When I finished, the mask appeared perfect. I straightened my tie, smoothed my hair, and transformed myself back into the immaculate Maxime St. Germain while his cum dried on the sheets twelve feet away. The soreness between my legs had faded to a dull throb that flared whenever I shifted my weight.
My tablet chirped with incoming messages. The Pentagon was demanding Banshee updates, legal needed authorization, and security had identified possible prototype locations. I dispatched responses with the efficiency I'd cultivated over three decades, my fingers moving across the screen while my mind remained trapped in that bedroom, replaying every moment I'd already memorized.
The world continued turning. Shaw still had our prototype, and the DoD contract hung in the balance. These facts remained constant regardless of what had happened between us, regardless of the bruises hidden beneath my collar, regardless of the man sitting in the main cabin pretending I didn't exist.
I stepped out of the lavatory and into the main cabin.
Algerone sat in his usual seat with tablet in hand, reading something. He didn't look up at my approach or acknowledge my presence. The morning light through the windows caught the silver at his temples, the distinguished gray that had spread during eighteen months of recovery, and I found myself studying those changes the way I'd studied everything about him during those endless days of caring for him.
"Landing in fifteen minutes," I informed him, keeping my voice professionally neutral. "Callum arranged for the Bentley instead of the Mercedes. The suspension will be easier on your leg."
I'd noticed him shifting in his seat throughout the flight, adjusting his weight away from his damaged left hip in thatsubtle way he thought no one observed. The barometric pressure was tormenting his rebuilt bones. He would rather die than admit it, but I knew his body better than my own now.
"Fine," he said without looking up.
It was the same dismissive response he might give any subordinate delivering routine information. I stood there a moment longer, waiting for something more, some acknowledgment that I'd spent the morning arranging his transportation, monitoring his pain, and concealing the evidence of what we'd done so he wouldn't have to face it.
He gave me nothing.
I returned to my seat, maintaining the distance that had become our standard arrangement since Zurich. The familiar work steadied me as I pulled up the Pentagon briefing on my tablet. I could control words and outcomes, unlike the man sitting across from me.
This changes nothing.
He'd said that too, standing in the doorway of that bedroom, already dressed while I lay naked in the evidence of what we'd done. And he'd been right. Nothing had changed. I was still the man who'd hidden his children from him, and he was still the man who would never forgive me for it. The only difference was that now I knew exactly how his weight pressed me into a mattress, and I would carry that knowledge for the rest of my life.
Six figures moved towardus in perfect formation across the tarmac the moment we stepped off the private jet, my elite team already mobilized.
"Mr. St. Germain," Callum Finch greeted me, his British accent clipped. He was former MI6, recruited after a scandal that wasn't his fault but had ended his government career, nonetheless. I'd recognized his potential where others found only a liability. "The Bentley awaits. Security protocols Omega and Delta are active at Spade Tower."
"Shaw's financial movements," I said, already walking. They fell into step around me without breaking formation.
Lukas Richter answered. He was a former BND analyst, fluent in seven languages, capable of tracking money through shell companies the way a bloodhound tracks scent. "Sixteen point three million liquidated across twelve hours. The pattern matches his 2019 acquisition of the Hamburg facility, but accelerated. He's not just preparing to move; he's preparing to run."
"Timeline?"
"Seventy-two hours before he's positioned to disappear. Forty-eight if he's willing to leave assets behind."
I absorbed the information and turned to Archer Lin without breaking stride. He held a Stanford PhD in computer science, former NSA, poached after he'd grown disgusted with government bureaucracy limiting his capabilities. He pushed his glasses up his nose in that nervous habit I'd stopped trying to break because it preceded his most valuable insights.
"Biometric recalibration complete," Archer reported. "I've updated all systems to recognize the micro-variations in Mr. Caisse-Etremont's gait and grip strength post-recovery. False rejection rate is now below point-zero-one percent. I've also flagged three anomalies in last week's access logs that warrant review."
"Summarize."
"Two appear to be system glitches during the thunderstorm Tuesday night. The third is a badge swipe on sublevel four at 3:47 AM by Dr. Hardin, three days before her disappearance."
I filed that information for later. Sublevel four housed prototype components. "Legal status."
Isaiah Porter stepped forward, six foot four and built like the linebacker he'd been at Howard before law school. He'd made the Harvard Law Review, served as a federal prosecutor, and was now my personal legal weapon. "I've prepared three containment strategies depending on how Shaw plays this. Option one assumes he attempts to sell the prototype to a foreign power, which triggers national security protocols and gives us federal backing. Option two covers corporate espionage, keeping it civil but allowing for aggressive injunctive relief. Option three..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Option three assumes we handle recovery through private channels, in which case I've prepared documentation establishing plausible deniability for any actions taken by non-company personnel."
"Which do you recommend?"
"Option one gives us the most legal cover but the least operational flexibility. Option three gives us maximum flexibility but exposes us to significant liability if anything goes sideways." Isaiah met my gaze directly because he'd learned I respected those who stood behind their analysis. "I recommend we prepare for all three and let the situation dictate which we deploy."
"Agreed. Communications."
Sloane Matsuda answered without consulting notes because she never needed them. She was a former CIA communications specialist with an eidetic memory, capable of managing seventeen simultaneous information streams without droppinga single thread. "All external queries are being routed through secondary verification. I've identified four journalists who've been asking questions about Mr. Caisse-Etremont's recovery timeline, two of whom have connections to publications Shaw has influenced before. I've prepared statements for each scenario Isaiah outlined, plus contingencies for medical emergency, hostile takeover attempt, and unexpected regulatory inquiry."
"The Pentagon?"
