“I grew up with the Cimarrons,” he stated at last. “And there was a time when Jayd and I were so close, everyone predicted we might betroth.” He swung his gaze to Ozias before finishing, making Max notice how tightly that twisted the Aussie. “But that was before I accompanied Samsyn on a spec ops trip to Syria. We were chasing down gun runners who’d grown fond of using our old port as a stopover to Syria.”
The Arcadian finished that with a warm smile, prompting the same from Oz. “And I was in Latakia on a few days of R and R after my unit had sprung some embedded reporters out of Aleppo. And there, in a tiny bar, off a tiny street, in that little seaside city…”
“All right, all right,” Brick filled in before Fox could. “I got the picture. Magic, fireworks, everyone’s eyes turning into hearts.” In short, everything that was awesome and aces for other people, not guys named Max Brickham. At least not in this lifetime. Not with this twisted mess he was still trying to call a brain. “And I’m happy for you two—and I mean that—but let’s get back to basics. Like the subject of Princess Jayd Cimarron, and your tear to find her quickly and quietly.”
“Yes,” Fox emphasized. “As quickly and quietly as possible.”
“Though we’re not on a rogue tear here, mate,” Oz assured. “So don’t go there. We’ve come with Samsyn Cimarron’s full stamp of approval.”
Brick narrowed his gaze. “So you know that just leads to my next question, right?” The rhetoric invited his purposeful but fleeting pause. “If you’re sanctioned by your own government, why haven’t you just taken this to the Paris prefecture? Won’t the police’s resources be easier than scrambling your own team?”
“No.” Fox ramped his tone to an impressive growl. “No police. No public records. No cameras or recordings. Nothing that can tip off those Pura kimfuks to what we are up to.” He flung nervous glances over both shoulders. “It was even a risk to meet here, but the fountains and the crowds will drown anyone trying to tap us.”
“Tap us?” Brick’s perplexity rocked his whole head back. “For what?”
“To learn if we’re laying deeper Arcadian state secrets on you,” Oz said.
“Which we are,” Fox added.
“And if we sought you out because of what we plan to do about them.”
“Which we also are.”
Now Brick looked over his shoulder. “Secrets like what?”
Oz took a thick beat before answering. “Like the fact that Jayd Cimarron isn’t a full-blooded princess.”
“The hell?” Brick countered.
“It’s true,” Oz rebutted. “Well, true enough that the Pura faction went diving after a half-baked lead but gathered enough evidence to prove it as truth—at least in the court of public opinion. They uncovered some paperwork, along with a recording, implicating that Xaria Cimarron had an affair—and that Jayd is the product of that liaison.”
“Shit.” Brick’s astonishment helped him draw out the word.
“Naturally, they took all the evidence to Evrest—”
“To use for political leverage,” Brick went ahead and filled in.
Ozias lifted his head and smiled, acting as if he was enjoying the sunny weather. His snarl wasn’t so easily shrouded. “They had a whole list prepared,” he said. “And it included a demand for Jayd’s hand in marriage to one of their own guys.”
“Fuck.”
“Younger member of the party,” Fox supplied. “A real… How do you say it? A piece of work…named Trystan Carris.”
“Fuckstick-on-high works too,” Oz muttered during the moment it took Fox to summon a photo of said fuckstick to his phone’s screen. “But if you ask me, he’s as good as a Sopranos extra.”
“Solid confirm on that.” Brick grimaced while beholding the image. “But it wouldn’t make a difference if he looked like Reece fucking Richards,” he added, referencing the famous good looks of his most recent employer. “This isn’t the dark ages. Fundamentalism isn’t a license to treat a human being like property.”
“All right, all right. Easy, mate. I happen to agree with you, okay?”
Brick nodded tightly, indicating his return from the brink of his mental abyss. No way should it have been so easy to crawl to that edge, considering the pill he’d just popped. But an overcrowded gallery was one kind of trigger. Hearing that men were bartering a human like a horse was another.
Even Oz didn’t have all the details on that part of his past, nor would the guy be getting them today. He’d never see Brick’s scars, physical and mental, from the mission that had changed him forever. The fuckup he’d never forget. The woman he’d failed to save. The fate she’d faced because of his mistakes.
Asha. I’m so sorry.
“We are all in alignment on that thought, then,” Fox asserted, his palms-up stance working with his vest and shirt for a modern peacemaker vibe. “Which is why we have come to you with such urgency, Mr. Brickham.”
He scowled. “Just Brick, okay?”
“All right, Mr. Brick.”
He tolerated Oz’s soft chuckle while regathering his thoughts on the safe half of his brain. The side still properly plugging logic and conclusions into each other.
“All right, let me see if I understand this story so far,” he finally said. “Once upon a time, you helped your princess slip off the island so she could escape an arranged marriage to a…”
“Fuckstick-on-high,” Oz supplied.
“Right. Thanks.” As Brick slowly paced, he scraped a hand across the top of his short-buzzed skull. “But now, you’ve hopped the rock, as well—understandable, since it seems Sir Fuckstick and his minions have also run down the princess’s plot.”
A wry grin played at the edges of Fox’s mouth. “You can pen a wise narrative, Mr. Brick.”
“Gratitude for the upvote, Mr. Fox. But I’m still missing a giant plot point here.” He jabbed a new scrutiny at his companions. “Why here? Why Paris? You know the princess could’ve fled much farther by now. For that matter, she might’ve stopped sooner. Arcadia is over twenty-five hundred kilometers away. Just a wild guess, but there are probably a lot of great hidey-holes between here and there just perfect for a runaw—”
He stammered into silence the second Ozias jammed an image in front of him.
A photograph, filling the guy’s phone screen, that contained three undeniable elements.
First, and most unmistakably, it was an image of Jayd Cimarron. Though her face was framed by a bolder, shorter haircut and topped by a dark beret, all the gorgeous basics were there. Those proud cheekbones. That heart-shaped mouth. And holy God, those eyes. Somehow, her dark makeup made them more huge and luminous than ever.
Second, there was a security camera stamp on the picture. It indicated the day and time. It was recorded three nights ago at eight sixteen p.m.
Third, there was a sign over her head from the place she was exiting. A tavern on Rue Gabrielle.
In Montmartre.
Four kilometers away. Not twenty-five hundred.
“Well, damn,” Brick muttered.