twenty | paris

Paris syndrome is a popular-psychology phenomenon where a tourist, faced with the crime, dirt, and unfriendly locals they encounter upon their visit to Paris, are afflicted with so much disappointment that they experience effusive anxiety, dizziness, hallucinations, and other symptoms

JAKE

May 8th, 21:54 (GMT +2)
7 days until it happens

TURNS OUT SHE can be remarkably fast when she wants to be.

It takes her all of seven minutes to change from her gown. I shed my tux and meet her in the hotel lobby. Even dressed in black jeans and a plain long-sleeved top with her hair tied up, she's breathtaking. (Not my breath, to be clear – all the other poor sods too weak to handle her.)

In the car, Rayna dials a number on her phone and sets it to video-call. "Hey, Sam," she greets.

A large Black man with a shimmer of blue eyeshadow rimming his eyes fills the screen. Laugh-lines crinkle the corners of his mouth when he cackles, "Hey you, baby. Where are you? Is that mean ol' English doofus still giving you a hard time?"

I lean my head next to Rayna's shoulder and wave my fingers toodle-doo! "She wishes, mate. She's been asking me to give her a good hard time all week."

Rayna punches me vigorously in the bicep.

"Good lord," the man – Sam – whispers. "Y'all would make the most beautiful babies..."

"Devil's spawn," Rayna shudders, throwing him a salty glare. "Did you look into that stuff I asked you about?"

Suspicion worms beneath my skin. I don't trust anyone at HQ, hers or mine. She must've deciphered the look on my face because she insists, "Sam's on our side. He can be discreet."

"M'kay, so," Sam begins, "You didn't hear it from me, but... about a week ago, seven hundred-thousand dollars Canadian in cash was withdrawn from a shared chequing account registered to Elias and Cassidy Dalton. No other transactions have been recorded under any of Cassidy's accounts since."

Oh, Jesus. "An important detail that was somehow overlooked in our mission briefs," I process aloud. It only further confirms the conspiracy angle.

Rayna nods her agreement. "Obviously Cassidy planned her escape in advance. She's been smart enough not to make any transactions that would trigger a location alert."

"That's not all," Sam continues. "I did some digging about that other thing, Rayna. Turns out..." He screen-shares a photo of an athletically-built Hispanic male in his late twenties or early thirties. "Matias Marin is a member of the Daltons' household security detail. He resigned two weeks ago, citing a personal disagreement with Miss Cassidy Dalton."

"He was her bodyguard," Rayna says.

"Yep."

I fill in the blanks. "He was the bloke in the security stills of Cassidy we scraped."

"Correct, Sherlock Holmes."

Rayna snickers. I roll my eyes, scratching my eyelid with an index finger.

"A personal disagreement," Rayna repeats, mulling it over. Our denim-clad thighs rasp together.

"An affair," I supply simply. "They've probably run away together."

Sam makes a cooing sound. "Aw, look at you, Mr. Darcy! You hopeless romantic."

"You know, I've been trying to think of famous Canadians I could mockingly reference to return the favour..." My lips twitch, "but there aren't any."

"Justin Bieber," Sam offers incredulously.

"The Weeknd," Rayna adds.

"My hubby Drake."

"Shawn Mendes, Celine Dion, Shania Twain..."

"Leonard Cohen!"

"Jim Carry, Michael J. Fox,  Ryan Gosling, Ryan Reynolds, Keanu Reeves..."

"Elon Musk is Canadian!"

No wonder he's a nutter. "Alright, alright," I raise a hand dismissively. "I don't actually give a rat's arse."

"We also discovered insulin and invented pacemakers!" Sam calls into the void. Before Rayna bids farewell and lets him go, he tsks, "You have got to get this man some poutine–"

The line disconnects. "Some what?"

"It's too delicious," she shrugs airily, staring out the window. "You don't deserve it." Under her breath, she huffs, as if it's the vilest possible insult in the entire bloody universe, "Colonizer."

Fuck, she's cute. I stifle a grin before remembering that I'm fucking pissed at her for sending us on this unnecessary late-night errand in the first place.

We follow Nikitin's GPS signal, tracking his path from Drapeau's party, past vibrant, spangled tourist districts as he cuts across the Seine and travels east into the dingy, hooting folds of the 19th. It's Paris's ashtray. Crumbling, mucked with a city's worth of rot and decay. I tell the driver to pull into a secluded street-corner and wait there on standby.

Above us, not a single star pierces through the darkness. Fags chewed to the filter crunch beneath my trainers. A pair of junkies huddle together beneath a ramshackle tarp shelter, shooting up. Around a muddled corner, a woman screeches from the tattered balcony of a brothel.

Rayna's small feet take two steps for each of mine to stay in stride. "It's not too late to turn back, love."

I shouldn't have said it. She's too obstinate. All I've done is spurred her on.

"What's your plan then?"

She gives me a blank look, like she's never heard the word before in her life.

Nikitin's tracker leads us to a dilapidated parking garage. Up on the fifth level, there's the whirr of engines, the cement-screech of rubber tires.

Rayna points wordlessly up a flight of stairs. I signal for her to guard the rear while I lead, but she ignores me, unholstering her SIG and darting silently up the staircase.

With a soft curse, I follow, my Glock nestled securely in both fists. Several flights later, she's barely broken a sweat.

She poises her shoulder against the peeling metal door, peeping through the foggy glass cut-out. Voices boom against concrete. About fifteen yards from the door, Nikitin steps out of his gleaming G-Wagon, still sporting his tuxedo. The contrast between him and his decrepit surroundings is comical.

O'Boyle strides from the front of a large white van; he's a freckled, beefy redhead — we look nothing alike, but Sidorov was a simpleton, rest his puny soul.

The lofty recesses of the garage funnel their voices so well that I needn't even turn on the feed from Nikitin's bug. They converse in English.

"Do you have it?" Nikitin asks curtly.

"Yeah, mate," O'Boyle confirms. "Come see for yourself."

I press myself against Rayna, tucking our faces close so I can see through the tiny window. Despite the stench of running sewage and cloying food-scraps from the street below, she smells clean; sweet skin and rosewater. My knuckles dig into her lower spine as I point the muzzle of my pistol off to the side.

O'Boyle lifts open the boot of his van. They disappear behind it. From our vantage point, we can't see anything. "After the unfortunate circumstances that befell poor Pavel," Nikitin says, "I will be your point of contact going forward. My networks are extensive. We can arrange for the secure transfer of the package."

"It's gonna take my lads a couple days to finish getting the rest of it to ya, mate," O'Boyle tells him.

Nikitin replies, stilted, "May fifteenth is a hard deadline. Everything must be in place in time for the big event."

"You got it, boss. We'll keep in touch. Now," he rubs his hands together, "About payment..."

Nikitin gestures to one of his henchmen, who carries a large briefcase from the Mercedes towards O'Boyle's van.

Inaudible if not for how close we're jammed together, Rayna whispers, "We need to see what's in the trunk. I'm gonna go get a closer look."

My pulse slams. I use my chest to restrain her against the door, trying to avoid any rustle of clothing or burst of breath that could give away our position. "No fucking way," I grind out into her ear. "It's not safe."

"Move," she hisses.

I crush her further into the hard metal door. My lips scrape her temple, each word barely more than a breath. "No fucking chance in hell, sweetheart."

Something sharp slices into my thigh, forcing me to step back from her in shock. I bite my tongue to stay silent.

She slips past me, a switchblade glinting in her fist. Rage sears my nerves. She fucking stabbed me.

I watch, gaping. She stashes her gun in her belt. Her boots let out a faint squeak as she hoists herself smoothly atop the staircase's metal railing. The parking complex is dim; she's shielded in shadows as she creeps onto the cement ledge, tight-roping noiselessly across the beam before hiding herself still as a fucking statue behind a thick pillar.

She's mad. It's clear that she has a death wish – I am more than fucking happy to oblige.

My futile gaze traces her sneaking path past the rusting carcasses of abandoned cars, closer and closer to a corner that'd give her an unimpeded view of the contents of O'Boyle's boot.

The men are discussing compensation. From whatever little I can see, Nikitin's briefcase is stuffed with cash. The figures they're throwing out are excessively exorbitant, millions and millions of euros.

Rayna's dusky figure perches on a concrete bannister a few metres behind O'Boyle. She's too obscured in blackness for me to see the expression on her face. I watch as she pulls out her phone and starts snapping pictures.

Once she's satisfied that their business is concluded and there's nothing more to see, she slinks her way back towards me, quiter than a fucking mouse. For several bated moments, it actually seems like she's gotten away with it.

That is, until one of Nikitin's men creaks his thickset head towards the wind-whip of her footsteps. He points and bellows something profane in Russian. "Over there," he shouts.

Heavy footfall races towards us. "Fuck," I grunt, racking the slide of my Glock. I yank Rayna by the shirt as she dismounts the guardrail and shove her down the stairs in front of me. "Fucking run."

***

Author's Note [Nov. 25th, 2022]:

Oh my goodness, HELLO! Did y'all hear? WE WON A WATTY!

All the Other Pearls won a Watty in the Romance category!!! Isn't that CRAZY? Thank you all for your incredible love and support, I couldn't do it without you! *happy tears*

Also a big shout-out to all my fellow winners! Check 'em out on the winner's reading list on TheWattys profile.

Good news and bad news. Bad news is that I will have to give next week's update a skip — your next update will be in two weeks. Good news is that the next chapter is the start of the ✨fun stuff✨ *wink wink wink*

Jake & Rayna give me ALL the feels. Ugh.

Your medical fact of the day: visible blood in the urine is a bad thing.

xoxo Ami