Page 322 of Black Reign

I don't move for forty-three minutes.

My arm goes numb around thirty.

Worth it.

We land in France under a blue afternoon sky.

Sabine expects Paris.

I can tell by the way she watches the terminal.

Instead, a car is waiting.

No Blackwell crest.

No visible convoy.

Two discreet security vehicles far enough behind us not to feel like an escort.

She looks at me when we leave the airport.

“Where?”

“Patience.”

“I dislike patience.”

“I know.”

Road becomes smaller road.

City becomes town.

Town becomes countryside.

Fields unfold beneath the late-summer sun.

Stone walls.

Old farms.

Villages that seem to appear for thirty seconds and disappear again.

Sabine stops asking questions.

At first I think she's tired.

Then I notice her sitting straighter.

Her fingers curl around mine.

We pass a church.

She turns sharply toward the window.

Another road.

An old stone bridge.