Rue de Oleander, Kale found, was aptly named. Tree-lined, with each row house speckled with oleander of every color. It seemed a peaceful place, quaint, distinctly Parisian. Yet something in him knew that under the surface was something else. The nagging from the back of his brain warning him that he shouldn’t be looking for her here. Kale also knew he was close, his mind telling him to flee instead of face the coming fight, looming ahead like a thundercloud.

He saw the azure door with a silver knocker. Number 571, Rue de Oleander. He felt the cold of the revolver tucked into his waistband biting at him. He’d loaded it five minutes ago in a place that could be generously called a hellhole of a hostel. He’d pretended to be a traveling student in so many countries, so many aliases, he’d lost count. Maybe he had dreamed the whole experience up. Dreamed up his niece’s kidnapping. Dreamed up all of his haunting bloodstained past.

He breathed out, braced himself, and put boot to door, sending it off its hinges.