Liv thinks for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts amidst the storm of emotions she must be feeling, and she finally shakes her head. “I don’t think so, no. Will, the man who led me here, he...he took her away.” She clenches her eyes for just a moment, and I can tell how painful it must be to talk about this. “He said something about her already having a ‘buyer.’ M-Monsieur Pavlenko, is this…?”
I give her a look that gravely confirms her fears, but before I can speak to her again, the sounds of footsteps above us tells me we need to move quickly. “More coming,” I say, taking out one of the spare pistols at my side and holding it up. I gently touch Liv’s face, covering her eyes for a second as I aim the pistol at Boris’ corpse. This time, I’m not taking a chance with him, and I put a bullet into his brain, the carnage gruesome at the close range.
“Let’s move, now,” I say, and without another moment’s hesitation, I take Liv by the hand and head up the stairs, pistol at the ready. Once we’re up in the main room, I rush her to one of the windows, sliding it up, my instincts kicking in to get us out of here as quickly as possible.
I can hear the Chechen backup approaching the doorway, and I glance at it briefly, considering how easy it would be to end all of their lives...but I cannot risk Liv’s life again, not when we’re so close to escape.
Before I can move to help her out, Liv vaults out the window into the alley behind the building. I smile, remembering that she is indeed a gymnast, after all. Just as I hear shouts from behind me, I vault out myself, and the two of us sprint down the alleyway as I stow my weapon.
“How far will they chase us?” Liv gasps as she keeps up with me while we turn another corner and I guide her through a narrow space between buildings, a few rats scurrying out of our path as we take routes I haven’t had to use in years.
“Just stay close to me,” I say sharply to her as I start to take her around the twisting alleyways near the building I’m all too familiar with, “and whatever you do, don’t look back.”
13
Liv
We’ve been walking for a while now, traipsing down the alleyways and narrow cobblestone streets of Le Marais. Historic buildings and elaborate architecture loom overhead, like aristocratic faces casting condescending glares down upon me. This place, this city, is too beautiful to house such evil. Pavlenko’s large palm is pressed supportively against my back, gently steering me along and keeping me upright. I don’t know how long we’ve been traveling, scurrying away in the soft, waning light of late afternoon. Something tells me that we’re not making a straight beeline for our destination — that he’s guiding us on a serpentine path intentionally to throw off any potential spies or followers. I try to put this thought far from my mind. I simply can’t compute that right now, not when I’m already so overwhelmed. I’m still trying to come to terms with what happened last night and today. Trying not to think about Maggie and what horrible fate has caught up with her.
To Paris’s credit, nobody even seems to notice or care how out of place we look. Granted, Pavlenko does look more the part than I do, navigating the streets with familiarity, dressed more appropriately. But I’m surprised that no one has stared at me yet — I know I must look dreadful after my night in hell. Especially since I’m wearing white, and it must show every bit of dirt on me.
Happy tourists shove past us, their children carrying fuzzy backpacks shaped like animals. Local Parisians are less enthusiastic about the surrounding scenery, as it forms the familiar backdrop to their everyday lives, and the tourists only clog up the sidewalks for the natives trying to get things done.
But we are neither tourists nor natives. For although we are headed toward what I assume is Pavlenko’s apartment, I get the distinct sense that this city is not his true home. He does not belong here anymore than I do, even if his French is nearly perfect and he’s found a career here. I can tell that these picturesque streets filled with laughter and light are contrary to his own nature.
There’s something darker about him, something dangerous. The guns certainly lend credence to this impression. And the fact that Boris knew him. It sent a shiver down my spine. Should I even be trusting my rescuer at all?
My feet are aching by the time we reach a tall, white architectural masterpiece that looks like it could effortlessly house a king or queen. I guess it’s his apartment building. Pavlenko nods to the doorman, who wordlessly lets us in. The man gratefully doesn’t allow his eyes to linger on my disheveled appearance. I wonder if he knows more than he lets on, and if his training includes being discreet in the face of strange encounters. He’s probably opened these doors for hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. Some of them had to have looked at least as odd as me.