The wine tasted like two hundred euros a bottle. Elijah Snow would know. He stole it from the same place he stole everything else worth taking in Paris.
He swirled the Bordeaux in his glass and watched the plasma screen above the bar. French news anchors loved drama almost as much as they loved their vowels. The headline scrolled across the bottom in bold letters:
INTERPOL INTENSIFIE LA CHASSE AU VOLEUR DU LOUVRE
INTERPOL Intensifies Hunt for Louvre Thief
His picture stared back at him from the screen. Grainy security footage, naturally. The angle made his jaw look amazing though. He'd have to thank whatever underpaid security tech picked that frame.
Look at that. I'm famous.
The bartender, a heavy guy with the kind of mustache that required genuine commitment, shook his head at the television. He muttered something in rapid-fire French that Elijah's THREE languages could follow just fine.
"So." Elijah pushed his sunglasses down his nose. The bar was dim enough that wearing them indoors didn't mark him as a complete tool. "What do you think? About the guy who robbed the Louvre?"
The bartender snorted. He grabbed a rocks glass and started polishing it with the kind of aggression usually reserved for enemies. "Bah. They steal something that was already stolen. All those Crown Jewels? Plundered from half the world. This thief?" He jabbed a thick finger at the screen. "He only takes back what never belonged to France."
"Serves them right, huh?"
"Exactement." The bartender grinned. "That thief has bigger balls than most men have brains."
If only you knew, my friend.
Elijah raised his glass in a silent toast. The wine really was excellent. Shame about what was going to happen in about ten minutes, but that's what you got for doing business with people who thought they were smarter than him.
Someone tapped his shoulder.
Elijah didn't turn around. He could see the reflection in his wine glass just fine. Cheap suit. Cheaper cologne. The kind of muscle who thought intimidation came from scowling instead of actual skill.
"Monsieur Beaumont wants to see you." The accent was Eastern European. Romanian, maybe. "Upstairs."
"Does Monsieur Beaumont know it's rude to interrupt a man's drink?"
"Now."
Elijah sighed. He downed the rest of his wine in one smooth gulp and stood. The Romanian thug was taller than him by a good three inches. Elijah smiled anyway. Height didn't mean much when you knew where all the soft spots were.
"Lead the way, big guy."
The back room smelled like cigarettes and regret. They went up a narrow staircase that creaked under the Romanian's weight. Elijah made a mental note of the weak boards. Third step from the top. Sixth from the bottom. Never knew when you'd need an exit strategy that involved someone falling on their ass.
The upstairs "office" was exactly what Elijah expected. Overpriced furniture that screamed new money. Abstract art that probably came from the same place as the Crown Jewels. And sitting behind an oak desk that cost more than most cars sat Monsieur Beaumont himself.
Fat. Balding. Rings on every finger because subtlety was for people with taste.
"Ah! Monsieur Rivière!" Beaumont's smile could sell used cars. "Please, sit."
Elijah dropped into the chair across from him. He left his sunglasses on. Rule number one: never let them see your eyes until you wanted them to.
"You have something for me, yes?" Beaumont's French was Parisian-proper. The kind that made everyone south of Lyon sound like peasants.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" Beaumont's jowls quivered when he frowned. "We had an agreement."
"We had a conversation." Elijah crossed one ankle over his knee. "Big difference."
Two more thugs materialized from the shadows. One by the door. One by the window. Standard intimidation tactics. Elijah added them to his threat assessment and moved on.
Left door guy favors his right leg. Window guy keeps touching his jacket. Either he's nervous or he's got a shoulder holster. Smart money says both
"The diamond necklace from the Louvre. You said you could acquire it."
"I'm the one that stole it."
"Really. Can you show me?"
Elijah leaned back in the chair causing it to squeak. "That necklace isn't just another expensive piece of jewlery, this thing has a lot of history."
"I don't need a history lesson."
"Oh, you're gonna get one anyway." Elijah's grin was all teeth. "See, that particular piece? Wedding gift. Napoleon I to Empress Marie-Louise. 1810. Forty-seven emeralds from Colombia. Diamonds from Brazil. The craftsmanship alone took eight months. The whole set is worth about twelve million on the black market. More if you find the right buyer."
Beaumont's face was turning red. "I know what it's worth. That's why I'm paying you six million for it."
"Were. Past tense. Prices went up."
"What?"
"Eight million now." Elijah examined his nails. "Inflation's crazy these days."
"We had a deal!"
"Jeez. So pushy." Elijah dropped his foot back to the floor. "Okay, fine. Eight million. Where's the money?"
Beaumont's smile crawled back onto his face like something that lived under rocks. "It's somewhere safe. I don't keep that kind of cash here."
"Huh. Funny."
"What is funny?"
"The necklace is somewhere safe too."
The smile died. "What?"
"You heard me. It's not here."
"You said you would bring it!"
"Nah." Elijah shrugged. "I said I'd meet you. Different thing entirely."
The thug by the door moved. Window guy did too. They had that synchronized thing going that came from working together too long. Elijah catalogued their positions without looking directly at them. Peripheral vision was a beautiful thing.
Beaumont's face had gone from red to purple. Stroke territory. "Do you think this is a game?"
"Everything's a game. Some games just have better prizes."
"You're testing my patience."
"And you're testing mine." Elijah stood. "Listen. Do you want me to leave and we can reschedule this whole song and dance? Or do you want to actually negotiate like adults?"
Beaumont snapped his fingers.
The click of hammers being pulled back echoed in the tiny room. Door guy had produced a Glock. Window guy preferred a Beretta. Both pointed directly at Elijah's center mass.
Amateur hour.
They really think this is gonna work.
"Sit. Down." Beaumont's voice had gone flat. The kind of flat that came from men who'd killed before and convinced themselves it didn't bother them.
Elijah tilted his head. "You know who I work for, right?"
"You're a freelancer. You work for whoever pays you."
"Wrong answer." Elijah's smile was the kind that made smart people very nervous. "Want to try again?"
The guns didn't waver. Points for commitment, at least.
Beaumont leaned forward. The desk creaked under his weight. "I work for the Kadyrov family. I have connections from Moscow to Marseille. You are one man with a stolen necklace and nowhere to run. So please. Tell me. Who exactly do you think you work for that scares me?"
Elijah took off his sunglasses. His eyes caught the dim light from the window.
"Me."