They banked hard, gaining altitude, and Marseille spread out below. The sleepy town, the old port, and the Mediterranean glittering in the early light.
Trent pulled out a phone.
Omar glanced over. “What are you doing?”
Trent shouted over the noise, “Relax. It’s a burner. I bought from a gangbanger in Paris. Bought two actually. One for my lovely wife.” He typed a short message and hit send.
Then he angled the screen to show him what he’d typed:
Line from your favorite movie.
Omar frowned and mouthed, “What?”
Trent grinned. “She’ll know.”
Eighteen
The bar at the Plaza Athénée was exactly the kind of place where you went to be seen.
High ceilings. Crystal chandeliers. Plush velvet seating in shades of cream and gold. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Avenue Montaigne. And everywhere, the beautiful people of Paris were sipping champagne, conducting business, having affairs, and pretending not to notice each other while absolutely noticing each other.
Omar sat at a corner table nursing an espresso and feeling deeply out of place.
They’d cleaned up as best they could, but they looked like what they were: operators fresh off a blown mission, running on fading adrenaline and very little sleep.
Squirrel had declined to join them. “I’ve got a business to run,” he’d said. “Besides, I can’t have the exes finding out I went to a place like that. Their attorneys will be circling in the water.”
He’d dropped them at the train station with a flask of whiskey and instructions to “try not to start a war.”
Too late for that, Omar thought.
They’d spent the three hours on the train from Marseille to Paris in tense silence, watching for tails, running contingencies. Every station stop was a potential ambush. Every passenger a potential threat.
But they’d made it. And now they were here, in the most public place they could think of, daring anyone to try something.
Trent checked his phone for the tenth time. “They should be here by now.”
“Are you sure Olivia understood your message?” Omar asked.
“The line’s from Casablanca. ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ She’ll get it.”
“But how will she know to come here?” Omar pressed.
“It’s where we spent our anniversary.”
“Then they’ll be here,” Jake said.
And then, as if summoned, Marielle and Olivia walked into the bar.
Marielle caught Omar’s eyes from across the room and his chest unclenched.
He stood.
She crossed the bar in quick strides and he caught her, pulled her close, breathed in the scent of her hair—honey and something floral. And goat?
“You’re okay,” she said into his shoulder.
“So are you.”