That Time in Paris, Logan Ryles [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

the observation deck, nervous sweat streaming down his face despite the cold. He let out a soft sob and lowered his head into shaking hands.

I did it . . . I did it . . .

The elevator door rolled open on the other side of the tower, and footsteps rang against the deck. Two French police officers darted around the corner, guns drawn. They skidded to a halt only feet away, and Wolfgang leaned back against the wall, offering a tired smile.

“What’s up, guys?”

The lead cop eyed the barrel, then his glare turned toward Wolfgang. He sniffed in indignant disgust and lifted a lip. “You are under arrest!”

Wolfgang grinned. “Sounds great, buddy.”

12

French jail smelled just about the same as any institutional building in America—a cocktail of sweat, stale coffee, and too little ventilation, but Wolfgang didn’t care. He lay on his cot, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed, and just breathed.

He was alive. In the heat of the moments leading up to disabling the bomb, he’d never thought about himself. He’d thought about his team, he’d thought about innocent Parisians, and he’d thought about Megan. It wasn’t until the bomb was about to detonate that he really considered his own stake in the game, and even then the imminence of his death didn’t sink in until the jailer locked the door and Wolfgang had a moment to think.

He wasn’t worried about being in jail. Sure, he’d stolen a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car, scraped it up, broken several traffic laws, broken into a closed monument at night, and most auspiciously, been arrested next to a nuclear weapon. All those things would be cleared up by SPIRE, or they wouldn’t. And if they weren’t, if SPIRE disavowed him and left him in this cell . . . well, he was a man of many means. He’d get out eventually.

Right now he just wanted to lie on this bed, eyes closed, and enjoy being alive. The cot was stiff, and a stray spring jabbed into his back, but he didn’t care. He could lie there for days, his eyes closed, a single image playing over and over in his mind—the image of him and Megan dancing at the gala, moving smoothly while the music played and the world around them faded out of existence.

He’d never met somebody so special that he thought about them this way or felt the things he was feeling now. He’d never met somebody that he thought he’d like to spend a lot of time with, and really get to know, and maybe even let her get to know him.

And yet, he knew it couldn’t be. That was clear now. Sure, she’d only known him a few days, but she clearly didn’t reciprocate the attraction he felt, and he thought he knew why.

Footsteps clicked against the concrete of the jail floor, and Wolfgang made a show of yawning without opening his eyes.

“Yo, Louis!” Wolfgang shouted. “When’s breakfast? I feel like I’m entitled to some French toast.”

“How about breakfast in the USA?” Megan stood just on the other side of the bars, leaned against them, staring at him with just the hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Wolfgang swung his feet onto the floor, breaking out into a grin as he walked toward her. “Finally! I thought you guys were gonna leave me here.”

Megan shrugged. “That was certainly suggested, but you’ve got Lyle’s watch. He wants it back.”

Wolfgang laughed. “No way. They can bury me with that watch.”

“Are you okay? Did they wash you off?”

Wolfgang nodded quickly, uneager to discuss the details of the French decontamination process. He appreciated being washed free of nuclear contaminants, but standing buck naked in somebody else’s country while they sprayed you with a water hose . . . well. It wasn’t a postcard moment.

More footsteps, and a cop appeared. It was the same cop who’d arrested him at the top of the tower.

The man’s eyes were dark and full of disgust. He opened the door and held it back, sticking his nose in the air. “You are free to go.”

Wolfgang grinned. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He and Megan walked back to the front desk, where he processed out. The paperwork he’d signed labeled him as Paul Listener, and he remembered the passport he’d taken to the gala.

They think I’m Canadian.

The desk clerk handed him the passport, along with the watch and euro notes. “You have twelve hours to leave France, Monsieur Listener.”

Wolfgang flashed her his standby grin. “No worries. I’ll be home by then.”

He followed Megan outside and ducked into the waiting Mercedes. It was Kevin’s car from earlier that night, but there was no sign of Kevin or the others. Sunlight streamed over Paris from the east, bathing the car in golden light and reminding Wolfgang how good it was to see another day.

“They’re waiting on the plane,” Megan said as she slipped into the driver’s seat. “We’ll take off as soon as we arrive.”

“How did you get me out? I mean, they have to think I was at fault for the bomb.”

Megan shrugged. “Edric made some calls. SPIRE pulled some strings. I imagine that if we stuck around another few hours, you’d be arrested again, but all we needed was an opening.”

“Thanks,” Wolfgang said.

He watched as Megan piloted the car onto the highway. Her hair was held back in a simple ponytail, and she wore a leather jacket and jeans. Somehow, she looked even better than she had in the dress.

He looked away, his stomach tightening. “How mad is Edric?”

“Edric is more flexible than he lets on. A lot happened last night. Were it not for you, a lot more would have happened.”

“What about Spider? I found his body—”

“In the alley, yes. Edric already spoke to the CIA. Apparently Raven pushed too hard and blew his own cover. Spider wasn’t talking, and Raven eliminated him, rather than letting him go.”

“Sloppy work. I can’t imagine the CIA is pleased.”

“They’re not,” Megan said. “I get the feeling Raven will be out of a job pretty soon. How did you figure it out, anyway? Your com went