Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

was far too loud, and I felt like one of the oldest people there. The truth was, even as a college student, I’d hated going to late-night bars. I’d always preferred the quiet, comfortable pub-style establishments, with the sound of pool balls clacking and darts being thrown into colorful boards.

Marcus walked with a cocky gait, and Tripp loomed behind me like a stone wall. His gaze darted around, and I was almost surprised the big man at the doors let us in at all. Veronica had mentioned her wealthy client, and the man softened, opening the velvet rope for us.

The joint was packed, and I guessed most of the young people were done with school for the semester—or maybe it was always like this in the heart of Paris at midnight.

Kids with glowing makeup pressed past me, aiming for the dancefloor, and I searched for a place to talk to a bartender. I noticed a bar behind a growing line of patrons, and moved for it.

“Veuillez m’excuser. Urgence,” I lied to them, pretending to have an emergency, and a few people let me by until I was at the front of the line. The bar was busy, and two men prepared complicated drinks with a kind of casual ease that told me they weren’t in a hurry to get things done.

I spoke in French and waved the closest bartender down.

“What’ll it be?” he asked without making eye contact.

“I’m looking for a girl. Juliette. You know her?”

“I know a lot of girls. And a few Juliettes.”

I reached into my pocket and slipped out fifty euros. I passed it to him across the bar, and he finally glanced up, the bill disappearing as quickly as it came. He didn’t say another word, just pointed to the stair leading above the bar.

I nodded, and saw Veronica near the dancefloor. “I think I found her!” I shouted, and she came along, leaving Tripp with Marcus.

The pumping music got quieter as we ascended the stairs, and a group of twenty-year-olds hung out on a few leather couches, a bottle of liquor centering the table and a lot of empty shot glasses sprawled out.

I walked up to them, scanning the group, but it was Veronica who seemed to know how to introduce herself. She changed her entire persona, her hips moving to one side, her foot stance shifting. “Juliette?” she asked, her voice light and airy.

A couple of guys glanced at a purple-haired pixie cut, and we had our target. I spoke French again. “Juliette, we’d like to discuss something with you.”

She slinked away from the men, moving from the couches. “Are you American?” Her voice was throaty, her English fairly smooth. I caught the eye of one of the guys, and he frowned at me before returning to his quiet conversation.

“We are. We’re looking for a guide,” Veronica answered.

“Are you? I don’t do that kind of thing anymore,” she said, and turned her back on us.

“Wait. Juliette, we’ll pay,” I said, loud enough for her to hear me over the music blasting below us.

She paused. “I have money.”

Veronica had already asked her contact what he’d paid Juliette for the tour, and it was substantially less than what we were about to offer. “Three thousand euros.”

She stiffened, and even though she was facing the other direction, I could sense the smile building on her face. Before I had to do any more convincing, she spun on her Converse heel, jutting her hand out. “Deal.”

____________

The streets were almost silent, or as quiet as they could be in a city like Paris. No matter the hour, there would always be the ringing of a distant siren carrying across the vacated cobblestone roadways. We’d explained our destination to Juliette, and demanded she stay off her phone for the duration of the journey, which she’d hesitantly accepted.

Tripp held on to her phone, and I was almost surprised someone would concede the lifeline and walk into the underground with four strangers like this, but our guide seemed unperturbed by any of it. I suspected Veronica’s presence gave us a credibility we wouldn’t have had otherwise, and I was once again glad for her company on the team.

“We cannot enter near the destination, but I think we can find it below,” she assured us in English.

The area was rougher here, and I was happy the rain had ceased as we strolled down the road, hugging the old stone building’s wall as we crept to the church. It stood like a Gothic monster in the night. I had no illusions that the building wasn’t spectacular in the sunlight, but everything turned sinister as the dark night sky cast its shadow across Paris.

Footsteps in an alley drew my attention, and I hurried forward as I saw a man shuffling toward us. He mumbled in French, and we continued with Tripp in the rear, covering us. The streetlights were few and far between as we wound around the church, and finally, we broke from the protection of the narrow street into a courtyard. A statue rose from the ground, a plaque attached, probably describing the saint’s significance and what year it had been erected.

The church had a central spire, with two more rounded on either side. The symmetry was beautiful, and even well past midnight, there were lights emerging from the front doors.

Tires squealed behind us, and a black car skidded to a halt at a red light. It was the only vehicle on the street, and it drove off in a hurry when the lights changed. The entire operation was filled with tension, which was why I preferred to do these things in the daytime.

But Juliette claimed there would be no eyes on us as we entered the catacomb tunnels from beneath this church. We took her word for it and walked as a group around the courtyard, to the rear of the building. I spotted a man smoking near a side entrance, his foot planted to hold the door open, and