, she had no idea exactly where they were. She had been woozy and disoriented on the drive from the hotel to the house, and she'd fallen unconscious just after they'd thrown her into the room. She was informed the following day that she would remain in the house until the boss got there. Once he arrived, it was up to him whether she lived or died.

That had been yesterday morning, and though she hadn't used her French since her college years, she picked up pieces of conversations now and then. If she was right, she only had one or two more days to plan an escape before the boss showed up. Even if she couldn't get away, she might be able to get a message to someone who could contact the authorities. It was a gamble, she knew, but she refused to sit around waiting for rescue. International matters had the worst red tape imaginable, and she could only guess how the American Embassy was handling this whole situation.

A rapid knocking interrupted her thoughts, and she jumped a bit as she looked up. But footsteps and angry tones told her it was someone at the front door, not her own, that had echoed through the house.

"Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" The sharp voice made her wince involuntarily as Emile questioned the visitor harshly. The reply was too muffled for her to hear clearly, but it was definitely not French. One of the other men – Patrick, she thought – repeated Emile's question in English.

"What do you want?"

Again the visitor answered, but his voice seemed stronger, like he'd stepped into the foyer from the doorstep. There was something familiar about the cadence of his voice, and Gillian crept over to press her ear against the door. Emile switched to English himself, though it was broken and heavily accented.

"Who are you? You are not welcome." He was very angry, and Gillian wondered who had him so worked up.

"I was sent by a friend of yours," the visitor answered, and Gillian's heart caught in her throat – she would know that voice anywhere. Tears stung her eyes as she bit back a cry of relief. Shuffling feet alerted her to at least two men standing outside her door; if she made any sound at all, she and Cal would both be dead.

"What friend?"

"Antoine Peroit," Cal answered curtly. "He had to step out of town for a bit, sent me by to help you fellows out." A loud thud shook the wall, and she heard Cal grunt.

"Are you a cop? Did Antoine get arrested and squeal?" Patrick had obviously watched one too many American crime movies, but Gillian guessed no one was wise enough to call him out on it. Emile, on the other hand, wasn't so tactful. She heard the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh, as well as a suppressed cry of pain. Her fingers clenched tightly into fists at the thought of them hurting Cal, but there was nothing she could do locked upstairs.

"Hey, alright mate, no need to get rough. I get when I'm not wanted. Antoine just said you three might need some help with some merchandise."

"We got six, and we're just fine. Now get out of here before I break your nose. And tell Antoine not to bother coming back." More shuffling, then the door slammed shut violently. Gillian jumped away from her own door, creeping over to the window as quietly as she could. She held her breath as she moved the curtains away just enough to catch a glimpse of Cal's familiar form striding across the lawn to a small black sedan. She wanted to bang on the window, to call out to him, but it would do her no good. The bars outside the window prevented her from escaping, and Emile would no doubt exact a vicious form of revenge on her before Cal could even make it through the front door.

Still, she could practically feel the relief coursing through her veins. She worked at the Pentagon and knew the kinds of operations Cal was involved in, even if she wasn't privy to all the details. Cal's history with the CIA and MI6 made him a dangerous enough enemy, and she'd personally witnessed the ease with which he handled firearms – as if they were an extension of his arm rather than a foreign object. She had no doubt that Cal was involved in every aspect of her rescue operation, and quite possibly would be the first through the door when they came for her.

The mention of Antoine meant that he was most certainly in police hands, and that Cal had been in country long enough to question him. She knew first hand he was like a hound dog on a scent, and with her in danger there was nothing that could sway him from his goal. His only problem was getting to her in time; if the boss returned before Cal could mount a rescue op, then they could be too late to save her.

With renewed purpose, Gillian stepped away from the window. She had, at most, two days before the boss returned and a very irate gang leader on her hands. She held no illusions about surviving the night unscathed, but that didn't matter. Cal was here and he was working on getting her out. Her only job now was to stay alive until he came for her.

So close, yet so far away. Things are starting to heat up, and the next chapter will be full of action, so stay tuned!