It’s bullshit.
I know it’s all bullshit and they’re probably going to kill both of us, but I don’t have options. No one will tell me where Rose is. Louis has her and he won’t release her until he’s sold that information.
It doesn’t matter that Rose has been dating him for the last month. It’s just business, he says. He’d hate to do something to her, so I’d better keep in line and do as he asks.
I do ask why me. I don’t know anything about information smuggling, or Lima, or heck, I don’t even know Louis Duval that well.
That’s precisely why he wants me handling it. I alone can be trusted because I have sufficient incentive to keep me in line.
So off I go to Lima, to meet up with a man who might or might not be named Fouquet.
I contemplate going to the police, but I feel trapped. I can tell them that Rose has been dating a guy who is French (except not) named Duval (except probably not) and that she’s missing. And by the time someone does something, I’m afraid my trusting, reckless friend will be long dead.
Because I think of the girl in the pictures, the one licking the knife that was later used on her. Did she have a friend that failed?
I won’t fail Rose. I can’t. And it keeps me in line. It stops me from going to the police, from screaming for help at the airport as I fly from New York City to Lima.
Once in Lima, I get a room at the hotel that Duval directed me to. They’re expecting me and have a second-floor room reserved under the name Lucy Wessex. Once I check in, I find someone else has a keycard for Lucy Wessex’s hotel room.
It’s Fouquet.
I hate the man. He’s vulgar and filthy and thinks I’m there in Lima as his plaything. Or at least, he did until he got a good look at my mismatched eyes without my contacts. Then, he changed. Now, I’m a demon, a succubus here to steal his soul.
Whatever, dude. I just want my friend back.
Me being a succubus doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole, though. He still tries to squeeze my tits and feel my ass, telling me that it’s because I’m a succubus and I’m luring him. And when I make it clear I’m not interested in the tit squeezes he keeps trying to give me, he turns to slapping. I’m a hand model, so what’s my face matter, right?
Fouquet’s the one that shows up with the details of my first job and gives me the handbag, along with instructions to never, ever lose it. Whatever Duval is selling isn’t in the purse, of course. Instead, I have folders of information. On each day, I’m to go to a random location in Lima with my purse, meet a man who will tell me a color. I pull out that color folder and hand it over. I wait while they read it and then hand it back to me.
Then, I turn around and walk back to my room and wait for further instructions.
So far, two days have passed. I have five folders. I have met yellow and green, both men with cold, dead eyes. Red, blue, and black are still waiting.
If I do not do as Fouquet asks, I am told that Rose will die, and it won’t be quick or pretty.
It’s not something I want to call a bluff on. I have to do this. I have to save her. So I’m the good little mule and never say a peep that I’m terrified or want out.
I let the blind fall back down and gaze around the room. As has become my habit, I move to the lamps and run my hand along the underside of the shade. I brush my fingers over the phone, then under it. I unscrew the receiver and put it back together. I drag my fingers over the edges of every hard surface. I’m looking for bugs. Not the kind that crawl (I wish) but the kind that listen in on conversations.
My room isn’t safe. I have no hope as long as they can hear everything I say. I have to find all the bugs.
And then I have to find someone to help me. I don’t know how that’s possible, though, given I can trust no one.
I have to do something, though. I know once this purse is gone and the information sold, I’m dead. I know once the sale has gone through, I’m no longer useful.
I have three days—three colors—to think of something. Two, actually, because I need to go to a café and meet Red today in about an hour.
With a small sigh, I tug my sleeve down over my newest bruises, check my hair in the mirror, and then I’m ready to go.
Almost.
I shut the bathroom door and glance at my watch. They won’t let me have a cell phone, so I have to have a way to check time and they gave me a cheap, tacky pink watch. I have an hour and the café is only five minutes away. I have time to burn. So much time. It’s driving me crazy, all this time.