Chapter Twenty-Nine

Thorn

Paris, France

Sunday, Twelve Thirty Hours

"C hecking in," Thorn said over his comms. He'd just finished eating a meal. Gage and Honey had brought him what supplies Thorn might need if he were holed up there for a few days. Thorn's duffle and computer were stowed next to Juliette's backpack in the armoire. "I've seen hide nor hair of the medic. Do you have an ETA?"

Nutsbe was in his ear. "No, man, how's Juliette holding up?"

"I was digging through her things. She bought some fever reducer. When she was in that café in Orléans, she bought herself a pretty good-sized order of food. I'm thinking she knew she was going to be down for the count. Her temperature hasn't changed. She's just not conscious enough to get anything in ? even sips of water. Sponge baths aren't doing the trick." He moved back over to the stool next to Juliette's bed and wiped the damp cloth over her lips. "I need you to let the contractor know that I don't have any idea when she last had fluids. The pinch test tells me she's dehydrated. I'm not going to watch her die because they can't get their damned act together." This last part Thorn said as a whisper. If she was at all lucid, Thorn wasn't about to plant the seed that she might not make it. "Even if I took her to the hospital and told them I found her in the street, I'm just about willing to do that."

"It shouldn't be long now," Nutsbe tried to reassure him. "Are her vitals still in range?"

"Affirmative." Thorn hated to say that. Even in the time that he'd been hands-on tending Juliette, he felt like she was drifting further and further away. He'd admit it. He was scared for her.

"We have something cooking?"

Nutsbe was interrupted by a tapping at Juliette's door.

"Someone's here," Thorn mouthed. "Could it be a medic?"

"Negative," Nutsbe responded.

"Juliette?" It was a woman's voice. Who would have known she was here? Thorn had found both of her phones, the one from the States and the burner phone. He'd scrambled the room while he opened them up to check whom Juliette had called. And since her "Ciao, I'm headed for Toulouse to visit my grandmother" texts to Roxanne, she'd reached out to no one. The searches on her regular phone stopped in the United States. The searches on her burner phone were to find the movie theater, to check on train schedules to Paris, and to find a cheap hotel that didn't expect an I.D. She'd looked on backpacker and student sites. Smart.

Thorn went to the door to look through the peep hole. Someone was covering it. All he could see was black. He loathed not having a weapon on him. What he had was surprise on his side.

The curtains were drawn, the lights were out. He reached up and unscrewed the light bulb.

There was a scrape at the lock.

Thorn had put the ineffectual chain lock in place – just because it was an extra step for someone to take. And in a room this size, with so little in the way of fighting space, every second of warning counted.

He stood right at the door.

The lock tumbled, the knob twisted, the chain held.

"Juliette?" Came a woman's voice. "Can you let me in?" She was speaking in Arabic. Thorn wondered if Lynx happened to ask Roxanne what language she spoke when she was communicating with Juliette. Maybe he'd been speaking to her in English all this time when ? no, that wasn't right. She'd texted Roxanne in English. She should understand it just fine, if she could hear him.

A hand slipped along the wall until it came to the light switch and pressed the buttons. The woman sighed when the light didn't come on.

Thorn grinned.

It was best if he let this person get the door open on her own. He'd trap her once he could shove her out into the hall. And that was a great idea, if she was alone. And not such a great idea if she had back up. He mouthed that part to Nutsbe.

The woman's hand slipped back out.

"Checking satellite footage," Nutsbe said. "Single female parked a car out front, and walked in. I haven't seen any other vehicles in the area and nobody staged in three blocks around."

The hand came back through with a telephone, taking video of the bidet and sink, the closed curtain over the window, and the sleeping Juliette on the bed. It never rounded all the way around to capture him. He noted that mistake and vowed he'd never make it in his future missions. Always check behind the door.

Time passed as the woman checked her video.

Thorn could hear the zip of tape being pulled from a roll. Her hand came back through the door crack to loop a rubber band on the door chain. Slowly, she worked the loop up to where the ball caught.

Thorn thought how it would freak her out if he were to reach out and assist. It would freak her out even more if he were to grab her hand. Of course, were he to do that, she might not be a law-abiding operative, like he was. She might shoot through the door first and ask questions later. He guessed that would depend on what kind of bullets were in her gun and how much she wanted to make sure that Juliette stayed safe from ricochets.

With the rubber band in place, the woman stretched her hand up the door at an angle. Thorn could see that she was a power lifter and had significant muscle strength. If that was paired with some combat hand-to-hand training, this just might get interesting. Thorn would have to make sure it stayed outside of Juliette's room.

The woman pressed the tape into the door and shut the door.

Thorn ripped the tape away.

The door opened, the chain held.

"Shit," the woman said. She pressed the tape again. She shut the door again.

Again, Thorn pulled the tape down.

She opened the door and the chain stayed in place.

"For fuck sake," she growled.

Apparently, this woman liked her swear words to be English.

This time when she tore off the tape it was over a foot long.

Thorn decided that he'd stirred that pot enough. He'd let her get the door open this time. Other than that, she just might get ticked off enough and kick it in.

The door shut.

As the door opened, the chain ran back across it's catch slide and released. The chain swung down and banged the door. Thorn listened as she chuckled victory. She had been focused on the chain game and wasn't primed for a confrontation. Another note to self. Don't do that. Ever.

The door swung slowly open. "Juliette?"

And before she could put a foot in the room, Thorn swung around the door caught the woman's wrist and had her headed for the floor in an arm bar. The woman shifted her weight and rolled, untwisting her arm. Forcing him to a crouch to keep hold. Her feet flung up and crossed at the ankles in front of his throat. She squeezed her feet in, right at his carotid, which was the way that he'd made the janitor go to sleep at the airport.

His senses lit up with the danger of the situation.

He had some of his own moves. Deploying them now would be good, he thought as the woman suddenly pushed with the hand that he'd trapped and tugged with her feet.

Thorn went sprawling forward. And as he did so, he released her hand and grabbed her boot. He landed and gave her foot a vicious twist that rolled her to her stomach. With his toes tucked under, he pushed out and dove over the top of her, trapping her with his weight.

She reached down and pressed her knuckle into a nerve bundle.

"Brigitte, stop," he hissed. "It's Thorn."

She stilled.

"Thorn?" She twisted around, and he let her up. Brigitte pushed the hat from her head. "How did you know it was me?"

"I recognized your boots from the airport." He stood and reached a hand down to help her up.

She batted it away. "Not bad, that last move."

"Yoga." Thorn shrugged. "It keeps me limber."

Brigitte slid her body up against his and smiled up at him. "You'll have to show it to me again later, when we're alone, and maybe not in the middle of a hotel hallway."

Thorn stepped to the side, so they weren't touching. "What brings you here?" he asked as he followed her into Juliette's room.

"Like you," she whispered, now using English in that warm sexy accent of hers, with her cat and milk smile, "I'm trying to secure Juliette and keep her out of the wrong hands."

"Oh?" Thorn shut the door and slid the chain back in place.

When he turned back, Brigitte was contemplating the lock, then tipped her head to the side and shook her finger. "That wasn't nice."

Thorn whispered, "I didn't know it was you."

She pointed up at the ceiling and lowered her voice, too. "You unscrewed the lightbulb?"

He pressed the light switch off, then reached up and screwed the bulb back in. "When I heard you in the hall, I didn't want you to flash the light on and wake Juliette. You know you really need to work on the clandestine part of your trade craft. You're kind of like a bull in a china shop."

"Okay, enough of that." Brigitte moved to the end of Juliette's bed where she wouldn't block the faint light coming through a crack in the curtains. "How is our girl?"

Thorn had to check the possessiveness he felt. There was no "our" anything. Especially no "our girl."

"She's sick," Thorn said.

"Really? Is that how you're going to play this? I'm the one who told you that she was the pink rabbit. I directed you to this bunny trail. You would have gone home with your precious David DuBois and not even known that this was an issue of international importance."

Thorn longed to ask her what the hell she was talking about, but his gut told him not to give her a centimeter. She couldn't think that she had an upper hand. And Thorn couldn't be seen as the lacky or side-kick here. It wasn't ego. It wasn't machismo. It was that Brigitte had started with that game, and it seemed to be the one she felt most comfortable playing.

Not playing that game might put Brigitte on her back foot, and she might slip up. Thorn might just learn something important, like Brigitte thought it would be better to talk to Juliette in Arabic. Not French. Not English. Arabic.

Why?