Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance by Alexis Abbott, Alex Abbott Page A

screen back to his voluminous spreadsheets through which he’s been inputting data that’s been assembling the GPS signal we’re tracking now, “have to keep all the training on killing enemy spies, climbing up sheer cliffs, wrestling bears with your bare hands, that kind of thing, right?”
    “We were taught to track,” I say, no smile on my face, “but we needed no such technology to hound our targets down like animals.” He stares at me a moment before giving his head a light shake and turning back to his computer. I smile quietly to myself; it was helpful to recount the details of my past to keep the fear of god in men like Felix.
    “Anyway, like I was saying: the email address you have was sent from a computer that was hooked up to the internet, just like any email, so that means it’s got a server associated with it.”
    I’ve already stopped paying attention, but I nod.
    “So I can trace that server and bounce a signal off it and figure out where it’s coming from, kind of like echolocation, but with internet signals. Does that make sense?”
    “Of course,” I lie absently.
    “It doesn’t look like this person was using any sophisticated technique,” he adds with a scoff, “even the most basically tech-savvy users who do so much as illegally download a movie will use something that masks your IP address at least, or maybe a program that can bounce signals around to confuse people like me who might want to track ‘em, but it looks like your guy was just sending an email from a building, plain as day. I could pull up the email here if I wanted.”
    “Mmhmm,” I say with a nod, pretending to be following along.
    “Basically, I mean he’s not trying to pull any tricks in keeping me from being able to figure out where your Liv’s cell phone is, from what I can tell,” he goes on. “Between triangulating the location of her phone, provided it’s still on, and figuring out where this Will guy is sending his emails from, this is child’s play. You sure this guy is doing something shady? Take a left at this light.”
    “Not everyone is as skilled as you, Felix,” I say candidly, and Felix rolls his eyes as we take yet another turn down the winding streets. What I meant was that plenty of criminals did just fine without the help of technology, and even so, sometimes a light touch did the trick just fine. That, and his question made me uncomfortable — because no, I was not sure.
    “Anyway, I triangulated the signal, and I’ve just about — voila ! Got an address for you.”
    “No dramatic pauses,” I say with an arched brow.
    “56 Rue Alfred de Vigny in the Parc Monceau area,” he says, and I feel my mouth grow cold at the name of the address. It’s a respectable area of Paris, to be sure, but that makes the significance of that address no less familiar and dangerous.
    “Uh...Max?” he asks, tilting his head and pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. “You alright? You look a little tense,” he says as he eyes my tightening knuckles on the steering wheel.
    “No, Felix,” I say slowly, taking a breath and resisting the urge to carve a path of destruction through traffic to reach our destination faster. “I’m afraid this little excursion of ours is about to get complicated.”
    We speed towards the Parc Monceau, tires screeching as I take sharp turns, and Felix grips the safety handle of the car, trying to keep his computer steady. “What’s the big deal? You’ve got your missing students, they’re probably doing drugs with some locals in a fancy apartment or something.”
    “I recognize that address,” I say, my voice tense with the anger I’m holding back. “Felix, you did some digging on my past, didn’t you?”
    The question throws him off, and he stammers a few syllables before I cut him off.
    “You know some of my background, I have no doubt. You’ll also know a thing or two about the Russian mob’s activity in Paris, I’m certain. What you may not know is