That stung a little, but she was right. We were the only Americans in this equation, and I hated being the loudest color on the board.
We worked through the next hour, mapping likely times for the Renault pack to move as a group—early morning runs, the weekly Friday marché, some nightclubs along the Seine where the young ones preened and fought. Etienne came in, nodded once, and sat at the far end, hands folded. Watchful.
At 7:22, Harper arrived. She wore leggings, an old Army sweatshirt, and her hair pulled back so tight it looked like a golden whip. She smiled at me, then at Marcel. “Bonjour,” she said, her accent flawless.
Marcel softened instantly. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Wrecker grinned behind his mug.
I introduced her, then caught her up: “They’re in Bougival. Renault stronghold.”
She blinked, then sat hard, staring at the maps. “Bougival?”
Marcel nodded. “You know it?”
“Familiar. My mother spoke of it. I’d forgotten,” Harper said. “It’s famous for Impressionist painters. Renoir, Monet, Sisley—they all lived there at some point. There’s a little island on the river. Mom talked about it. Said it’s some place we’d all need to visit someday.” Her voice went soft. “She’d say, ‘If I ever got the chance, I’d want to go where the colors blend into magic.’”
Something cold rolled down my back.
“That would be it,” Marcel said, catching my glance. “They live on the main road. She paints most days. The daughter—your sister—studies art at the Atelier du Château de Bougival. Uses the name Gemma.”
Harper gave a laugh and said, “That was the name of our cat growing up.”
She traced her fingertip along the river on the map. “I can just see them there. They’d love shopping in small stores and stopping at small cafes.”
Marcel checked his phone, then pointed at the same spot. “You’re correct about that. They stop at a small cafe called La Palette on Thursdays. Usually mid-morning.”
Parker looked at me. “That’s tomorrow.”
I nodded. “We’ll want eyes on it.”
Wrecker cracked his knuckles. “Who’s handling the pull?”
Marcel shrugged. “We can do it, or you can. But if you want to keep it quiet, best way is to isolate one at a time.”
“Mom first,” Harper said, and everyone looked at her.
“She’ll trust me. If I come in heavy, she’ll think I’m in trouble. She always said, ‘Never bring trouble to the doorstep, but if you have to, make sure you close the door behind you.’”
Marcel smiled. “She is very French.”
Harper nodded, but her eyes were hard. “Brie won’t listen to me if she believes one of the Renault boys is courting her. I need to get to Mom first. If she believes I’m not in danger, she’ll help.”
I felt pride bloom in my chest, a thing so raw it almost hurt. Harper saw the board as well as any of us.
Marcel passed her a manila folder. Inside were a dozen candid photos, taken from across streets, through cafe windows, at the market. Nanette and Brie, side by side. Brie was taller now, hair cut in a stylish bob, but her eyes were pure Lawson: the kind that could start a fire in a snowstorm.
Harper took a long time with the photos. “Is she happy?” She asked, not looking up.
Marcel said nothing.
I answered for him. “She’s safe for now. That’s all we know.”
She nodded, sliding the photos back. “Then we keep it that way.”
The rest of the meeting was about logistics. Wrecker and Etienne would run surveillance from the cafe, using a burner phone with a direct uplink to the penthouse. Parker would monitor local comms and troll the darknet for any sign Steiner’s men had landed. Marcel would coordinate with the bakery for an emergency fallback, just in case. I would escort Harper and watch her back. Always.
When the briefing broke, the world was waking up outside: traffic horns, bakery scents, the high song of a street cleaner. Parker drifted off to call Gunner in Dairyville and update himon the plan. Wrecker left to secure the hardware, and Etienne trailed him, silent as a rumor. I poured a fourth coffee and sat at the window with Harper, watching the city come to life.
