“If you take one more step toward that alley, the French police will shoot you on sight,” Rhys muttered, his hand gripping my wrist so tight it bruised.
“Let go of me, Rhys,” I snapped, tugging against his hold as the cold damp of the catacombs still clung to my skin. “The safe house is right past those trees. We have to run.”
“Look at the street, Vivienne. Look!”
I followed his line of sight toward the tree-lined boulevard just beyond the dark tunnel exit. My chest tightened. Heavy blue utility vans blocked every intersection. Dozens of armed French officers moved in pairs, stretching bright yellow tape from lamp post to lamp post while flashlights cut through the twilight.
They had set up a complete grid block around our exit point.
“They were waiting for us,” I whispered, the blood
