Sinclair

Chapter Fifty-Two: Timothée's Mind

THE THING THAT snaps me from my long-buried memory is Timothée. He's snapping something in French at one of the guys who nods and signals some of the others to join him. I watch, feeling a little disoriented, as they climb onto their motorcycles, rev their engines and pull out of the abandoned-looking parking lot we're in.

I'm not fluent in French, but I've been around Sinclair enough to pick up a few things. Most of them are not safe for work, but some are usable in everyday conversation. Sinclair's name, the words elle est ici. My blood runs kind of cold as I realize what he's doing. That he's telling Sinclair where I am knowing that he'll come here immediately.

I don't have a lot of time. I need to get Timothée to see reason before Sinclair gets here. I hope and pray that Sinclair comes with backup and that he isn't coaxed into coming here alone. Sinclair is smart, I convince myself, he wouldn't do anything as stupid as coming into enemy territory alone. But with me as a hostage...

I have to fix things. If I can put even a seed of Sinclair's love for him into his mind, maybe they can talk it out when Sinclair inevitably comes. Because, even if Sinclair is intent on killing Lucky, he won't be so intent when he sees that Lucky is his brother.

Lucky drags me off in the direction of a warehouse, and my heart is pounding now. It looks like one of those warehouses from an old mafia film. A house where the mafia takes you to cut off all your limbs slowly, and they're able to take their time because no one can hear your screams.

I resist, trying to plant my feet against the concrete of the parking lot, but Timothée pulls me forward with ease and says, "Mon Dieu, woman, I said I wasn't going to hurt you," in the most exasperated of tones.

Two of the men who were walking ahead of us glance back a little before turning their attention back to the path ahead. They open the door of the warehouse and stand aside to let Timothée drag me in. It's pitch black inside but, as my eyes adjust, I can make out boxes on either side, stacked from floor to ceiling.

"Chairs."

No sooner than Timothée speaks the words, the sound of people moving something heavy sounds in the room, and I can make out two figures pulling a giant object forward. When it's in place, Timothée all but flings me onto it, and barks something else in French.

Dim light fills the warehouse and I blink to help my eyes adjust to the sudden light. The warehouse is fairly large. Even with all the boxes stacked at every corner, there's still space for at least twenty people to fit in with ease. I see pieces of furniture, which had been too dark to see before, and the chair I'm sitting in is the kind of chair a grandmother would buy. It has an atrocious flower pattern and feels like its made of rocks. There's a moldy scent clinging to it and I wrinkle my nose in spite of myself.

"I apologize for the smell," said Timothée, seeing my expression. "This warehouse is..." He tilts his head. "A front? That's how you Americans would say it, yes?"

"Don't you live in America?"

Timothée gives me a long look and I can see that he's kind of guessed that I'm trying to find out as much about him as I can, even as I keep my face as innocent as possible.

Speaking carefully, he says, "I've only been here for two years now. I spent all of my life in France."

My heart takes off a little. I want to ask so many questions, How was your life? Who raised you? Did you live with your mother? But none of them are appropriate and they pry far too deep into things that aren't my business to know. Not to mention, Timothée gives off the vibe of a ticking time bomb. Not quick to show his anger like Sinclair is, but just as quick and efficient as acting on it as his brother.