Page 152 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Dans ma poche.” In my pocket.

“Sortez-le doucement.” Take it out. Slowly.

I slowly lower my hand, keeping the other raised still, and hook two fingers around my phone’s edge, drawing it free.

“Posez-le.” Put it down.

I crouch, laying it gently on the gleaming marble floor. He kicks it across the hall. The crack echoes.

“Où est Ryan Smith ?” the one on my left asks. Where is Ryan Smith?

I stretch my features into an expression of genuine innocence. “Qui ?” Who?

He regards me with a look so contemptuous it stings. “Il loge ici. “Où est-il allé ?” He’s been staying here. Where did he go?

I shrug calmly, although I am anything but. “Je ne sais pas.” I do not know. My answer is truthful enough—in the event he slipped out the exterior door I directed him toward, I have no idea where he’ll appear next.

The man steps closer; I smell his leather holster and sweat-slicked air. “Retournez-vous.” Turn around.

“Non,” I grunt. No.

His gun lifts, promising pain. I weigh my options, then pivot obediently. A gloved hand clamps over my wrist, wrenching it behind my back; another slaps on a restraint. The snap of plastic cinching tight feels like cold iron biting my skin.

I could fight. Maybe break one bone, draw blood—then all hell would break loose, and Ryan would be trapped behind that lab door.

No. Focus.

He hauls me forward, guiding my arms like lead ropes toward the main sitting room, its walls lined with portraits and heavy drapes.

“Où sont les dossiers ?” one of them asks. Where are the files?

“J’ai beaucoup de dossiers,” I say. “Vous allez devoir être plus précis.” I have many files. You’ll need to be more specific.

His grip bitingly tightens. “Les dossiers Legrand,” the middle-aged one hisses. The Legrand files.

“C’est une bonne question. À vrai dire, ils pourraient être n’importe où,” I respond, rather unhelpfully. That is a good question. They could be anywhere, really.

A fist crashes into my right cheek, snapping my head sideways. Pain blossoms along my jaw; blood floods my mouth. My tongue tastes of iron.

“Recommencez.” Try again.

I force my spine straight, working my jaw. “Je ne les ai plus.” I do not have them anymore.

Another blow hammers into my abdomen. The air explodes from my lungs in a white-hot rush, but still I remain upright.

“Où sont-ils ?” Where are they?

“Ils ont été copiés et envoyés à plusieurs personnes.” They have been copied and sent to several parties.

One of the men swears.

I continue before anyone can interrupt. “Quoi que vous espériez accomplir en venant ici, vous arrivez trop tard.” Whatever you hoped to accomplish by coming here, you are too late.

The man holding me strikes me again, and I grin, my expression undoubtedly looking deranged from the blood dripping from my nose and mouth.

His expression becomes ugly. “Il reste encore du travail à faire.” There is still more to do.

Headlights sweep across the front windows as a vehicle approaches on the drive.