[JJ06] Quicksand Read Online Free PDF Page A

wasn’t it...I instinctively looked straight ahead and kept walking, caught in the flow next to a large Indian family whose patriarch had an especially ample belly that shielded me from view.  I wasn’t sure if the driver had been shown my picture, but I didn’t want to find out.
    I don’t believe in signs, but I trust my intuition. I’m good at martial arts, especially jiu-jitsu, courtesy of my father who insisted on getting me lessons when I hadn’t yet reached five feet in high school. One of the first things you learn is that it’s best to never get yourself into a situation where you need to use your fighting skills.
    I figured Lane must have been caught up in the research he mentioned in the letter and therefore sent a car service to pick me up. The driver was probably harmless, but it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe. I took the Paris metro to the hotel.
    A dozen illuminated globes hung from the high ceiling of the hotel lobby. Above them, the ceiling was lit with pin pricks of light in the shape of constellations. At the front desk, two hotel employees were speaking to each other in rapid French, but they broke off their conversation when they saw me approach. A clean-cut man with sandy hair greeted me with a wide smile.
    “Bonjour,” I said.
    “Checking in?” he replied in English with a thick Australian accent. My accent clearly needed some work.
    I gave my name and he handed me a key card. The room had already been paid for. I declined the offer of assistance to help with my small bag, and stepped into the mirror-lined elevator. I felt odd letting myself into the room where Lane was presumably staying. After locating the room, I took a deep breath—okay, five of them—then knocked on the door.
    My knock was greeted with silence. I double-checked the number the Australian desk clerk had written down for me. This was the right room. A moment later, I heard footsteps followed by the sound of a lock unlatching. The door opened, and Lane Peters stood in front of me.
    He looked nearly the same as when I’d seen him last—the tall, lanky figure, and the handsome, angular face he hid with glasses and floppy hair. Time stood still in that moment as relief flooded through me. The last few days hadn’t been a dream. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. It was a single room, but couches and a table formed a living room in front of the king size bed.
    “Jones?” he whispered. His eyes lit up and his lips formed a priceless smile, but the reaction only lasted a couple of seconds, cut short by the sound of another voice.
    “Oh good,” the voice said. A man in a tailored suit stood by the window. His accent was neither French nor American, but upper-class British. “Dante called to say he didn’t see you at the airport. I was worried.”
    “The driver?” I asked, seized by confusion. 
    “You sent Dante to get her?” Lane asked, then shook his head. “Of course you would.”
    “You’re proving to be every bit as intelligent as I imagined you to be,” the man said to me. “I anticipated nothing less.”
    “Lane, what’s going on?” I asked.
    “You shouldn’t have involved her,” Lane said to the Englishman. I had never before heard such raw anger in his voice. It scared me.
    “ You invited me .” My voice shook with anger and confusion.
    “What?” he croaked out. The word was barely above a whisper, and his eyes were earnest. He had always been skinny, but he’d lost weight. “I’m sorry, Jones.”
    “Fine,” I said, swearing under my breath. I turned to go. I was ridiculously curious as to what on earth was going on, but my pride won out. I wasn’t about to stay there and listen to Lane explain how he was so busy with whatever he was doing that he’d forgotten about me.
    “Miss Jones,” the British stranger said. “I don’t think you’ll wish to leave when you hear what we have to say.”
    “Let her go,” Lane said. “I’ll do it.”
    “What are you talking