An Introvert in Paris - Part 2 : The Origin

Chapter Two

I had three minutes. That wasn't much time, but it was enough.

The unconscious guard lay sprawled at my feet, his weapon still holstered. I crouched, yanked the gun free, and ejected the magazine. Full—good. The other guard groaned, fingers sluggishly reaching for his radio. No chance. I brought my boot down hard on his wrist, eliciting a sharp grunt, and wrenched the device from his grasp. A flick of my thumb switched it off. No unnecessary alerts. No unexpected company.

Lynn's message replayed in my mind like a warning bell: They will be there in three minutes.

Who were "they"? Reinforcements? A cleanup team? Or worse—killers sent to erase me before I could dig any deeper? I couldn't afford to wait and find out.

I exhaled slowly and pulled the door open just a sliver, peering into the hallway beyond. Two agents stood outside, backs to me, their attention fixed on the entrance. Armed. Alert. Focused. I needed to create an opening—fast.

A ticking clock in my head counted down, each second a pulse of urgency. My fingers tightened around the stolen radio, and I pressed the call button, keeping my voice low, strained, and deliberately pained. "He's down... needs backup. Room 17."

The agents reacted instantly. One of them turned, pressing his radio. "Copy that. On my way."

The second he stepped away, I moved.

The remaining agent barely had time to process the movement before my elbow slammed into his throat. A choked gasp escaped his lips as he staggered back, instinctively reaching for his weapon. I didn't give him the chance. A sharp jab to his solar plexus knocked the wind from his lungs, and as his grip faltered, I twisted his wrist, forcing his gun free. It clattered to the floor, and he collapsed beside it, wheezing.

Two minutes left.

I secured the second weapon and advanced down the hallway, every step calculated, my breath controlled. The security office was just around the next bend—if I could reach it, I could slip into the maintenance corridors and vanish before the reinforcements arrived.

Then I heard them.

Fast-moving footsteps. Multiple pairs.

They were coming.

Heart rate steady, I pivoted, slipping through the nearest door. A storage closet. The scent of bleach and stale detergent clung to the air, metal shelves stacked with supplies lining the walls. Not ideal. I pressed my back against the door, gun raised, ears trained on the approaching voices.

"Room's clear! He must be close. Sweep the area!"

I scanned my surroundings. There had to be another way out. A vent? A service hatch? Anything.

Then my gaze landed on a janitor's uniform hanging from a hook on the back of the door.

A plan formed instantly.

One minute.

I moved fast, shoving my weapons deep into the cleaning cart's compartments before pulling the uniform over my clothes. The fabric was stiff, ill-fitting, but it would have to do. I tugged a cap low over my forehead, adjusted my posture, and exhaled, shedding the tension from my body. Just another worker. Just another forgettable face in the crowd.

I pushed the cart out into the hallway, keeping my head down. The agents rushed past, too focused on their search to give the janitor a second glance.

Thirty seconds.

The maintenance doors were in sight. A keypad blinked beside them, a silent barrier between me and freedom.

Damn it.

I needed a code. My eyes flicked to a nearby guard, his ID badge clipped to his belt. He stood at the end of the corridor, scanning the area, unaware of my approach.

Fifteen seconds.

I maneuvered the mop, feigning absentminded work, moving just close enough. With a practiced sleight of hand, I unhooked the ID badge and slid it into my palm. Smooth.

Beep.

The keypad's light flickered green. The door clicked open.

I stepped through just as an alarm shrieked behind me.

They knew.

No time to hesitate. I sprinted through the dimly lit corridor, dodging stacks of supplies and maintenance equipment. The alley behind the airport led straight to the city—if I could reach it, I'd disappear into the labyrinth of streets.

A vibration in my pocket. My burner phone.

A new message from Lynn:

They're locking down the exits. Go underground.

Underground. That meant one thing—the old service tunnels beneath the airport. Unmapped. Abandoned. Dangerous.

But my only way out.

I skidded to a stop, scanning for an entry point. Then I saw it—an access hatch, rusted and half-hidden behind a row of crates. My fingers found the latch and yanked it open just as voices echoed behind me.

"He's in here!"

I dropped into the darkness below and pulled the hatch shut, bolting the lock.

The tunnels stretched ahead, damp and reeking of old fuel. Shadows swallowed everything beyond the reach of my dimming flashlight. My grip tightened around the stolen weapon. I had no idea what I was walking into.

But I knew one thing—I wasn't out of this yet.

And Priscilla still had the laptop.

If I wanted answers, I had to reach her first.

I squared my shoulders, steadied my breathing, and moved forward, deeper into the shadows.

The chase had only just begun.