The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Paris was having a snow day, or so it seemed. Ladies in cashmere sat beneath portable heaters at sidewalk cafés. Kids filled the streets, dragging sleds and shouting taunts.

The world was bright, and the sky was clear, and it would have been so easy to believe in clean slates and second chances. Sawyer felt the woman beside him turning, taking it all in like she was one of those little kids, racing toward the park, savoring the feel of snowflakes on her lashes.

So he had no choice but to pull her close, hand on the back of her head, looking to the world like he wanted her within kissing distance at all times.

“Oh! Are we going to make out so no one gets suspicious?” she asked, and Sawyer almost fell on his ass.

“What?” he asked.

“You know?” she said with exaggerated patience. “When two people are about to get caught, so they kiss suddenly and—”

“No!” he said a little too sharply. “We’re not doing that.”

“Oh. Well. We could. If we need to. For our cover. I’m here for whatever we need to do, cover-wise.”

She was so matter-of-fact, gazing up at the stretch of skin between his jaw and his throat like she didn’t know that’s exactly where you’d need to cut to make him bleed. So he weaved his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer.

The shell of her ear was cold against his lips as he whispered, “Fun fact: facial recognition software only works if it can see your face.”

“Oh. Right.” She gave a little shiver and tucked her chin low as if bracing against the chilly wind.

And walked right into a streetlight.

“Ow.”

“Here.” He sighed and slipped an arm around her shoulders, suddenly missing the cover of darkness. But at least now they had the cover of people. People on their way to work. Kids playing hooky from school. Tourists stumbling along, not knowing if being in Paris during a blizzard made their luck incredibly good or exceptionally awful.

“Well, now that we have the official bag of going—” she started.

“That’s not what it’s called.”

“—where are we going? Exactly? I mean, what’s Plan C? Or Plan B-point-one? Because . . .”

She was looking up at him with her too-big eyes again, so he glowered down and pushed her head toward his shoulder.

“We keep our heads down and we walk. We don’t make contact with anyone we know and we don’t go anyplace we’ve ever been before. Predictability is death.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” she muttered. “Because I don’t know a soul.”

He felt the weight of her head against his shoulder, the soft brush of her hair blowing across his cheek—and Sawyer, who had been alone in the world for more than a decade, wondered what it would feel like to wake up with no friends and no enemies, no ghosts and no regrets. He wondered if he’d miss them.

“That’s not true.” He couldn’t help glancing down at her. “You know me.”

He was just getting ready to chastise her for looking up at him again. And smiling at him. Again. It was sloppy, sloppy tradecraft and he needed to tell her to stop it, but that was when he saw the blue jackets and swirling lights. A police car was inching down the street and two cops were on the sidewalk, pushing through the crowd. Looking for something. Someone.

And, suddenly, Sawyer wanted to turn. Run.

Up ahead, the officers were examining every face, scanning every tourist. He felt the Glock at the small of his back as he scanned the crowd. He could get her out of there, but not without a whole lot of collateral damage.

“What’s wrong?” She was looking up at him. Again. He could see the cops out of the corner of his eye, coming closer, so suddenly, he stopped thinking and pushed her against a shop window.

The glass was cold but her skin was warm as he pressed his palms against her cheeks, cradling her face, blocking her from view and looking into those green eyes that seemed to be asking a question there was only one way to answer.

“For the cover,” he said.

And then he kissed her.

Except he didn’t. Actually. Technically. Mouths didn’t touch. Lips didn’t part. But his nose brushed against hers and their heads tilted, faces fitting together—his body leaning against hers like a shield and a blanket and a promise, saying I have you; I’ll protect you; I’ll keep you warm. And safe. And more . . . It almost certainly looked like more.

It was the kiss equivalent of the junction box—something fake and deceptive, screaming Keep away! Don’t look too closely! But he could smell the scent of her lip balm (cherry) and the moment was thick with foggy breaths and roaming hands and the privacy that comes from being lost inside another person. She gripped his shoulder and shifted her hips like she preferred him to the cold pane of glass at her back, and so he held her tighter. Longer. And when she gave a quick little intake of breath that faded into a long, deep sigh, a jolt of lightning went through him—like he was finally feeling a spark.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but when he pulled back, it took an embarrassingly long time for him to remember—“There were . . . uh . . . cops.”

“That’s okay.” She was tugging on her beret. She was rubbing her lips. But when she spoke again, she sounded smug. “I told you that was how you undercover.”

*  *  *

By the time they reached the Seine the streets were thick with tourists, and Sawyer felt himself start to breathe.

“Keep your eyes peeled for a taxi,” he told her.

“Really?” She looked like he’d just said he’d buy her a pony if she was a very good girl, and Sawyer, a known curmudgeon, bit back a grin.

It was the most exposed they’d been and yet it felt safe for that split second, with the gilded statues standing guard at the edges of the bridge and the Seine rushing beneath them and the tourists all around.

They were almost okay. They were almost safe. They were almost gone. But the alarm bells that lived in the back of Sawyer’s mind—the ones that had kept him alive for the last ten years—were starting to quiver. Then vibrate. Then blare. Because two Range Rovers were turning onto the bridge.

Instantly, he ducked his head and whispered, “Don’t panic. And don’t engage. If we get separated, go to the nearest Metro station. Take the first train east, three stops. Get off. Wait.”

“Why?” Her eyes went wide and terror filled her face because she might have been a civilian, but she wasn’t a fool. “What are you—”

Which was when the shooting started. The sound of gunfire didn’t belong on that snowy street, but it was there, reverberating off the bridge and icy water. Windshields shattered and people screamed. Vehicles started pinging off one another like bumper cars as they tried to escape, stalling the progress of the SUVs. But Kozlov’s goons were already out and heading their way.

“Go!” The Glock was heavy in his hand as Sawyer pushed her toward the far end of the bridge, dodging behind the blocked cars for cover, clinging to some hope that this wasn’t the way he was going to die. He had hoped for something far more noble and much, much later.

But then the motorcycles appeared on the other end of the bridge, blocking the way. They were officially surrounded.

“Uh . . .” She grabbed his arm and backed away. “That’s bad, right?”

“Yup,” he told her as he pulled out a second gun because sometimes quantity beats quality and he was all out of ideas.

As they hunched behind a Mercedes, he studied the woman who hadn’t asked for this, trained for this, chosen this life at all. It wasn’t her fault. But she was going to die there just the same. She was going to die unless he saved her. And, suddenly, he really, really wanted to save her.

“Get low. Stay low. And run like hell.”

Then he rose and started to fire. A moment later, he risked a glance in her direction but she was already gone. He fought against the wave of unexpected disappointment, reminded himself that it was a good thing—the right thing. That maybe she’d get clear. Maybe she’d survive. Maybe . . .

But then he felt a presence at his back and saw a shadow on the snow—rising, blocking more and more of the sun until he found himself turning, staring up at the woman who was standing on the icy railing, looking to all the world like some kind of avenging angel. Or crazy person. Really it was a toss-up.

Kozlov’s goons must have been as surprised as Sawyer felt because, for a second, no one fired—no one moved—as she stood surrounded by the blinding white light of sun on snow.

“Or I could do this,” she said.

Then she threw out her arms. And jumped.