The rain fell hard and fast, forming deep puddles along the gutters of the streets. Barely anyone was outside that morning and those who were struggled to hold their umbrellas up against the strong wind and rain. Even the café was nearly empty as the rain pelted the green canopy above the outdoor patio.
I sat at a table for two and looked around. An elderly man in a brown hat pulled tightly over his ears drank his hot mug of coffee while reading a newspaper with damp and wrinkled pages. Three young women were at a table by the café's door, talking quickly in French and wearing fashionable rain boots that kept the water off of their designer jeans. Not even a storm could stop them from their daily cappuccino. Zach, sitting quietly at the adjacent table, caught my eye and nodded. I adjusted the warm scarf around my neck and returned the curt nod.
So he wouldn't be recognized, Zach was in disguise. Perhaps disguise wasn't the right word. Zach's daily fashion choices were probably considered disguises since he usually dressed as if he was a member of the president's secret service. What Zach had on at the café was what any normal boy would probably wear. A polo shirt and jeans made him look like the nineteen years he was instead of the thirty he looked like before. To top it off, he kept the gel out of his hair and let it sweep across his forehead in that fringe only boy band members could pull off. I had to admit, he looked very handsome.
Dylan made his way towards the café. He walked slowly as he struggled to keep a grip on the handle of his umbrella. One of his arms was hanging in a navy sling and resting gently against his chest. A few yards away from the café, he gave up with the umbrella altogether and snapped it closed, allowing the heavy downpour to soak his clothing and hair.
I felt sick as he came nearer. He wasn't Dylan anymore, the same boy who was awkward and charming and cute. He was a murderer and a liar. All of the feelings I had for him erased as quickly as it took him to sit down in front of me, water dripping down his face and neck, weighing down his unusually wrinkled clothing.
Zach slipped on a pair of reading glasses and removed a pocket-sized poetry book from his jacket. The typical French hipster.
"Sorry I'm a little late, love," he said as he leaned across the table and kissed my cheek. I flinched, his kiss burning my skin, his lips dry, and his normally smooth face prickly with the beginnings of red whiskers. His face was pale as he removed his foggy glasses and cleaned them on the hem of his shirt.
"Dylan, you look as if you've seen a ghost," I exclaimed as I watched him rub his glasses again and again against the sopping wet fabric. His hands shook slightly as he repeated the motion over and over.
He jumped as if I had caught him in a despicable act, which wasn't far from the truth. He quickly put his glasses back on. They hung crookedly from the bridge of his nose. "I'm just not feeling well." He used his hand to wipe the water and damp hair from his forehead. He held his head in his palm for a moment before fidgeting with the straps on his sling.
"Oh Dylan," I managed to say, my voice tinted with a feigned concern. "What happened?" I gestured towards his injured arm.
"Sprained it," Dylan answered quickly, saved by the waiter as he approached our table.
The young man gave us each a bored expression as we glanced over the menus, the cold rain blowing underneath the canopy and drenching his white uniform.
I ordered the first drink I saw, Dylan helping me with the French pronunciation. The waiter nearly ripped the menus from our hands.
"Merci," I called after him cheerily. He froze. I saw his shoulders rise as he took a deep breath, probably counting to ten, to stop himself from lashing out with a sarcastically laced retort, all the while the rain causing his white shirt to stick to his body.
"The most terrible thing happened to me early this morning," I started as soon as the waiter was out of earshot, lowering my voice.
"You don't say." Dylan tugged at the collar of his shirt. He didn't look at me.
The waiter came back with our coffee, placing it on the table with such force that the hot liquid swished over the sides of the mugs, spilling onto the table. I unravelled the silk napkin resting on the table and dabbed at the spilt coffee, continuing my story as I cleaned the mess gingerly. "I left my bag at the Moulin Rouge last night. I went to retrieve it and-"
"You're a spy aren't you?" Dylan said accusingly, slamming the table with his palm. More coffee tidal waved over the brim of the mugs. I gasped as it burned my hand.
The man in the brown hat lowered his newspaper. The women stopped their rapid chatter. All of their eyes were on us and then on Zach, who had sprayed his coffee all over the table as he coughed and gasped for breath.
Seizing the moment of distraction, I moved my chair next to Dylan's. "You lied to me this whole time," he said, this time more quietly.
I was stunned speechless for a moment. Was he serious? He was blaming this on me? When I finally regained use of my vocal chords, I struggled to keep my voice quiet and steady. "I lied to you? You lied to me. I know for a fact you murdered Christinne and Elizabeth." I snapped at him. "I'm doing my job in getting you arrested." I banged on the table. "I trusted you," I added sternly. Not only had I trusted him, I made out with him! I felt so dirty!
He played with his hands. "Emma, I really like you-" he started.
"Really?" I said in mock disbelief. "Because normally you give somebody you like flowers that aren't covered in blood," I hissed, "You don't hold a gun to their head like you did this morning."
"I had no choice," he moaned. "They saw I liked you. I tried for so long to keep you away from all of this. If you only knew all of the times I lied for you, stopped them from going after you next!" He startled me by reaching for my hands. I pulled them out of his grip. "How I feel about you...that's all true."
I ignored his attempt at regaining my trust because suddenly all of those lavish words and sweet compliments felt hollow. He didn't mean it, just as he hadn't meant anything he said over the past few days. He was a liar, a better one that I ever could be. I could have learned a lesson or two from him. "Who are they?"
When Dylan didn't answer, I added: "Dylan, it's over. You can either help us or I can arrest you right here in front of everybody." I leaned closer to him, resting my lips by his ear. He tensed. "They will eat you up in prison, spit you out, and do it all over again." I ran my finger down his chest, following the gold buttons adorning his blue jacket. "They will especially love you, a posh British lad in designer glasses."
He swallowed hard and pushed me away with balled fists so roughly I nearly fell from my seat.
"I know you are a spy," he said, staring straight ahead at the rain that pounded the sidewalk. "I saw your badge in your purse, Laura."
He went through my purse too? No one went through a girl's purse. "You know what gave you away? Fingerprints on Christinne's neck and that stupid mask falling off of your face," I snapped. "This isn't a masquerade Dylan."
Suddenly another chair was at Dylan's opposite side.
"You were here the whole time?" Dylan asked as he clutched his chest. Zach leaned in towards him. "Are you a-" Dylan never got to finish his sentence.
Zach's eyes were ablaze. "Yes, and if you say another word, Guantanamo has an extra room ready just for you." Zach sneered. "I'm sure the inmates are waiting for a new friend."
"You can't arrest me! I helped her," Dylan countered, gesturing to me wildly with his healthy arm.
Zach was ready to pounce, but I cut him off. "How many times have they tried to kill me?" I asked, though I wasn't sure if I even wanted to know.
"Twice," Dylan sighed. "When we were exploring the city. I had you alone, but I just couldn't do it. Then this morning." He took a breath and pushed his coffee away.
I retraced the past few days in my head, playing the images like a scenes from a rapid slideshow. "Three times," I said angrily. My nostrils flared.
"What?"
"You're forgetting the Moulin Rouge last night, in the windmill." I couldn't look at him because my eyes were beginning to water and it wasn't the blowing rain that was smearing my makeup. The rest of the people in the café had dispersed, leaving the three of us alone. Even the waiter had disappeared after turning the open sign to closed. Well someone wasn't getting their money...
Dylan remained silent, knowing fully well he was done. He rested his hands on the table top, ready for the cuffs that I knew were tucked into Zach's pocket. Zach's hands fidgeted. He wanted nothing more than to put Dylan away forever.
I breathed unsteadily. "Anything else you have to explain?"
"What will it get me? If I tell you?" He swallowed hard. He was all business now, no flirting or jokes.
"A cell away from the general population," Zach countered dryly. "And maybe a nice little window."
Dylan seriously debated. He sat silently for a few moments. I stared at his sling, tracing the blue stitched fabric with my eyes. I couldn't look at his face. My ears became alert when he sighed.
"It's Cara," he said finally. "Cara hired me."
It took me a few moments to process what he had said. When I realized he had named another suspect, I shook my head. "Who's Cara?"
"Cara LaPorta. Cara Lindsey. Same person." His tone was bored, guiltless. With nowhere to run, he was better off cooperating. "She probably has even more names, but I haven't known her long enough."
Cara Lindsey? That name sounded oddly familiar, but I had heard so many names, fake and real, from the living and dead, that they were all blending together in my mind. The one thing that did strike me, though, were the initials: CL. All this time I thought it stood for Christinne LaRoux and instead it was Cara Lindsey, whoever that was.
"Catty, jealous girl if you ask me." Dylan shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. He looked at Zach for an acknowledgement or approval but Zach was stone-faced.
"Oh my gosh," I breathed as it all came back. The girl on the sidewalk, the one I had run into my first night in Paris. Her name was Cara Lindsey. And she was following Christinne's limo that night! So it was her all along. The first person I spoke to in Paris, I hadn't even realized...
Dylan gave a toothy smile. "Clicked, didn't it?"
"Where is she?" Zach asked him.
Dylan leaned back in his chair. All the cards were in his hand now. He would bargain and bargain until he got no more than a slap on the wrist. We couldn't let him get away like that.
"But if you want to know the big boss, le patron over all of us, you are going to need my help," he said. Arrogance replaced his usually carefree and kind demeanor.
"We don't need your help!" I argued loudly.
"Oh," he chuckled, "but you do. Because only I know that they have something planned for tomorrow, the first day of Fashion Week."
"How do you know?" I asked him. I was tugging on my scarf so much it was choking me, but I needed to do something with my hands before I lost control of them and they somehow found a way around Dylan's pale neck.
"Because I built it."
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, the full scale of what awaited finally sinking in. Best tech worker MI6 had to offer, Fred had said about Dylan. What he could build may be devastating to everyone involved.
Suddenly Dylan's face was pressed against the table top. His cheek was squashed against the table and he was fogging up its glass with his hard and nervous breathing. Zach was standing over him, pressing his head against the table. The silver CIA handcuffs were dangling in one of his hands.
"That's a confession, you know that? We can arrest you for it," Zach snarled.
Dylan struggled. "Please," he wheezed. His eyes found me. "Do you even know why I'm doing this?" He struggled harder, but he was no match for Zach who had him held down by one hand.
"I want to help you. I don't want to do this anymore. Please," he pleaded.
I swallowed hard, my eyes shifting from Zach to Dylan and back again. Finally Zach nodded and released Dylan.
"Don't run," he ordered.
Dylan once again clutched his chest. "Mate, you'd probably catch me anyway."
I smiled despite myself, knowing it was the truth. I could probably catch him.
"Laura." He reached for my hands again but automatically thought against it. Good call on his part. "I worked for MI6, in their tech department since I was eighteen. I lost my job last year when I was twenty because of an accident that was entirely my fault." I only half-listened to his pathetic tale. I already knew all of this, he needed to tell me something I didn't know. "I had no job and my family up north was expecting a check to help them out every month. How was I supposed to tell them I lost a job at the banking firm when it wasn't even the truth? They had no idea where I really worked." He pulled the coffee mug closer to him again, but didn't take a sip. "I told them I got transferred to Paris. I really came here so I could start over but instead I found Cara through a network for government agents." So she was a spy to? "She asked if I could build some models off of these blueprints for her. I thought I was building for the French agency but it turned out she didn't work for them after all. She had gotten fired too. Instead I was building these weapons and devices and hacking into computer codes so she could go around and kill these girls for a reason that is still unknown to me today."
Zach cut him off while he took a breath. "Why didn't you tell anybody?" he asked impatiently.
"Because I'm a greedy, selfish prick, okay?" Dylan snapped. "Are you happy? I was getting paid more money than I had ever seen in my life and I could help out my family and start over here and..." He broke off. Even to his ears his entire story must have sounded so awfully wretched and sick he couldn't continue.
"I wasn't lying, Laura," he finally said. "I do like you. You're different from the other girls. You're like me. I knew from the moment you walked in. I had a feeling that you were," he looked around, "a spy," he whispered despite the fact that no one could be seen for blocks.
That was the only thing we had in common. I was nothing like him!
"David Morgan," I said sternly. His eyes widened at the use of his full, real name. "I can arrest you now or later. Tell me what's going to happen at Fashion Week," I demanded. I could almost picture Zach smiling, proud of his pupil he had taught so well in the art of impatience.
Dylan pursed his lips, visibly irritated his flirting didn't win me over. "I built a bomb."
As if it were made of lead, my stomach plummeted and my breath lodged in my throat as a horrific boom sounded in the back of my head. We were in trouble.
"Can't you deactivate it or something?" Zach had lost all of the color in his face.
Dylan shook his head rapidly back and forth. "Cara has it. I don't even know where she put it. She has the cell phone to activate it too. Everything is on her now."
Zach let out a vulgar curse word as I stared straight at Dylan, not comprehending how someone could be so daft and stupid and dense and every other negative adjective in the English and French language.
Dylan knew we were both ready to kill him if he didn't give us some positive news quick. "But I know where Cara and the others will be tomorrow. I can lead you to them before anything happens."
"And this boss you speak of," Zach asked slowly, as if he didn't even want to know, "who-"
Dylan cut him off rapidly. "I can't tell you because if she knows I told you, it can mess everything up. Cara listens to her, Cara will press the button when she tells her too. If she has any reason to believe you two are on to her she will have Cara press that button even if it means she goes down in flames too." For the first time all morning, Dylan was telling the truth. His green eyes were large and glistening with water. He was sincerely afraid of dying tomorrow, we all were. Zach and I didn't press the issue, but we needed Dylan on our side if we had any hope for tomorrow.
"Okay," I said quietly and stood up. I wobbled on my unsteady feet and clutched the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles were turning white. "Tomorrow," was all I could manage to say.
Dylan nodded and took a gulp of coffee anxiously.
"You'll be caught if you run," Zach informed him as he too stood up to leave. He patted Dylan's back forcefully. "You just swallowed a CIA microchip tracker."
Dylan's hand flung to his neck as he clutched his throat, but it was already too late. The tracker was in his body, keeping tabs on him no matter where he went. Hopefully he slept sound tonight, because we would know every step he took. I mentally applauded Zach, always one step...sometimes more...ahead of me.
"Sleight of hand," Zach explained to Dylan. He waved his hand in front of Dylan's alarmed face. "But you know all about magic, right Ron Weasley?"
I covered my mouth in shock and tried to keep myself from laughing. A small snort gave me away, but neither boy noticed. Dylan, his face as red as his hair, was glaring at Zach, who looked rather pleased with himself before he turned to leave.
"One more thing," Zach added, turning to face Dylan once again.
I gasped as Zach's balled fist jutted out in front of him and made contact with Dylan's jaw. The loud crack echoed around the empty café. Dylan's chair toppled over, as well as his mug of coffee.
Zach stood over Dylan, whose mouth was dripping blood down his chin and onto the front of his jacket. Dylan was on his behind, his big eyes behind his now crooked glasses staring up at Zach. He was either too stunned to fight back or smart enough to realize what Zach gave him was a lot nicer than what he really deserved.
"If you ever so much as touch Laura again, you will regret it. She has every right to pummel you but she won't because she is nice." My hand was back over my mouth as I watched the scene before me. "But I'm not. You have no idea how lucky you were with her, but you blew it. Don't look at her, don't touch her, and don't even think about her because she deserves so much better than you and your fake Louis Vuitton shoes."
He turned around one last time and walked towards me. "Be there tomorrow or I will find you," he ordered over his shoulder.
Though I probably looked like the painting of The Scream with my mouth hanging open so widely, I found myself numbly walking in step with Zach.
And while Zach had just done about the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me in my entire life, all I could manage to say was "Louis Vuitton shoes?"
Zach shoved his hands in his pockets. "You're not the only fashion expert around here."