12
ARCHER
Iwatch the Conductor's fingers close around Marissa's hand, and every instinct I've honed over years in the field screams at me to pull her back, to put myself between her and this threat. My hand digs into her spine hard enough to bruise, but she doesn't flinch. She holds his gaze with Nocturne's perfect confidence, and I force myself to stay still, to play the role of the specialist who trusts his asset to handle herself.
But underneath the professional mask, rage sharpens my focus and I channel the growing adrenaline into tactical awareness.
The Conductor doesn't release her hand immediately. He holds it a beat too long, studying her face with those calculating gray eyes that miss nothing. Around us, conversations have gone quiet. Everyone watches this moment, weighing what it means that the Iron Choir's phantom operative is finally meeting their leader face to face.
"Walk with me," the Conductor says, still holding her hand. The words aren't a request but an order wrapped in charm. "I find these gatherings so much more productive when conducted away from curious ears."
Marissa's pulse jumps beneath my fingers. I feel it spike, then steady as she locks down her fear and lets Nocturne take over completely. When she speaks, her voice is smooth as silk.
"Of course."
He releases her hand and gestures toward an archway at the far end of the courtyard. A private terrace, I realize, secluded and away from witnesses. The tactical situation turns from bad to catastrophic in the span of a heartbeat.
"Mr. Hayes," the Conductor says, gaze sliding to me with polite dismissal. "I'm sure you understand. Some conversations are best conducted without an audience. Angelique will keep you company."
The words carry no room for negotiation. Beside me, Angelique's smile sharpens as she moves closer, effectively cutting me off from Marissa. Other operatives shift position around us, casual but deliberate. They're boxing me in, making it clear that following her isn't an option without causing a scene.
Marissa's eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. Long enough for me to see the fear she's hiding beneath Nocturne's confidence. Long enough to feel my entire chest constrict with the need to keep her safe. But then she turns and follows the Conductor toward the archway, her silk dress catching the lantern light as she disappears into the shadows beyond.
Every muscle in my body screams to go after her.
"She's quite something, isn't she?" Angelique says, voice carrying knowing amusement. "So controlled. So disciplined. The Conductor has been very interested in Nocturne's work for some time now. I suspect tonight's conversation will be quite illuminating."
I force my attention back to Angelique, keeping my expression neutral even as my mind races through contingencies. Marissa is walking into a private conversation with the head of the Iron Choir, a man responsible for countlessdeaths, a man who may or may not suspect she's been feeding intelligence to Interpol for years. And I'm stuck here playing polite with an arms broker while my gut screams that this is wrong.
"Nocturne can handle herself," I say, making my voice carry that edge of confidence a specialist should have in his asset.
"Oh, I have no doubt," Angelique replies. She gestures toward one of the fountains where servers circulate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. "Come. Let's not waste such a lovely evening standing in the middle of the courtyard like lost tourists."
I let her guide me toward the fountain, but my attention never leaves that archway. From this angle, I can see part of the terrace beyond. Lanterns cast warm light across Moroccan tilework. The murmur of water features creates acoustic cover. And somewhere in that space, Marissa is alone with the most dangerous man in Europe.
My earpiece crackles to life. Logan's voice, barely audible beneath the ambient noise of the gathering.
"Kingslayer, we have movement. Moreau just left Paris."
Claude Moreau. Interpol's Director of Operations. The man who's supposed to be coordinating the operation to bring down the Iron Choir. The man who has access to every piece of intelligence we've gathered, every operative's identity, every safe house location.
The man who's been selling us out from the beginning.
"Destination?" I ask quietly, tilting my head as if adjusting my collar so the movement looks natural.
"Monte Carlo. ETA in a few hours. He's running."
My blood goes cold. Monte Carlo. Where the diplomatic gala will take place. Where the Iron Choir plans to move on Amelie. Moreau knows we're closing in, knows his network iscompromised, and he's heading straight for the people who can protect him.
Or eliminate anyone who might expose him.
"Angelique, you simply must try these," a woman calls from across the fountain, waving the art broker over.
Angelique excuses herself with an apologetic smile, leaving me momentarily alone. I turn slightly, keeping my body angled toward the fountain while my gaze tracks back to that archway.
Logan's voice returns. "Fitz has eyes on Moreau. We'll handle him. Keep Nocturne safe and get ready to move on the gala. We still have a kidnapping to stop."
Getting her out. As if that's simple. As if I can just walk onto that terrace and extract her from a private conversation with the Conductor without blowing both our covers and getting us killed in the process.
