Aspen nodded. “She’s right. If you can get Nanette to trust you for ten minutes, that’s all it will take.”
Rafe looked at Marcel. “You trust your team to pull this off?”
Marcel didn’t blink. “We are the best.”
Wrecker stopped pacing long enough to add, “We have weapons, comms, escape routes mapped. We’re not amateurs.”
Bronc’s eyes bore into mine. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow at 0900, you make contact. If anything feels off, you pull out. No heroics.”
I held his gaze. “Understood.”
Juliet asked, “Harper, are you good with this?”
Harper’s voice was confident. “Better than good. They’re the only family I have left, and I’ll be damned if I let Brie wind up where I’d been.”
Aspen’s voice came soft as sunlight, sweet as pie. “You’re braver than anyone here, honey. You go and fight for your little family. We’ll be prayin’ for you.” Her Georgia accent seeped through her words.
Parker looked worried for a moment. I saw her bite her lip; then reset her game face.
Bronc wrapped it up. “Full debrief at 1200. We’ll be waiting on the call. Make us proud.”
The call clicked off. The room went silent except for the white noise of the Paris rain on the balcony windows.
I squeezed Harper’s hand so tight I thought I’d snap bone. “You don’t have to do this,” I said, voice only for her.
She smiled, tired but real. “I’m the only one who can.”
Parker closed her laptop with a little snap. “We got this,” she said. “If it goes bad, I’ll hack every camera in the arrondissement and find you myself.”
Wrecker grunted. “Or we just go in and kill everyone.”
Marcel actually laughed at that. “I like this one,” he said.
I didn’t want to laugh. I wanted to rip the city in half, pull the pack out by the roots, and take Harper somewhere nobody could ever find us again. But that was a luxury we didn’t have.
For now, we were wolves in the middle of the hunt. And nothing in Paris would stop us from getting what was ours.
The rest of the day vanished in a blur of dry runs and gear checks, but the real test was the next morning. We rolled out of the hotel just after seven, the whole crew running on espressoand spite. Gwen rode shotgun in the lead SUV, her hair in a low twist, lips bare, eyes hidden behind mirrored glasses. She’d spelled the car herself—a glass pebble zip-tied to the rear-view, layered with two kinds of blood and a word I didn’t recognize. The charm supposedly scrubbed our scent, our auras, and even our luck from anyone with supernatural leanings.
We dressed the part: jeans, windbreakers, sneakers, nothing that would draw a second look. Wrecker and Etienne went ahead on foot, posing as French joggers in matching neon. Parker, Marcel, and I took the “civilian” route, with Harper on my arm in an old leather jacket and her hair pulled up in a loose bun, sunglasses way too big for her face. She looked exactly like a tourist, except for the way her hand kept trembling on my elbow.
The drive from Paris to Bougival was short—a little over thirty minutes—but it felt like a migration. The city gave way to suburbs, then to the thick tree line and riverside sprawl that had lured painters for two centuries. We passed an old iron bridge, then a block of cafes with terrace seating and battered awnings in faded reds and greens. The rain had stopped, but everything sparkled with the washed-clean light you only got in European spring.
The town was beautiful in a way that made me long for the ability to wrap Harper up and take her sightseeing: stone streets, a slow blue river, the hills dotted with grand old houses clinging to their ledges like stubborn ghosts. The Renault stronghold was a massive manse up on the rise, set back from the main drag by a stone wall and a tangle of hydrangeas that looked half-wild. The windows were shuttered, but two sentries leaned against a Renault-blue delivery van, chatting over a cigarette and watching the street with the bored contempt of men who didn’t expect trouble.
Parker whispered through the comms: “Two on the south gate. No movement from the east. Target’s not on site—repeat, target’s not on site. Proceed to point B.”
We followed the plan. Harper and I strolled down to the river, stopping to admire the paint-flaked rowboats and the first flush of pink in the magnolias. A few minutes later, we doubled back, crossed the avenue, and made for the little art gallery wedged between a bakery and a pharmacy. Parker and Marcel peeled off, loitering at a café terrace two doors down, doing a good job pretending not to watch.
The gallery’s sign was hand-lettered, a curling script that probably hadn’t been updated since before the last world war. Inside, the space was all white walls and bare light, the floors echoing every step. Five or six people milled about, mostly retirees with expensive scarves and bad posture, but one stood out: a slender woman with pale hair, gathered in a loose chignon. She wore a navy cashmere sweater and a cream skirt, her back ramrod straight as she studied a small landscape on the far wall.
Harper froze when she saw her. The old ballet reflexes kicked in—she snapped her chin up, shoulders back, every inch of her body suddenly an exclamation point.
I leaned close, voice low. “Remember, we just make initial contact today. Plant the seed. Nothing more.”
She nodded. “Copy.”
We drifted through the gallery, pausing at a few pieces. I kept my eyes on the room, counting exits, watching the faces. No Renault muscle inside. One clerk behind the counter, an old man in round glasses, reading the sports pages and not giving a damn about the customers.
