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Lozère, France
Present Day
She was being followed.
Annja Creed knew that from experience. She'd been followed before. Stalked, actually. On two occasions — once in Venice and once outside Berlin — the experience had ended in violence.
"Wait," Annja told her young guide.
Avery Moreau, seventeen years old and French, his hair a thick black shock and his demeanor sulky, stopped. Thin and lanky, dressed in his American jeans, red pullover and gray Nike hoodie, he didn't look as if he'd be particularly helpful in a physical encounter.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I want to look at this." Annja stood in front of the shop window and gazed with interest.
The young man glanced at the window, then back at her. "You're thinking about going fishing?"
For the first time, Annja took her attention from the reflection of the two men following her and really looked at the sh ...
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