My stomach twists. This is worse than imagined—not just a kidnapping, but a systematic attack designed to fracture the very agencies hunting them. With Interpol compromised, they'll operate freely, expanding networks, consolidating power.
"The attacks are coordinated," another voice adds. Toussaint this time, her tone matter-of-fact as she discusses violence like a business transaction. "Paris, Berlin, and London will experience incidents that appear unrelated but will strain intelligence cooperation. By the time they realize the pattern, it will be too late to respond effectively."
They're planning false flag operations designed to make European intelligence agencies suspect each other, to breed paranoia and distrust. Destabilization on a massive scale.
I need proof. Everything they're saying is useless unless documented, unless brought back to someone who will act on it. My handler is dead. I found him in a Vienna safe house—bullet to the head, execution-style. Professional. Someone betrayed him. Someone betrayed me. But the information still matters. The mission still matters.
Getting proof means getting closer, taking risks that could expose me. If I walk away now, an innocent child dies, and they win. Everything sacrificed over five years, every compromise and moral calculation, means nothing.
When their attention focuses on the projected image, I step through the doorway. Moving along the wall requires agonizing patience, each step placed with exquisite care. Deep shadowsfill this space, and I use them, slipping between the pools of torchlight.
A side room offers better cover. The door hangs open, revealing a monk's cell repurposed as storage. Filing cabinets line one wall. A desk holds a computer, screen glowing softly.
I cross to the desk and ease into position. The computer is unlocked, screen showing a file directory. Careless. Or arrogant. They've operated with impunity for so long they've forgotten what real opposition looks like.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating through folders. Financial records. Operations logs. Communication intercepts. Target dossiers with photos and vulnerabilities cataloged. Timeline maps showing every checkpoint from kidnapping to ransom delivery. Extraction routes through Monte Carlo's labyrinthine streets. Analysis documents outlining the domino effect—how Interpol's compromise will cascade through European intelligence, fracturing alliances, breeding distrust.
And there, buried in a subfolder marked "Internal Security": surveillance photos of my handler. Meeting times. Location data. A report dated two days before his execution in Vienna.
Source: Cardinal.
Someone at Interpol fed them everything. My handler didn't die because of bad luck or operational exposure. He died because someone he trusted sold him out. Someone who knew our protocols, our safe houses, our communication methods.
I pull the small flash drive from my pocket. I plug it in and start the transfer. Progress bars creep across the screen. Come on. Come on.
Voices drift closer. Someone is moving toward this room. I minimize the transfer window and slide behind the door, knife in hand, every muscle coiled. The progress bar is only halfwaycomplete. If the transfer fails, if the files are corrupted, this entire infiltration becomes worthless.
Footsteps approach. They pause. A lighter clicks, and cigarette smoke wafts through the doorway. Whoever it is stands just outside, taking a smoke break. My pulse thunders in my ears. If he looks in, if he sees the computer screen, this is over. The transfer continues in the background but not fast enough. Each second stretches into an eternity.
Smoke curls through the air, acrid and sharp. Weight shifts outside. He takes another drag. I will him to leave. Finally, footsteps retreat, fading back toward the great hall.
I return to the computer. The transfer is complete. I eject the drive and pocket it, then close the windows and return the screen to its previous state. There's no trace left behind. No evidence of intrusion.
Now I need to leave. Fast.
I retrace my path through the monastery, moving through what feels like a dream where every shadow might hide a threat. The great hall voices continue, oblivious to my presence. I reach the kitchen without incident, then the corridor, then the service entrance.
Cold air hits me like a blessing. I'm outside, back in the night, the monastery looming behind me. Relief floods through me, premature and dangerous. I'm not clear yet. Not by a long shot.
Engines growl in the distance, multiple vehicles approaching on the mountain road. They're coming fast with no attempt at stealth.
It must be Cerberus. They picked up the same intelligence that brought me here, or they're tracking movements the same way I am. This place is about to become a battlefield.
I should run. Should disappear into the mountains and let Cerberus handle them. But the records room—the physical documents that back up everything on the drive. If Cerberusstorms this place, the Iron Choir have time to destroy evidence. If Cerberus doesn't know what they're looking for, they might miss the most damning material. Worse, if they capture partial records, the mole at Interpol could spin the narrative, make it look like these are Interpol files, turn the intelligence into a weapon against the very people trying to stop them.
The decision crystallizes in seconds. I can't let that happen.
I race back inside, moving faster now that stealth is less important than speed. The records room is adjacent to the great hall, a converted chapel filled with filing cabinets and document boxes. The door is unlocked.
Rows of files stretch before me. Years of operations, meticulously archived. I don't have time to review it all, to determine what's critical. So I'll make sure no one else can access it either. Not them. Not even Cerberus—not until the drive reaches someone I trust, someone who can use it without the Cardinal twisting the intelligence against us.
I pull the lighter from my pocket and flick it open, holding the flame to the corner of the nearest document. Paper catches quickly, flame spreading in hungry orange lines.
I light another file. Then another. Fire grows, feeding on decades of accumulated paper. Smoke begins to fill the room, thick and choking. Sprinklers might activate soon, but modern fire suppression systems are rare in medieval buildings. By the time anyone responds, this room will be an inferno.
The vehicles are closer now. Shouts echo from outside the monastery. Cerberus has arrived.
I sprint for the service entrance, smoke stinging my eyes. Behind me, flames roar to life, consuming evidence they can't be allowed to preserve. Let them lose their archives. Let them scramble to reconstruct what's been taken.
