Kittleton was on the sofa, laptop open in front of him. Popper stood by the window, glass of vodka in hand. Nasser sat in an armchair, phone in his lap, looking like he'd just shit himself.
"Evening, gentlemen," I said.
Kittleton moved first—reached for something under the sofa cushion. I shot him three times in the chest before his hand even got there. Clean. Quick. He slumped sideways, eyes going glassy.
Popper dropped his glass and lunged for the kitchen. I put two rounds in the back of his skull. He went down hard, face smacking the tile, vodka spreading in a puddle around him.
Nasser was on his feet, hands up, mouth moving. "Wait—please—I have money?—"
I shot him once between the eyes.
The apartment went silent except for the faint hum of traffic outside.
I stood there for a second, breathing steady, the pistol still raised. Three bodies. Two traitors and a piece of shit. Clean shots, no mess beyond what was necessary.
"Don’t fuck with America," I muttered, lowering the pistol.
Then I turned and walked out.
The next two hours were all tradecraft.
I moved fast but not rushed. Took the stairs instead of the elevator. Exited through a side alley that spilled out onto Rue La Boétie. From there, I walked. Hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed, just another tourist taking in the sights.
I checked reflections in shop windows. Watched for repeating faces. Memorized the rhythm of the street—who was moving too slow, who was looking too hard.
Nothing.
Still, I didn't stop. Caught the Métro at George V, rode it two stops, got off, walked three blocks, caught a different line. Switched trains twice more, then surfaced near the Bastille and flagged down a city tour bus.
The open-top kind. Tacky as hell, full of American college kids taking selfies and older couples with fanny packs. I bought a ticket from the driver and climbed to the upper deck, squeezing into a seat near the back.
Perfect cover. No one looked twice at a guy on a tour bus.
The bus rumbled through the streets, the guide's voice droning over the speakers in heavily accented English. I tunedit out, watching the city slide past—old stone buildings, narrow streets, the Seine glinting in the distance.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. Unknown number. Text message.
We know what you're doing. Don't worry. We agree. And if you want to keep America on the up and up, come to Charleston, tonight.
I stared at the screen.
A second message popped up.
There will be a private plane waiting at Le Bourget Airport. Hanger 7. Wheels up at 2200 hours.
My pulse kicked up a notch.
Someone knew. Someone had been watching.
Le Bourget was a small airport northeast of the city—private jets, corporate charters, the kind of place where money talked and no one asked questions.
I should've deleted the message. Should've tossed the phone in the Seine and disappeared into the night. Called my command, or my brothers back in Montana, told them I'd stepped in some serious shit.
But I didn't.
Because whoever sent this wasn't threatening me. They were inviting me.
