Shaina MacLeod stretched out on the comfortable leather sofa in the cozy living room of their French safe house, marveling at how relaxed she felt despite being an international fugitive wanted by Interpol for crimes against multiple European governments. After their harrowing escape from the UK that included a midnight trip across the English Channel in an old rust-bucket freighter, the pastoral setting outside Paris felt like holiday accommodation rather than hiding place for religious terrorists.
The safe house itself was surprisingly pleasant—a traditional French country cottage with exposed wooden beams, stone fireplace, and rustic décor that suggested wealthy benefactors rather than desperate criminals on the run. Jackson Simeon's connections continued impressing her with their reach and resources, providing sanctuary that felt more like luxury retreat than fugitive hideout.
Alexander Petrov had established their communications center on the dining room table, his laptop surrounded by cables, signal boosters, and encryption devices that maintained secure contact with Dimitri Romanov's network back in Dallas. The Russian IT specialist had collected everyone's mobile phones into a military-grade Faraday bag that blocked all electromagnetic signals, preventing governmental tracking while ensuring their location remained secret.
"Right, who's ready for the daily intelligence briefing?" Shaina announced with theatrical importance, settling herself at Alexander's laptop to check messages from their support network. The secure portal displayed updates from ministry operations worldwide, including hilarious reports about governmental panic responses to their successful escape.
The team gathered in the living room with bottles of excellent French beer that Jackson had somehow procured along with their safe house arrangements. John Foster occupied the armchair beside the fireplace, looking remarkably peaceful for someone whose supernatural authority had triggered international manhunts. Bradley Johnson sprawled across another sofa while Ron Waterman claimed the window seat that provided views across French countryside.
Yasmine Sun perched cross-legged on the floor, looking like an excited teenager at a sleepover rather than a wanted international criminal, her infectious energy brightening the atmosphere despite their technically perilous circumstances. Jackson Simeon monitored his tablet for logistical updates while maintaining the professional demeanor that had enabled their escape from hostile territory.
"Oh, this is bloody brilliant!" Shaina exclaimed, discovering a message from Dimitri that made her burst into giggles. "Dimitri's forwarded us an official Interpol Red Notice that went out this morning. Listen to this masterpiece of bureaucratic nonsense!"
She adopted her most official BBC announcer voice while reading from the laptop screen: "INTERPOL RED NOTICE: The International Criminal Police Organization requests the location and provisional arrest of the following individuals wanted for multiple international crimes..."
The formal language contrasted hilariously with their current situation—sitting around a French cottage drinking beer while government agencies across Europe scrambled to locate them unsuccessfully. Shaina's theatrical delivery transformed the serious legal document into entertainment that had everyone laughing at the absurdity of their circumstances.
"Subject One: John Foster, American national, age 53, wanted for crossing borders without authorization, unlawful use of telecommunications infrastructure, undermining of public order, incitement to religious extremism, and conspiracy to commit supernatural fraud," Shaina continued with dramatic flourishes.
John's laughter filled the room as he heard himself described as perpetrator of "supernatural fraud" by authorities who had witnessed his divine demonstrations firsthand yet refused to acknowledge their authenticity. The legal terminology reduced miraculous resurrection and prophetic ministry to administrative violations that could be resolved through proper paperwork.
"Subject Two: Alexander Petrov, Russian national, age 35, wanted for cyber terrorism, unauthorized telecommunications access, conspiracy to undermine European digital infrastructure, and aiding international religious extremism," Shaina read while Alexander raised his beer bottle in mock salute to his criminal achievements.
"I prefer 'digital liberation specialist,'" Alexander commented dryly, his Russian accent adding gravity to his ironic self-assessment. "Though I admit the telecommunications charges are technically accurate."
Shaina continued through the list with mounting amusement: "Subject Three: Jackson Simeon, British national, age unknown, wanted for international smuggling operations, conspiracy to commit border violations, and organizing illegal religious gatherings exceeding permitted capacity."
"Age unknown?" Jackson protested with mock indignation. "I'm wounded by their shoddy investigative work. Also, technically, we never exceeded permitted capacity since we had proper venues."
"Subject Four: Bradley Johnson, American national, age 62, wanted for conspiracy to commit supernatural fraud through musical performance, unauthorized border crossing, and aiding international religious extremism," Shaina announced while Bradley strummed air guitar in celebration of his new international notoriety.
"Supernatural fraud through musical performance," Bradley repeated with obvious pride. "That's the most creative description of my playing I've ever heard. Though I'm not sure whether it's compliment or insult."
"Subject Five: Ron Waterman, Scottish national, age unknown, wanted for conspiracy charges identical to Subject Four," Shaina continued, noting another bureaucratic failure regarding age documentation.
"At least they got my nationality right," Ron observed with Scottish pragmatism. "Though calling my bass playing supernatural fraud seems a bit harsh, even for legal documents."
"Subject Six: Shaina MacLeod, British national, age unknown, wanted for—blimey, they've got me listed for the same charges as the lads!" She laughed at discovering her own criminal status. "Apparently my drumming constitutes supernatural fraud and religious extremism. Mum's going to be so proud when she sees this on the telly."
"Subject Seven: Yasmine Sun, American national, age unknown, wanted for conspiracy charges matching other band members," Shaina concluded the list while Yasmine applauded her inclusion in international criminal circles.
"We're all unknown ages according to Interpol," Yasmine observed cheerfully. "Either their research department is terrible, or we're more mysterious than we thought."
The bureaucratic incompetence displayed in the Red Notice undermined any intimidation factor it might have carried, transforming serious criminal charges into comedy material that highlighted governmental desperation rather than effective law enforcement. The official language seemed more appropriate for describing actual terrorists than musicians who played Christian songs.
"Right then," Shaina announced, closing the laptop with theatrical finality. "Since we're apparently international criminals specializing in supernatural musical fraud, we should probably rehearse for the Paris show before they upgrade our charges to crimes against humanity."
Jackson had somehow arranged replacement instruments to be delivered to their safe house after their original equipment trailer was confiscated by British authorities following their escape across the English Channel. The new gear wasn't identical to their familiar instruments, but professional quality equipment that would enable continued ministry performances.
They relocated to the cottage's spacious kitchen where Jackson's logistical magic had created impromptu rehearsal space. Shaina's replacement drum kit was definitely Continental European rather than British manufacturing, yet the fundamentals remained identical enough for professional adaptation. Bradley's new Stratocaster, Ron's bass guitar, and Yasmine's keyboard setup all required adjustment, but nothing that experienced musicians couldn't handle.
"What should we play to warm up?" Shaina asked while adjusting her drum throne to accommodate the unfamiliar kit configuration.
Bradley's suggestion came with perfect timing: "How about 'Life During Wartime' by Talking Heads? Seems appropriate for our current circumstances."
The song choice proved inspired, its paranoid lyrics about government surveillance and underground resistance perfectly matching their situation as international fugitives evading European authorities while preparing for continued prophetic ministry. The irony wasn't lost on anyone that they were literally living during wartime between divine authority and earthly governments.
Shaina counted them in with characteristic Manchester directness: "Right, here we go then. One, two, three, four!"
The opening rhythm erupted with infectious energy as all four musicians fell into the groove with supernatural synchronicity that had characterized their collaboration throughout the ministry tour. Despite unfamiliar instruments and their fugitive circumstances, their musical chemistry remained perfect, creating sound that filled the French cottage with joyful rebellion.
"I got three passports, a couple of visas, you don't even know my real name," Bradley sang with obvious relish at lyrics that seemed written specifically for their current situation. The paranoid anthem about living underground while avoiding governmental attention perfectly captured their circumstances while providing therapeutic release through musical expression.
John Foster watched their rehearsal with obvious enjoyment, his prophetic authority apparently enhanced rather than diminished by international criminal status. The man who had triggered worldwide governmental panic through supernatural ministry appeared completely at peace while his band practiced songs about evading surveillance and living in hiding.
As the song concluded with characteristic Talking Heads angular energy, Shaina felt profound satisfaction about their successful escape and continued mission. Being wanted by Interpol apparently agreed with her, providing adventure and purpose that her previous Manchester life had lacked entirely.
"Bloody hell," she announced cheerfully, "being international criminals is much more fun than I expected. When do we head to Paris for our next crime spree?"
