He didn't wait around. A taxi was already waiting downstairs. He gave the driver an address far from the bustle of the city—somewher The sun hung high over Paris, casting long, golden rays across the city. Streets pulsed with tourists, smiles plastered on their faces as they moved from cafés to monuments, soaking up the charm. But not everyone was smiling. Not the man with a hidden gun tucked into his waistband.
James shoved the apartment door open and slammed it shut behind him, as if the impact might shake something loose inside him. Maybe even reality. He wore a black hoodie, the hood drawn just enough to shadow his face. The dark green cargo pants, clace decent folks avoided after dark.
He'd been wound tight since Mr. Aleistier told him to lay low. Be patient, the man had said. But James wasn't wired for waiting, not when Jenny was out there somewhere, in danger, and the people who should've been helping her were doing nothing.
Screw that. Screw the rules. Screw the wait.
