Some small hotel in the outskirts of Paris
9pm - a day or so after the con
She had escaped as soon as possible, the remains of that first night too broken to remember, then finding her way on the underground and into some small hotel with clean bedsheets and blackout curtains. A cursory message to Monroe that she was alive, then a more detailed location soon after.
(One person had gone missing. No need to add to the fear)
She was sat on the floor in the corner of the room, tucked between the bed and the wall, knees to her chest, a single laptop whirring away endlessly infront of her, dry tears on her cheeks.
At least she was breathing properly now, that sharpness in the ribs that had been present since things had started going wrong had eased away, the cotton in her lungs the moment they had started chasing Mickey melting, the stone in her stone since she had sat in the car and watched the information from Mickeyâs phone blank out finally lifting.
But the tension in her shoulders from when she had panned from camera to camera to camera to camera in the Palais hadnât gone yet. Searching and looking and trying his phone again and checking for security - look, her hands were still shaking.
(She was going through the cameras from all the available security feeds from the stores around the street corner the white van had pulled into. Catching nothing more than a license plate ditched by the side of the road five miles away. Spending twenty seven hours straight examining every frame, putting together the model of every angle possible. Missing the video where Carter was pulled into the van. Only seeing the top of a phone as it landed on the pavement just within the view of a bank camera.)
The relief of Sebâs text chiming through had left her limp-limbed in the car, all energy slumping out of her, it had mixed with the acid in her throat and left a spinning concoction that still hadnât gone.
(Fear, ice-cold and confusing flooded through her when the police came up to her, gentle confusion on his face, offering Carterâs ID to her. âThis is his fake ID, isnât it? Can we have the real one please?â Words, stuck in your throat as you tried to explain that Carter Russell did exist. That you were engaged. That he was real)
There was only space for the one laptop by her feet, but she had tapped into the French DGSE with a brutality that had improved their security when they were immediately made aware, but the backdoor she had written into their code alongside them gave her easy access. Searching their database in a vain hope that something new would turn up.
(One miracle had occurred. Couldnât a second one?)
Hunger was a distant thought, as was sleep (you think you may have gotten a few hours that first night, though you barely remember a bed), her chin resting on her knees, eyes not straying from the progress and informational alerts that sometimes appeared, before being dismissed.
Again. And again. And again.
The only reason sheâd looked at her phone after getting the hell out of that damn mansion was because it was a habit. She didnât want to talk to anyone, want to pretend to be excited theyâd found Mickey. She was relieved he was okay but she found little victory in finding him but losing the egg. Theyâd been hired to get the egg. Just thinking about it made her blood boil. It had been a disaster of a con and Nat was not coming out of it all sunshine and roses. It was, however, refreshing to see that at least someone on her crew still knew how it worked. And Scout of all people too. She was going to leave her be, it wasnât uncommon for them to go their separate ways after a con, especially after a con as taxing as this one had been.Â
That lasted all of an hour. At a loss for what to do with herself but unwilling to leave Paris when so many of her own were still here she gave up pretending like the shops were interesting and instead pulled out her phone to look for Scout. Why Scout and not Rhiannon or Tony, Nat couldnât tell you and before she could put too much thought into it she was standing outside a hotel. Nothing to gawk at and probably not some place Nat would spend her money on. But it wasnât like she knew Scout all that well to begin with. Finding her room number was easy enough and for a moment Nat considered knocking. Instead she pulled out her lock picking kit and the door slid open easily. Hotels were so easy to break into.
She leaned against the door frame, watching Scout as she hunched over her computer. Nat was pretty sure she knew what she was doing and barely managed to hold back the exasperated scoff. âYou know, Iâm pretty sure youâre doing yourself a disservice by sitting like that and sitting in a pitch dark room at the same time. Youâre in Paris, Scout. You should be enjoying the sights...picking your next target. I was thinking the Imperial Fritillaries. Iâve been meaning to collect more Van Gogh for my collection.â She smirked, not really serious but not really not serious either.
