Hit with a creepy feeling – like maybe they were being followed – he cocked his head to one side and listened, trying to pick out the sound that didn’t belong. A footfall. An in-drawn breath. A gun being cocked.
On high alert, he silently counted to ten. Reaching ‘ten’, he relaxed slightly.
‘You said that the authorities didn’t follow us to Paris,’ Kate whispered, wide-eyed.
I only said that so you wouldn’t be scared.
Finn pushed out a deep breath. ‘All right, I think the coast is clear. Let’s roll.’
Seeing a rusty blue Vespa that looked like it’d seen better days, Finn headed in that direction, Kate following in his wake.
‘So what’s on the agenda?’
He shoved a hand into his pocket and removed the key. ‘According to Fabius Jutier’s calendar, tomorrow morning the Seven will be meeting at their headquarters at the Grande Arche. I intend to crash the party. All of this shit about mystical energy and mad scientists weaponizing Vril is a waste of my valuable time. I already know that I’m dealing with a bunch of fanatics. And, like any fanatic cult, the Seven probably has some crazy-ass agenda.’
‘My point exactly.’
Standing beside the Vespa, they stood toe-to-toe, like two fighters at the opening bell. Decked out in a white cotton T-shirt, generic running shoes and khaki pants cropped at mid-calf, Kate more closely resembled a suburban soccer mom than a badass contender.
‘Knowing the Seven’s crazy-ass agenda isn’t going to help me find the Dark Angel.’
‘What if the Seven Research Foundation is a modern-day Ahnenerbe?’
At that close range, literally inches apart, Finn could smell Kate’s ‘perfume’ – an uninspiring mix of Combat Bath and lemon balm tea – which, for some strange reason, he found oddly appealing.
He shrugged. ‘I’d say big whup. I came to Paris to find the murdering scumbag who killed my two buddies. For Christ’s sake, Kate! The guy was talking about flying saucers.’
‘Not only was Cædmon a gracious host, he did us a very big favour,’ Kate retorted with surprising force. ‘There aren’t many people who would drop everything and give us their full, undivided attention. But instead of being appreciative, the entire time we were at L’Equinoxe you behaved like a –’
‘Neanderthal. I know. I’ve heard that line before. But don’t give me an ass-chewing just because I wouldn’t cross over to the dork side with you and Red Rover.’ Admittedly pissed off, Finn held his ground. ‘I don’t think you get it, Kate. I did not cross the Atlantic in the hull of a supply plane so we could attend a tea party with your old buddy Aisquith. Back in Washington, I promised that I would protect you from harm. Provided you don’t distract me from my mission. As far as I’m concerned, the Montségur Medallion is nothing more than a bargaining chip that I can trade for the Dark Angel.’
‘So that you can clear your name.’
‘No. So that I can get Corporals Dixon and Kelleher justice in a court of law.’ Needing to make sure that she understood just how serious he was about doing that, he let her have it with both barrels. ‘Those two guys selflessly did the dirty work that nobody else wants to do but has to be done to keep this freaking world safe from monsters, despots and terrorists. And they did their job not for glory or an attaboy pat on the back. They did it because they loved their country. So I’m going to make sure that they didn’t die in vain.’
A guilty expression crept into her eyes. ‘I know that you loved your friends and I promise that I won’t do anything to distract you from your mission.’
Whether you know it or not, Kate, you’ve already become a damned distraction.
Wanting to close the book on that particular topic, Finn unzipped the canvas satchel strapped to his chest and shoved his hand inside. Rummaging through the bag, his fingers grazed his KA-BAR commando knife. And because he was one prepared son of a bitch, his Go Bag also contained a roll of duct tape, a ball of wire, a flashlight, a two-day supply of dehydrated meals, baby wipes and a can of Combat Bath.
‘I gotta check our coordinates before we hit the road,’ he informed her, purposefully changing the subject as he unfolded the Paris map.
Kate placed a restraining hand on his wrist. ‘Actually, I was hoping that we could check into a hotel. I’m utterly exhausted and in desperate need of some sleep.’
He glanced at her face, forcing himself to ignore the dark circles that rimmed her exotic grey-blue eyes. ‘Later. We gotta first take care of logistics.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You’ll find out when we get there.’
‘No. I will find out right now.’ The lady defiantly folded her arms over her chest. ‘I’m tired of being dragged willy-nilly, absolutely clueless as to what we’re doing or why we’re doing it. I’ll be happy to assist you with logistics if you would be so kind as to give me a mission brief.’
Finn conceded reluctantly with a nod. ‘According to my buddy at Mildenhall, there’s a military supply store near the subway station at Montparnasse. I also need to find the Paris equivalent of a spy shop. Some place that stocks surveillance equipment and high-end recording devices.’
‘Thank you. And I would appreciate it if, from here on out, you kept me in the loop.’
Rather than reply, Finn raised his left hand and smoothed away a silky skein of dark hair that had snagged in the corner of her mouth.
‘Thank you,’ Kate murmured again, this time noticeably blushing.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, uncertain what to make of her reaction.
‘I should probably get a, um, hair band to keep the flyaway strands out of my face.’ Suddenly turning skittish, Kate gnawed on her bottom lip.
Groin tightening, Finn stared at those pearly-white teeth clamped down on that plump bit of flesh. ‘I like your hair loose … it’s pretty.’
Ah, shit! Did I really just say that?
Kate was right; he was a total Neanderthal. Hubba-hubba. You pretty. Me strong. Not like her old buddy Aisquith who, even in an alcoholic fog, could effortlessly recite lines of poetry.
Feeling like a tongue-tied teenager, Finn turned towards the Vespa. ‘Hop on. We need to hit it,’ he said gruffly, swinging his leg over the padded seat. ‘I’ve got a long shopping list.’
24
‘Writing a book, my arse,’ Cædmon Aisquith grumbled uncharitably as he picked up the teacups and crumb-laden plates scattered about the snuggery. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what Kate Bauer was doing with that muscle-bound Celt; the man was an absolute boor.
Although who am I to criticize?
He’d awakened that morning, head throbbing, stomach reeling, each and every movement requiring advance planning. Bumbling into the kitchen, he’d groped his way towards the kettle, intending to brew a pot of coffee. Only to grab the Tanqueray gin bottle instead.
Similia similibus curantur.
Like cures like. As good a reason as any for an early-morning stroll down gin alley. While admittedly a contemptible act, it did cure the malady. In fact, he’d just unscrewed the cap from the bottle when he’d heard the fateful knock at the door. An inopportune moment for Kate Bauer to pay her overdue respects.
Empty teacups and plates neatly stacked, Cædmon set them on the ridiculously ornate serving tray, an eighteenth-century relic he’d picked up at a Paris flea market. He’d yet to purchase a bottle of silver polish so the tray, like everything else in his life, was badly tarnished.
He finished tidying up and carried the tray to the small flat at the rear of the bookstore. Stepping through the door that separated retail space from residence, he entered the ‘drawing room’ – a cramped space that barely accommodated a sagging but comfortable tufted leather sofa. In front of the sofa, a scarred Edwardian coffee table was burdened with old issues of The Times, a half-full carton of takeaway, classical music LPs, a dog-eared copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and a messy pile of clean laundry.