His eyes found mine. They were far too inquisitive to simply belong to an unsuspecting patron, especially somewhere like Café Metro. If you were expecting Dorchester-esque afternoon tea, this was not the place to come for it. However dingy Café Metro was both outside and in, it was somewhat out of sight – the best place for me really.
The stranger’s crystal blue eyes continued to burn into my flesh, almost far too striking to avoid in stark contrast to his darkened, furrowed brow. My skin prickled; something about his presence unsettled me, and my intuition made me want to err on the side of caution. However, I didn’t come in here for decadent pastries and to soak in the café’s idea of culture, I came in for information.
I walked around the somewhat empty establishment, if you could call it that, as I waited for the owner to get off the phone. As I admired some quintessentially French wall art, I could feel his eyes on me once more.
Who was this stranger? I’d seen many things in my lifetime and I knew somehow that his gaze was not one of admiration. Perhaps it was due to my line of work; I felt as though he was sizing me up, trying to suss me out – not very subtly, I might add.
So many questions fizzed through my mind; where had he come from on that magnificent bike that had been so confidently left outside? I could only assume it was his; the weedy owner that surprisingly boomed into the receiver didn’t look like he could handle a push bike, let alone that beast outside. I stifled a smile as the thought of stealing it just to hear it purr, ripped a thrill through me.
We’re not here for that… I thought. Stopping myself further from entertaining even more theft that I’d let slide so many times previously.
As he returned his steely gaze back to his paper, I took in more details of his person. The gun that rested in a leather holster which was wrapped around his frame certainly caught my attention. I couldn’t imagine any other customers coming in here for an underwhelming coffee and feeling the need to be armed. The question was, what was he preparing to defend himself for? The Monstrum?
I didn’t think I could have become any more inquisitive, however as the mere hours sped by each day, I faced more questions than answers. Here, in Paris, appeared to be the blood spattered cherry on the cake and with Werner’s killer on the loose; I didn’t have time to waste either.
Not being able to trust anyone other than Winston was exhausting at times, but letting your guard down could get you killed. Trust me – I had the scars to prove it.