The Blonde Identity: A Novel

She didn’t know about the bruise that was growing on her temple.

She didn’t see the drops of blood that trailed along the frosty white ground.

And she absolutely, positively didn’t remember why she was lying in the street like someone who had tried to make a snow angel and fell asleep midswoop.

I should finish my angel, she thought.

I should get up.

I should go home.

But she didn’t actually know where home was, she realized. So why not take a nap right there? It seemed like an excellent plan. After all, the snow was fluffy and soft, and the world was quiet and still; and sleep was such a wonderful thing. Really, the best thing. She didn’t know her own name, but she was certain that sleep had to be her favorite hobby ever, so why not close her eyes and drift off for a little while? Really, no one would blame her.

But then she heard the low moan of the motorcycles—the shouts of the men. And a figure appeared over her, blocking out the Eiffel Tower’s shimmering glow, casting a shadow in the middle of the night. Blurry. Dark. And shouting, “Get up, Alex! Run!”

So my name is Alex, the woman thought. Just before she realized she was probably going to die.

Him

He was going to kill her. Yup. It was just that simple. At that place and time, he had two items on his to-do list: 1. Find Alex. 2. Kill Alex. The third item would have been Save Alex, but he’d decided to scratch that one off in Venice. By the time he’d tracked her to Marseille he had added Maim Alex.

But now they were in Paris. And Paris meant he was six days, three car chases, two shoot-outs, and one very questionable exit from a fast-moving speedboat into his hunt. So Kill Alex really was his only option.

As soon as he found her.

Luckily, he just had to follow the trail of blood to the body that lay, almost lifeless, in the middle of the street. He was so angry when he thought she was already dead. But then she stared up at him, a distant, dreamy look in her eyes. Alive. And for the life of him he didn’t know whether he should be glad or disappointed.

But then he heard the roar of motorcycles, drawing closer and closer like a noose.

And he yelled “Get up, Alex! Run!” because Kozlov’s men were closing in. Which meant that, soon, the badges would follow. Interpol. CIA. MI6. Maybe Mossad if they were especially unlucky. And he hadn’t been lucky since Moscow. So he had to hurry. Because they all wanted to kill Alex, too, and he couldn’t let them beat him to it.

“Alex, get up!”

“No, thank you,” she said, turning onto her side like a little girl who had no interest in going to school.

“Get up. Now!”

“Five more minutes.”

“Alex!”

That was when she saw the gun in his hand, cocked and ready. Fear filled her eyes and, for a moment, she looked like a woman who had never seen a gun before—like she’d never seen him before. Which was the moment he knew something was terribly wrong. With her. With him. With this. Alarm bells were sounding—too loud—in his head.

“Alex?” he asked as shots rang out. Instantly, he spun and took aim, and by the time he turned back, Alex was already gone.