Page 17 of Beehive
“Today’s the day, then,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep.
“Yeah.” I exhaled, leaning into the comfort of his palm, our silent exchange communicating everything we could ever say aloud. “The peak is noon. TVC is the Vendôme Column. Red scarf should be obvious, assuming every woman in the city doesn’t choose to wear red today.”
He frowned and retracted his hand before scooting up to lean against the headboard. “Why are we meeting in the open?”
“There’s no way they’d risk that unless something’s changed.”
The implication lingered between us: something changed in a way that meant danger and urgency.
“That means everything is about to change for us, too.” Thomas’s jaw tightened as he stood and reached for his shirt. “I have a feeling we’re about to put Paris in our rearview mirror.”
If I could, I would have reached up and pulled him back into bed, held him with the fierceness of a bear guarding her cub, kept him here where I didn’t have to worry about bullets or traps or spies.
“Tradecraft?” I asked, surrendering to the inevitable.
He pulled his shirt on and turned back toward me. “Separate routes?”
“Separate routes.” I nodded. “I’ll take the main avenue, grab a cab from there. You swing around through the market. We’ll regroup at the square.”
As he buckled his belt, I removed the box hidden beneath our bed and handed him a handgun. He stared down a moment, frozen in thought, then took the weapon and stuffed it into the back of his pants.
I grabbed his gray trench coat, a far more fashionable piece than anything we’d worn on past missions but an essential upgrade if we hoped to fit into the chic Paris scene.
As he took the coat, his hand closed around mine briefly before letting go. “Stay invisible, Will.”
I smirked. “I would tell you to do the same, but looking all hot and sexy like you do, it’s a useless thing to ask.”
His other hand whipped up and pulled me into him, his coat crushed between our bodies. With all the passion of parting lovers, his mouth covered mine, and his lips consumed me. For the second time in barely an hour, I begged for the moment to never end.
He pulled back and stared, then turned and slipped out the door.
I gave him a few minutes before following. Buttoning up my coat and pulling my hat low over my eyes, I grabbed my own red scarf and tossed it around my neck. Our mission might have both our stomachs churning, but nothing could steal my sense of irony or humor.
Thomas would grin when he saw it, and that made it worth doing.
Outside, the crisp air bit into my skin, waking every nerve with its sharp clarity. I slid my hands into my pockets, bracing against the chill. I stepped onto the avenue and blended into the flow of early-morning Parisians, my eyes scanning, ever alert. After a few blocks, I hailed a cab and climbed in. I gave the driver vagueinstructions to loop around and head in the general direction of Vendôme. It was a precaution I’d taken countless times before, but today, it felt heavier, each turn adding to my unease.
As we neared the square, I paid the driver and slipped out a few blocks early, preferring to cover the rest of the distance on foot. I checked my watch, then scanned the street behind me for any sign of a tail. Just before I crossed into the square, I caught sight of Thomas approaching from the opposite direction. He moved as naturally as any other passerby, though I knew his sharp gaze was tracking every movement around him.
Our eyes met.
He lingered less than a heartbeat, then resumed a lazy arc about the plaza. Everything in his motion, the grace of his movement and steadiness of his gait, reminded me why I trusted him with so much more than just my life. I resisted a smile that tugged at my lips and looped around the opposite side of the park.
Spy meetup. Red scarf. Focus.
The cobblestone plaza, worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, gleamed faintly in the morning light. Surrounding the plaza, majestic buildings with creamy limestone facades and tall windows were framed by wrought iron balconies. Colorful flowers, stubbornly ignoring the last vestige of winter, poured out of boxes that hung from each railing.
At the plaza’s center rose the towering bronze monument that spiraled upward. It was capped by a statue of Napoleon as a Roman emperor. My gut churned at what the day might bring, but I couldn’t help smiling as my eyes took in the soaring monolith. The column’s surface glinted with remnants of gilding, and its detailed reliefs told the story of Napoleon’s triumphs, though its imposing presence felt more subdued in the shadow of recent war.
Thomas and I were students of history, lovers of all things past. When we were sent to Paris, we couldn’t get enough of Revolutionary tales or stories of the decadence of long-dead kings. When we learned the Vendôme Column was crafted from the melted bronze of over 1,200 cannons captured by Napoleon’s army in 1805, the plaza became an instant favorite. There was something about the feel of the place, its unique sense of historical significance, that drew us to it.
Despite its grandeur, the square, like most of Paris, bore quiet scars.
Windows of nearby luxury boutiques, once vibrant and bustling with the city’s elite, were largely empty or displayed only modest wares. Bullet marks and faint signs of occupation were visible on some facades—if you looked closely enough.
Though quiet, there was an undercurrent of hope and renewal.
A street artist had set up a small easel in one corner, sketching the column, while a couple of pigeons pecked at crumbs scattered across the cobblestones near his feet.
