The silence of the French countryside was deceptive. To anyone else, the rolling vineyards of the Loire Valley were a postcard of peace, but to Ren Laurent, every rustle of the wind through the grapevines sounded like a footstep. Every distant engine was a siren.
They had abandoned the main highways hours ago. Jace knew that the toll booths and security cameras of the Autoroute were just digital traps waiting to snap shut. He kept the Triumph on the back roads, the "D-roads" that bled into the gray mist of a French morning.
Ren clung to Jace's back, his hands tucked into the pockets of Jace's leather jacket. He was wearing a pair of thrifted jeans and a thick wool sweater they'd grabbed from a roadside market. The $5,000 silk shirt he'd worn at the Palais Garnier was currently sitting in a trash bin behind a bistro in Orleans.
"You okay back there?" Jace shouted over the wind.
"I'm fine!" Ren yelled back, though his voice was thin. "How much further?"
"There's an old farmhouse near Tours. A guy I did some session work for owns it. He doesn't ask questions if the cash is right." Jace shifted gears, the bike let out a low, guttural growl. "But we need to move. I saw a silver sedan three miles back. It's been following our pace."
Ren's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He didn't have to look back to know it was Elias Thorne or one of his father's "recovery specialists." Arthur Laurent didn't lose property. He simply waited for the target to get tired.
"Jace, if they catch us—"
"They won't," Jace interrupted, his tone as sharp as a blade. "I didn't break you out of a riot just to hand you back in a field of grapes."
They pushed the bike harder, the scenery blurring into a streak of green and gold. As they rounded a sharp bend, the farmhouse appeared—a crumbling stone structure swallowed by ivy. Jace didn't slow down until they were deep inside the barn, the heavy wooden doors groaning as he kicked them shut behind them.
The darkness of the barn was a relief. Ren slid off the bike, his legs nearly giving way. Jace was on him in a second, catching him by the waist and pulling him into the shadows of the hayloft.
"Listen to me," Jace whispered, his hands cupping Ren's face. His eyes were wild, shimmering with that dark, obsessive protectiveness that had become Ren's only religion. "They're going to find the bike. It's too loud, too distinct. I'm going to lead them toward the river. You stay here. Don't make a sound."
"No!" Ren grabbed Jace's wrists. "I'm not letting you leave me again. That was the deal in London, and look what happened. I'm not going back to the silence, Jace. I'd rather be caught with you than safe without you."
Jace froze. The logic of the "Sanctuary" was failing. He looked at Ren—at the smudge of dirt on his cheek, the fire in his eyes, the way he was breathing like a man who had finally found air.
"You're a stubborn brat, you know that?" Jace murmured, his forehead dropping against Ren's.
"I learned from the best," Ren countered.
The sound of a car door slamming outside echoed through the barn like a gunshot.
They went deathly still. Through the cracks in the barn wood, Ren saw the silver sedan. Elias Thorne stepped out, looking perfectly composed even in the mud of a French farm. He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a phone.
"Ren," Elias's voice carried easily through the air. "Your father is on the line. He has a new 'Fresh Story' for you. One involving the bank account of a certain scholarship drummer's mother back in London. It would be a shame if those funds were suddenly... flagged for investigation."
Jace's grip on Ren's waist tightened until it hurt. The hunt wasn't just physical. It was a siege on everything they loved.
Ren looked at Jace, then at the door. He realized that to win this symphony, he couldn't just run. He had to play a note so loud it broke the conductor's baton forever.