He sighs, scrubbing his face. "It's not you, Bryn. I promise. You've done nothing wrong. I just…" He trails off, shaking his head. "It's not you."
"Feels like it's me."
“It's not." He starts across the intersection without a glance either way, boldly ignoring the blaring horns and screeching tires.
I follow after him at a trot until I catch up. I want to cut through his taciturn armor, find something pithy, witty, or helpful to say. But I can't think of anything, and one look at the storm cloud that is Rush's expression deters me from trying.
So we walk in silence.
We turn this way, walk a few blocks, turn that way, walk a few blocks. He doesn't watch for tails. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was walking to his own gallows.
After thirty minutes of trudging through Lyon's wealthiest arrondissement, Rush stops in front of a gate. It's huge, a ten-foot arch of wrought iron. An eight-foot-high wall of aged white-gray stone blocks stretches in both directions for a full city block. On the other side of the gate, the driveway is red cobblestones older than the US government. Shrubs line the driveway, carved into perfect rectangles. The driveway curves, obscuring any view of the house.
For a long moment, Rush just stands at the gate, hands in his jacket pockets, staring at the intercom and keypad box as if he's waiting for it to strike him like a cobra.
"Rush?" I ask. "Are we…going in? Or…?"
He swallows hard. Nods once. "Yeah. We're going in." His voice is a hoarse whisper.
"You're worrying me a little," I murmur.
He turns his head to stare at me, his eyes a darker gray-brown than I've seen them yet. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and he clicks his jaw closed, shaking his head.
That serpent of suspicion is writhing in my guts, now. Something is wrong—very, very wrong.
For a moment, I'm tempted to just run. But…where would I go? Who would I turn to? How would I get home? How would I escape the traffickers who seem able to find me no matter where I go or how I get there?
No. For better or worse, I've tied my fate to Rush. Maybe I'm a fool, but I see good in him, no matter what he may say. I feel a little like Luke Skywalker, thinking that: I see good in you, the innocent farm boy said to the powerful villain.
Rush jabs the buttons of the keypad with a thumb, each stab staccato, angry. There's a buzz, and the gate ghosts open on silent hinges. I hesitate, and then follow his lithe, furious predator's gait down the winding cobblestone path. I turn back to see the gates swing closed, clanging ominously.
Rush notices my absence, follows my gaze to the closed gates. "No turning back now, Beautiful Bryn."
I don't like how he said that. "Rush? What are you not saying? Something is wrong. I know there is. Just tell me what it is. Please."
He just shakes his head. "It's too late." He holds out his hand to me. "Come on, now, love. Let's get this over with.”
“Too late? Rush, I really don't like the sound of that."
His gaze is dark, baleful, tragic. "Now you notice, do you? I told you, sweetheart. I’ve a black, rotten soul. I hope you understand that I've no liking for what I'm doing. It's just that I’ve no choice. Now come on. No point in delaying the inevitable."
When I don't move, he crosses the space between us in a few short, furious strides, grabs my wrist in a biting, painful grip, and drags me into a fast walk.
"Rush—stop!"
"No stopping it now, I'm afraid."
He hauls me at a trot around a curve, and the hedgerow opens up into an expansive, verdant, manicured lawn. The ochre cobblestones give way to raked white gravel in a circle around a marble fountain. The house facing me is a stunning display of French palatial architecture, with gables and peaks and turrets, stained glass and gargoyles, tiny balconettes and soaring rooflines.
Roaring stone gargoyles flank flagstone steps leading up to a wide front porch covered by a two-story portico. Men wearing black suits, mirrored sunglasses, and earpieces stand guard on either side of the staggeringly enormous main doors, which had to have come from a medieval castle, being black with age, wrapped with black iron straps and fist-sized studded bolts. The men wield Steyr-Aug assault rifles.
Um. Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
This is bad.
I halt at the bottom of the steps, yanking against Rush's implacable hold. "I…I don't like this."
