Getaway Girl

by Michele Hauf

  “French sucks, don’t it? I know. Had you known, things would be different. Bummer for me. But I don’t deal with your ilk any longer.”

  “My ilk? Sounds like I run with a pack in the wild.”

  “That remains to be seen. But I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Regardless, I would have never guessed la lapine would be living the hard way. Or so you believe. Why the change of habit?”

  “I like to be good,” I said, forcing a cheery tone. “Also, avoiding jail is keen. Something I guess you’re not overly concerned about.”

  “Have you seen me commit a crime?”

  “You’ve kidnapped and roughed me up.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I need names,” Sacha said, approaching me. He eased a thumb in the palm of his hand. Big, strong hands. I guessed he wasn’t done slapping me around.

  Bring it on.

  Yes, I was feeling loosey-goosey from the drugs or whatever they’d used on me. I’d regret this bravado when the bruises started to swell.

  I straightened and focused. This driver hadn’t yet given up the checkered flag. And Vital hadn’t begun to torture or rape. Didn’t seem like his style. Of course, serial killers were charming as hell until you pissed them off.

  “Names?” I said. “Of who?”

  “Of the Faction.”

  I snorted a half laugh and lifted a foot to bounce nervously on the floor. There was a bruise on my inner thigh just above the knee. I didn’t even want to guess what had gone on while I had been out. Two thugs transporting me from Fitch’s barge to—where the hell was I?

  “What makes you think I’m working with the Faction?”

  “I know that you are. They’re the only ones who have been on my ass lately. Names?”

  “You know I don’t have names. The Faction doesn’t operate that way. If identities are given, it’s always a number. I can give you a Three or a Seven, if that’ll make you happy.”

  Green eyes leveled with mine. Did they change from green to blue with his moods?

  “Do not play with me, Jamie.”

  He knew my real name? How? Who was this guy?

  “You’re not behind the wheel now. The bad guys have you. And we’re not going to let you get away without raking you over the coals.”

  “You can slap me around all you like, but I can’t give you what I don’t have. Come on, Sacha.” Well, since we were on a first name basis…“You’re a smart man. You know the Faction better than I do.”

  “Indeed. Numbers for names. Clever, but not foolproof.”

  He turned and strolled to the far wall where I had noticed the door. Sacha opened the white glass door. Outside, a line of windows revealed the bright blue Paris sky. So it was—my gosh! It was morning? I’d really slept all night? How much chloroform did they give me? Can anyone say overdose?

  “She’s out there somewhere—” he paced back to stand before me, tall, sleek and deadly “—the princess. Which puts me in the market for a driver.”

  I didn’t move a muscle. A twitch in my left leg, needles and pins, defied my need to remain stoic. This was not sounding like a picnic in the park, or even a rumble in the boot of my car.

  “You do owe me,” he announced, his eyes twinkling evilly.

  “What the hell are you asking, Vital?”

  “Exactly as I’ve stated. I’m in need of a driver.”

  I scoffed. “I think I’ll take door number three.”

  “Which is?”

  “Time to leave.” I stood. The door was open. I could taste the blue sky of freedom.

  “Whatever you’re planning…”

  “I don’t make plans,” I stated, feeling the adrenaline fire in my veins like petrol burning through a fuel line. “I just react.”

  A fist to the man’s jaw took him by surprise. But his body didn’t even sway from the impact. I delivered a left to his gut, and he bent with a grunt.

  I expected a return punch and crouched, showing him my fists, but he merely straightened and beamed those killer eyes at me.

  Not gonna work on this lass. I was so over this man of the amazing sexual prowess. And to prove it, I slashed a boot around and clocked the side of his leg just at his knee. He stumbled. Another punch to his jaw sprayed my face with his saliva.

  Sacha Vital went down, and out.

  I rubbed my aching fist and studied my wrath. “Cool.”

  My duffel was now visible behind the desk. I grabbed it and ran. There were two thugs outside the door, one on either side. Neither moved when I passed into the hallway—which should have made me wonder.

  “Jamie!” Sacha called.

  Okay, so not out cold.

  Maybe this was my break. So far, no one had tried to physically stop me, which was freaking me out. And Vital hadn’t even offered a fight.

  Did I dare run?

  My feet had already decided a swift pace was best.

  “I’m not going to force you to do anything,” Vital called to my retreating back. “I need your help to locate the princess. The Faction has her. They’ll kill her when they’re finished with her.”

  Liar. Don’t listen, Jamie. He’s trying to win you over by making the allies look like the bad guys. Classic villain fare.

  I sped up and eyed an elevator. Too slow. To the right was a doorway. I stopped and turned. Sacha stood thirty paces away. A thin red line of blood dribbled down the front of his immaculate suit. If I didn’t know better, I’d mark him as a fashion model for Dior, all fancied up and looking like a million euros, minus a couple coins for the blood.

  But I did know better.

  For a moment, the two of us stared each other down. Then when I felt I might melt and slither to the floor, my better senses activated the flee instinct.

  Chapter 9

  I hit the street running. Destination? Home, is all I could think. Home to Scotland because France wasn’t so friendly anymore. Who would have thought going into business on your own would be such a challenge? I didn’t need this detour from the destination.

  I sensed the thugs were on my tail, though I hadn’t seen them yet, nor had they been moving when I’d last looked at Sacha. They were not the same two who had tossed me in the boot. Perhaps these two matched Sacha’s outfit better. I could hear the morning wakeup call. “I’m donning silver Dior today. Do wear something in nondescript black, so as not to detract from my gorgeous green-blue eyes.”

  I had slept with my new enemy. Damn, damn, double damn and all those bloody Sundays. Why did it have to be him?

  I hadn’t gotten his name the night of my birthday. The wine had flowed; I’d been in my happy place. Sex with a handsome stranger had followed. I’d woken in the morning all by myself, in his big, lush bed layered with crisp white sheets. Everything had smelled like fresh-squeezed orange sprinkled with cinnamon. I hadn’t regretted a moment of the all-night tumble.

  Until now.

  I had had sex with a man who might very well sell women into white slavery.

  “This is too grim,” I murmured as I landed the sidewalk out front of the nondescript business building where Sacha had held me. I didn’t survey my wake or check for street signs. I just wanted to get the hell away from, well…hell.

  I walked fast, slinging my duffel bag over a shoulder. I hadn’t checked the contents; for sure it had been searched. I prayed the Glock was still inside.

  The river was close. I heard a tugboat toot and seagulls flew overhead. About half a block behind me, the creak of a door alerted me to more danger. I spun and spied both of Sacha’s thugs but they weren’t running.

  Weaving through two lanes of traffic, I stepped onto the sidewalk opposite the building from which I’d exited. The street stretched toward the river. The shops were not separated by alleys, and I guessed that there were no back doors.

  The thugs had moved to the parked cars and were getting into a black Bimmer.

  A car honked and someone yelled, “Hey!”

  No time for nasty comments f
rom lusty young Frenchmen. I thought to dash across the intersection in front of a red four-door when the voice called again and hit a pause note in my brain.

  “Hey, gorgeous!”

  I bent, still tracking a jogging pace, and eyed the driver who had called to me. Hmm, handsome. Young. Male. And waving at me like he knew I needed a ride. He drove a maroon Renault hatchback—big suburban yawn; no speed, no glory—but his dimples screamed for attention.

  The thugs pulled the Bimmer into bumper-to-bumper traffic, so it must have been morning rush hour. Not knowing the time or my actual location disoriented me. I had to do something.

  And so I did.

  Rushing to the hatchback, I slid in the passenger side. “I don’t know who the hell you are—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—but drive!”

  Dimples didn’t react, so I tried it again. “Un conduire?” I made steering motions with my gripped fingers. “Tout droit!”

  “Drive?” The man frowned. The confused expression stole his gorgeous dimples. “I was going to pull over there to pick up a mocha.”

  Another American, yet, with a less abrasive accent. I had only lived in France four years, but could pick Americans out in a Parisian crowd just by their awed stare, tourist jeans and fluorescent T-shirts. This guy was far from fluorescent, wearing blue jeans and a soft gray sweater, but most certainly American. Two in one day? I didn’t know whether to dance or start a drive-through embassy.

  “Why’d you wave at me like you wanted to give me a lift?”

  The dimples returned. “I see a pretty girl, I ask her to have a coffee.”

  “Bother.” I stretched a leg across the drive console and stepped on his right foot. The car revved, and he groped to handle the wheel.

  “What the heck are you doing, lady?”

  “Where are we?”

  “On the Left Bank, not far from—”

  “We’ll get mochas on the Right Bank, dimples. I know a great place.”

  “Really?” He slowed, approaching a stop-and-go light. The black Bimmer was one car behind us. Maybe I should have stuck to walking, but I was still fighting the effects of an all-nighter on chloroform.

  But if the man intended to just sit there and argue with me, evasive action was needed.

  “Put the hammer down!” I dug in my pack and produced the Glock. I didn’t point it at the man, and instead held it down near my gut, finger on the trigger. “You wanted me in your car? Well, now you’ve got me. Fun first date, huh? Now I’ve got two words for you.” Hating myself for having to do it, I pointed the gun at the man’s chest. I had to keep it low, out of sight. “Drive. Quick.”

  “I’m driving,” he said, not yet noticing the gun, but carefully making his way through the intersection. When he turned to look at me, he let out a yelp. “What the? That’s a—! Who are you, lady?”

  “Just drive. Don’t worry about the gun. If you slow down, then you can start worrying.”

  “This is my car. And that’s a-a gun!”

  “You’re very perceptive. Left!”

  He turned just in time. The hatchback squealed, but handled the corner with little oversteer. Our tail remained pinned to us. I doubted we’d shake them unless a real driver took the wheel.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, dimples.”

  “My name’s Kevin, if you don’t mind.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kevin.”

  The side view of his smirk crunched into a gum-baring grimace. “I’d like to say same to you, but I think I’ll reserve judgment on that for a while.”

  “Your prerogative.”

  “Yeah, well, your gun.”

  I liked a man who learned quickly.

  Kevin navigated another stop-and-go and signaled to switch lanes. “Who are we running from?”

  “None of your concern—watch the bus!”

  The hatchback swerved, but the rear left fender swapped paint with the corner of the bus.

  “Damn it!” Kevin pounded the steering wheel. “Put that gun down or I stop the car.”

  “Stop the car, and I pull the trigger.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “Watch out for the bike!”

  He swerved to avoid a bike messenger, who wobbled and crashed into an ad post. The cyclist delivered a furious finger in our wake.

  “I can’t do this!” he shouted.

  “Come on, Kevin, relax.”

  “Relax? I’ve never had a gun held on me. I’m a little nervous.”

  “They’re still on our tail.”

  “They? There’s more than one? Anyone ever tell you you’re a lousy first date, lady?”

  He couldn’t be traumatized if he was making jokes. “Slide over, Kevin, or we’ll both be chewing bullets.”

  “What?” He gripped the wheel so hard I thought it would break in half with just a tilt.

  “I’m going to switch places with you.”

  Gun hand gripping the headrest behind Kevin’s head, I shifted my body onto the black plastic console between the seats. No stick shift, but my boot heel lodged in a cup holder that rattled with loose change.

  “I don’t do the passenger side, lady. This is my car.”

  “Yep, and it’s such a precious little number. Gun, remember?” I tapped the back of his skull with the barrel of the Glock. It was a dirty play, I admit it. “I’m calling the shots.”

  Without waiting for further argument, I slid on top of Kevin’s right leg and pressed my left foot onto the gas. Hands firmly on the wheel, the gun crushed against the curve, I sat halfway on his lap.

  “Damn it, woman, you’re going to get us killed.” Kevin slipped out from under me. I lifted up to allow him to get his feet out, and he dragged himself to the passenger seat.

  “Repeat after me,” I said. “Vous êtes un as du volant.”

  “Vous êtes—a superb driver?”

  “You got it.” I pressed the automatic door locks. “And don’t even think of jumping out.”

  “Why would I do that? I’m not the one with a death wish.”

  I did have an unhealthy love for danger. It was all about constantly toeing the edge and pushing myself further. Driving away was what I did best. Just like she had done…driven away.

  “I have a feeling you won’t slow down.”

  “You got that right.”

  The seat belt clicked, locking him in place. I did the same. “Here, hold this.” I tossed him the Glock.

  The tail swung immediately behind us, fishtailing a bit before evening out. A rearview check did not reveal any weapons. Sacha’s thugs were determined, I had to admit.

  But so was I. Now I was in my element. With a couple hundred horsepower at my command and the whole world as my racetrack, I shifted up gears and concentrated on losing the tail.

  “This isn’t even loaded!” Kevin popped out the gun magazine—rather expertly, I noted from the corner of my eye. “Who are you?”

  “Not your business.”

  “I have a right to ask questions,” he said, irate as hell, and obviously completely over his initial freakishness. “Kidnap victims do have rights.”

  “You’re not a victim. You were the one to invite me, remember?”

  He hissed something under his breath.

  “Yes, that’s what happens, kiddies, when you talk to strangers. Just chill, Kevin. There’s a tail following me. Two thugs in pristine black business suits.”

  “Why? What did you do? Will you at least tell me your name?”

  I bit my lip. La lapine bounced onto my tongue. Max had given me the moniker because I bounded through the city like a rabbit with a fox on its tail.

  I tilted a gaze along Kevin’s face. Who could he be? An average man on the street I could seduce for an evening of no-strings sex? It had been a few months since my last man—oh hell, I should so not go there anymore. Look who I’d hooked up with last time—a man who now wanted my arse, and not for any particular sexual act.

  I sped through a red light, barely avoiding a crossing
sports car. The tail was forced to stop at the light or meet a bright yellow DHL truck in the middle of the intersection. Finally, a break.

  “Jamie, that’s my name.”

  “A Scot named Jamie, eh? That is your accent? Scottish? Isn’t that a guy’s name?”

  I smiled at him. “It’s my name. Deal with it.” Then I shifted into fourth and took the passage at top speed. “Hold on!”

  As we sped through the next few intersections Kevin remained silent. His fingers dug gouges in the dashboard and his tongue likely lodged at the back of his throat.

  I hated that I’d been forced to bring along a passenger. But he’d invited me, so…there really was no force to claim.

  I hadn’t seen the tail for a quarter of a mile. The river was close, but it promised tourist mania and knots of tie-ups. If I could cross the Pont Neuf and insinuate us into the narrow labyrinth on the north end of the Right Bank all would be well. Tons of tourists, and snakier streets. Easier to get lost. As we soared, literally, across the bridge, swerving and honking to redirect pedestrians, Kevin yelled, “I hope that’s one hell of a mocha!”

  What a sweet, stupid man, to flag me down, and expecting nothing more than a chat over coffee. Did he always pick up women that way? Seemed not so much risky as adventurous.

  Hmm…I liked this man. What wasn’t there to like about dimples and a man who let you drive his car?

  “Why the gun?” he asked as I slowed and began to creep into a narrow alley. Far as I could determine, the tail had been lost. “I mean, obviously you’re a criminal—”

  “Am not.” I shifted down and stalked the sidewalks for a café. I’d deliver the man to his mocha in exchange for his cooperation. “I just…tend to attract the wrong crowd.”

  “So why no bullets?”

  “They’re in my bag. I hadn’t expected to need them. I would fire only as a last resort.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “And then, only to wound.” From the corner of my eye, I saw him nod, accepting. What a day he was having, eh? The man’s theme song was probably Daniel Powter’s “Bad Day.”

  “I think you’ve lost them.”

  “How would you know?”

  “It was a black, seven series BMW,” Kevin said. “I haven’t seen them since we crossed the bridge.”