Brie sat back down, but her body was coiled tight, ready to bolt.
My mom looked at me, something like hope in her eyes. “We need to finish this painting. When we’re done, we’ll come with you.”
I swallowed hard. I knew what she meant. It wasn’t the art she cared about, not really. It was the last normal morning. The last time the three of us could pretend to be a family, before the world came for us again.
I looked up at the bridge and saw Gwen watching, her hands folded at her waist. I imagined Jess and Wrecker and the others, all waiting for the moment we stood up and walked away.
I bent over my paper and started to draw for real. The lines steadied, and soon I lost myself in the familiar motions: the sweep of a jawline, the curve of a cheekbone, the dark slash of a brow. I drew Brie first, then my mom, then the two of them together, side by side against the river. I drew until the paper ran out and my knuckles ached.
When I looked up, the sun had climbed higher, turning the water from blue to molten gold.
Brie stared at the drawing, mouth open. “Is that supposed to be us?”
I nodded.
She rolled her eyes, but there was something softer in her voice. “You never drew me before.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She looked away, but I saw her wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. I still saw the doubt in her eyes.
Chapter 24
Arsenal
Ihad the perfect angle on the footbridge—a bistro by the Quai de Bougival. We looked like tourists, drinking espresso and checking out maps. There was nothing left to do but wait and watch, every nerve honed to a filament as Harper threaded her way down the riverside toward her mother and Brie. On a weekday morning, the bank belonged to the artists. Easels stood in tight formation along the stones, propped by hunched men in scarves and women in clattering jewelry. I sat pretending not to be the kind of predator I was. At this hour, the river ran gold, with the sun low enough to hide anything ugly in long shadows and reflected glare.
My team was spread in an arc: Wrecker sat with me, city map folded in his pocket like he gave a damn about history; Parker was the second-story, three windows down, pretending to photograph crows with a battered Nikon but really logging every face within a hundred yards; Doc sat in the van with Papa working comms. And then there was Gwen, nowhere and everywhere, holding the spell tight from her own corner of the world.
I tracked Harper, not because I didn’t trust her, but because every instinct in me screamed, this was the moment it all went sideways. She wore black leggings and a canvas jacket, hair twisted in a dancer’s bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looked impossibly young. I hated that I could see her so clearly, while she couldn’t pay attention to me at all.
She slowed as she neared the patch of stone where her family painted. Brie sat on a small folding chair, watercolors and pencils scattered around her, legs crossed at the ankles. Their mother, Nanette, wore a beret and an old camel-hair coat, every inch the expat with a secret. She painted fast, as if outrunning something only she could see. Neither of them glanced up as Harper approached, but Brie’s hand stilled on the page, a tremor in the line giving her away.
Harper’s voice carried in the stillness. She engaged in small talk; kept her hands visible, palms up, the way she might approach a spooked animal. Smart girl.
Nanette didn’t look up. “You came early,” she said, painting in quick, nervous strokes.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Brie’s head jerked, just for an instant. She flicked her eyes at Harper, then away, then at her again, and all the while her hands moved in tiny, pointless circles on the paper. There was something electric between the two of them, a current too bright to hide.
I swept my eyes across the river, hunting for movement, for anyone whose eyes lingered too long on the sisters. There were civilians, sure: two joggers, an old man with a sack of baguettes, a pair of school kids skipping stones near the bank. But there was also the man in the dark puffer vest, hands jammed deep in his pockets, who kept pace with the painters from the far side, pretending to study the river but always glancing back at Harper. And the woman with the pixie cut, leaning on the railing above, her reflection gone wrong in the water’s surface. Parker had already flagged them, code names in the earpiece: VEST and PINK.
It all felt off—too easy, too clean. No sign of Steiner, no sign of the Polish mercs, just the familiar lull before a kill box closed.
Harper set her folding stool down and set up her easel.
Brie talked to Harper, accusing her of coming because of so-called “bad men” coming for them.
Harper shook her head. “It’s not safe. That’s why I’m here.”
I waited for the signal. All Harper had to do was touch Brie’s wrist, and Gwin would move to shift the veil to invisibility, and they’d move to the van that’s only 100 m down the street. Easy.
Harper reached over to tap her wrist. I could hear her words clearly before she made contact. “I have a team here who can get you out safely.” But then what I didn’t expect to hear.
Brie countered as she rose from her chair. “Luc said we’d go together. You don’t understand.”
I keyed the comm. “We’re blown,” I said, and even I was surprised at the calm in my voice. “Brie gave us up.”
