Trust Me

47

Paris.

Luke had not been there since he was an undergraduate. He had accompanied his stepfather and his mother to Paris for a conference. At nineteen he had wandered the streets in blissful freedom – bookstores, bars, the expansive parks, the old student quarter near Notre Dame. He had loved the city, but it had been a brief affair, and he had not been back since.

But he hoped his brief familiarity with Paris would save him. Mouser had given no signs of even a basic comprehension of French beyond oui or non and that might be his salvation. Neither had a suitcase other than their carry-ons, and after a desultory check of their documents at passport control he and Mouser walked out into the dull gray morning, toward the taxi line.

He checked his cell phone as they walked outside and retrieved a text message: Meet at the Eiffel Tower for Aubrey one hour after your plane lands. Mouser grabbed the phone, read the message. Luke yanked the phone back.

‘But they don’t know I’m here,’ Mouser said.

‘No.’ But considering Quicksilver’s reach – it would not surprise him. But let Mouser be surprised.

‘The Eiffel Tower. How touristy,’ Mouser muttered in a low growl. ‘I’ll take your phone.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t want you calling them and letting them know I’m with you.’

He’d thought of trying to text just the word Mouser or help to the number that had just called him. To warn Quicksilver. He hesitated.

‘I will kill you the second you pull a fast one on me,’ Mouser said. ‘Give me the phone.’

Luke gave it to him.

Mouser put a steel grip on his shoulder. ‘Come on. I have a ride for us.’

The car sat in the parking garage in a back corner. Mouser found keys in a container locked under the bumper. It was a Mercedes sedan, gleaming, high-end.

He opened the trunk. Inside were bags and cases. Some were long and narrow, marked with the logo of a British golf club manufacturer. Luke figured they were not golf clubs. Weapons. Someone had given this man an armory and driven it to the airport for him. So Mouser had allies in France.

The Night Road was bigger than a mere group inside America. He had only researched American extremists, but if those domestic terrorists were linked to, cooperating with, other extremists around the world… the thought was frightening.

‘Get in the car,’ Mouser said.

Luke obeyed. Mouser didn’t slide behind the wheel; rather he seemed to be studying the phone. As though he’d gotten an email. He turned his back to Luke. Thirty seconds later he slid into the car, an angry look on his face.

Mouser roared out of the garage.