Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,33

down and digging my stolen butter knife into the crease between the manhole and the sidewalk. Fortunately, they haven’t put it properly back into place—a sign it’s likely they’ll exit the same way as it’s fairly easy to remove.

With a momentary pause to secure my satchel against my body, I descend out of the lightness and into the darker side of Paris. Into les Catacombes.

The metal ladder leads me deep underground. Much further down than I anticipated, and for a short spell everything is pitch black. I didn’t expect this—that Prick Novák’s headquarters might be located in the bowels of Paris. If I did, I’d have brought a flashlight. I grit my teeth and keep climbing downward. The matches I took off the bar on my way out of the cafe will have to be enough.

Except it turns out I don’t need them.

As I take my final step off the ladder, pass through a wide, arched entryway, and peer around the enormous yet vacant space, my jaw drops open. It’s like being admitted to a secretive world of craftsmen and artists, the shady sister of the Louvre. A rich, vibrant museum of the underworld. As far as the eye can see, the walls of the room are covered with artwork. Painting upon painting, mural upon mural, graffiti art upon graffiti art of stunning, elaborately detailed masterpieces.

The space is illuminated by lights secured to both the walls and by an enormous chandelier dangling midceiling. Somewhere, there’s a generator powering the place.

To my glee, there’s not a bone in sight, which is what decorate the catacombs, piles and piles of centuries-old bones, the remains of Paris’s past.

Or present—if Novák has indeed set up shop down here.

No lovers. Not a single smooching, smiling couple. Not in any artwork. Not in the flesh, either. Thank you, sweet mother Mary. I feel like fist-pumping the air.

I’m searching the large, rectangular-shaped space for another exit that Big-Belly and Company could have taken when I hear a noise from behind me. Footsteps coming from the small room just outside the entryway. Someone’s climbed down from the manhole. Turning, I press my back against the side wall, situating myself between a melancholy scene of cows frolicking in the countryside and a pierced-nosed, Mohawk-coiffed portrait of two punk rockers. Long live the mother-lovin’ queen.

With the butter knife drawn and ready, I wait for the Prick to appear. Then frown, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me, because I hear no further footsteps.

Cautiously, I approach the grand archway. Whoever—whatever it is . . . an animal? . . . ghost of a dead Parisian?—is gone.

But where?

Exiting, I look around the smaller room until I spy three steps leading up to a hole that’s barely large enough for Big-Belly to squeeze through. Where else could he have disappeared to?

Doubtful I’m making the right decision, I push my satchel through the hole then crawl in behind it. Fortunately, it’s a small tunnel that gives way to one large enough to stand inside.

It’s far too dark for comfort. I pause and listen. Nothing. Crap, I’m going to have to take a walk on the dark side.

I blindly make my way through the tunnel, running my fingertips along the wall, counting my steps and cautiously creeping forward. There’s a gap in the wall. Another tunnel, though I stay on the straight and narrow.

Something runs across my sandal and I bite back a scream.

With my next step, my right foot submerges into water. Right up to my ankle. Ew. I immediately shift backward, shaking my head with disappointment.

I can’t continue any further. Not without the proper preparations, namely a flashlight and a map of the tunnels. How easy it’d be to get lost, to disappear off the face of the earth and become just another catacombs casualty?

Hell, I’m not even sure this is the direction Novák’s men have taken.

I turn and begin my retreat, my fingertips grazing the wall as I recount my steps backward.

That’s when the catacomb turns into a theme-park freak feast.

A familiar buzzing sound ricochets off the limestone. A bullet . . . shit.

I forget my step count and high-step it out of there. Running like the devil’s on my heels back toward the exit.

It’s unclear whether that bullet had my name on it or not.

What is clear by the sloshing sound of water is that whoever fired it or whoever it was intended for is on the move as well.

I find the hole, army-crawl through it, and scamper up