Free The Token (#10): Shepard by Marata Eros Page A

kill me.
    Shepard also protected me. Twice.
    Another first.
    I think of my studies. My job. My life. But I haven't been living, not really. Everything's been on hold for the promise of a future.
    Shepard offers me a future right now. It's only a day's future—a near future.
    But it is living, if only for the moment.
    Saying yes is the worst decision I'll ever make.
    I nod, once.

TEN
    Thorn
     
    “Simon, Hugo.” Tag raises his eyebrows, jerking his head toward the once-elegant French national. Now a stiff.
    Corpses lack class. Thorn snickers then cups his chin. “It's like Smith over there. Probably a million people with that last name in France. Obviously, a false one in his case.” Thorn sets the printout down on the table between him and Tag.
    The vics are a dead end.
    Thorn snorts at his bad humor. He knows the answers will come when that fuck Shepard is found. But finding him is panning out like shit.
    The man knows how to disappear. And from what Juliette says, he's worth millions. With those resources, it's not too hard to vanish.
    But Thorn did his homework with Shepard—knows more than he should. Leaned on a few perps. Hard. They sung a few facts.
    Doesn't hurt that Thorn knows the language. Granted, he's Haitian. It isn't the fancy Parisian French spoken by so many.
    But Thorn's never had a problem making himself understood. 
    If language fails, there's always his fists. Sometimes it's better not to be a cop.
    He supposes he has that French prick of a father to thank for that DNA temper blow-through. Thanks, Dad. Fucker.
    “What'd you come up with?” Tag scoops sunflower seeds from his pocket and sprays the used husks of the last mouthful into his mostly gone Styrofoam cup of coffee.
    Thorn wrinkles his nose. Fucking disgusting habit. Guess it beats smoking.
    “Got a couple of leads in my old stomping grounds.”
    “Yesler?”
    Thorn nods. He can always squeeze some juice out of a few lemons from the hood. “One pimp says he knows every exotic girl that goes through Seattle.”
    “Like he'd tell you,” Tag says drily.
    Thorn levels Tag with a hard glance. “He would.”
    Tag holds his stare, lengthening it. “You give him the Thorn special sauce?”
    Thorn crosses his arms, planting his feet wide. “Yup.”
    Tag jerks his chin up, his light eyes twinkling. “Nice. Have to say I miss those days.”
    “Yeah”—Thorn gives Tag the look he deserves—“you miss watching me threaten and play undercover.” His eyebrows jump.
    Tag pretends to think about that, tapping his chin and finally giving up. He chuckles. “Yeah.”
    “Anyway,” Thorn says on a protracted word.
    Tag smirks.
    “Shepard's not working this area. If he's begun to pick off virgins for trafficking or running his own little gig here, my guy would know.”
    Tag grunts, frowning. “So why is Shepard mixed up with the two French nationals on the ground?” Tag yanks a thumb toward the coolers.
    Thorn rolls his shoulders. “Don't know. Don't give any fucks. I just want Juliette protected, and if I have to rip this guy's dick off to make that happen—I will.”
    “ Jesus , Thorn—settle.”
    Thorn shakes his head. “No. If you had a wife”—Thorn pauses significantly—“you wouldn't rest if there was a threat to her.”
    “I guess I'll take your word for it.” Tag leans his ass against the metal desk shoved into the wall opposite the corpse coolers and folds his arms.
    Thorn grunts. “Yeah. So Shepard is there, wastes these two guys.” Thorn paces toward the coolers, and the flat metal doors look like a grid of stainless playing pieces.
    He faces Tag. “Why?”
    “Tom got back, Thorn. There was a female there.”
    “Who?”
    Tag smiles. There's a buzz from his pocket, and he extracts his phone. “Got the results. Train manifest.” He scans his phone.
    “There's no fucking train manifest.”
    Tag looks up, nodding happily. “But there's surveillance.” He taps his temple.
    Thorn had been waiting for the same thing.