Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,1

back in Oklahoma until a funny thing called fate intervened. Yeah, I didn’t see that coming. Luck and I don’t often dance to the same heartbeat. Luck and love—but that’s another story.

Though if I survived my organization TORC’s most ruthless hit man . . .

I take a few seconds to fiddle with my scarf before setting a brisk pace through the tan pebbled paths. Anxious to leave the garden to the lovers, the pigeons, and my moroseness, which seem to be competing to take over the place. My attention turns toward taking care of old business before it takes care of me.

Exiting the park, I make my way to Montparnasse, where I duck into an electronic store and, using a prepaid credit card and fake passport, buy a more expensive burner phone than the kind I previously purchased in Switzerland. Unlike the cheaper phones now scattered all around Geneva—yeah, I like to be in control of who traces my calls and I wouldn’t put it past Hayden to fully equip all of his contractors with the technological know-how to do so—this phone has Wi-Fi so long as I stayed within the 14th arrondissement. I haven’t been online since going rogue. No better time than now to up my game if I’m going to tidy things up. Make amends for my failed assignment. Get my revenge.

Kill my target, that Prick Novák.

I plaster a friendly smile on my face. The old man waiting on me can’t seem to decide if he should call me out on the fact the passport picture looks nothing like my bright, redheaded wonderfulness.

Don’t even ask, monsieur. Bad decision, ah . . . oui.

Transaction finished, I make one more important stop, breathing in the delightful scent of confectionary heaven as I enter the Petit Chocolat Patisserie. To the salesperson’s amusement, I order two napoleons, three petite pains au chocolat and one café au lait. Blending in . . . Frenchifying . . . right . . .

I take a seat at a small sidewalk table but close enough to the patisserie window where I don’t stick out to the pedestrians passing by. Then I sip my coffee as I troll through social media, starting with that Novák’s Twitter page. Like so many other subversive leaders, he’s active online, primarily to recruit Pricks from around the world to work with him. Seems any asshole has the capacity to reach millions in the click of a button without censor.

I search for anything that’ll give me a heads-up as to where he might be found.

Back in Oklahoma, I’d had an unfortunate last-minute run-in with his mobster pal, Franco—may he forever rest in peace . . . okay, not. But aside from the firsthand knowledge the mobster’s now six-foot-under, I escaped Declan and my hometown of Shelby with a clue—the two cities where Novák might be operating from. Geneva was a bust. Which leads me to, you guessed it, Le Gai Paris.

Ironic how I’m in the City of Love, heartbroken and with murder on my mind.

I pause, my thumb going numb, and I struggle not to spit up my coffee when I catch sight of a post. It’s a call to action, with picture of me, with my vibrant circus-goth red hair and the caption kill the bitch kylie beneath it.

My real name. Sporting my current coiffure. Except I’m wearing a classic Bruce Springsteen Born to Run T-shirt. I frown down at the screen. I gave up my penchant for wearing classic punk-ass T-shirts after escaping Franco’s men. And Declan . . . can’t forget him. I’ve ditched the T’s for more Parisian chic Boho dresses, fearful Diego will easily hone in on my T-shirt collection. A dead giveaway, so to speak. A petty sacrifice made in order to stay alive.

I carefully study the picture. I’m standing in front of a brick building and staring at something across the street. Oh shit, no. It can’t be. I hold my phone closer to me as if that’ll disprove what’s blatantly obvious. Someone snapped a photograph of me, standing in front of the TORC safe house. Hayden’s going to kill me for this. But that’s not what has my pulse racing.

Since going rogue, I’ve only been there once and I don’t have to see her face in the picture to know who I’m staring at. My sister, Madelyn.

Shit. Oh shit.

I squeeze my eyes closed and inhale deeply. She’s safe. Don’t panic. It’ll be just for a little longer until you can call for an