Then Koval releases my arm with a small laugh. "Of course. Though I should warn you, interrupting the Conductor when he's conducting business is generally considered poor form. He may take offense."
"I'll risk it," I say, already walking toward the archway.
My training kicks in automatically—assess the tactical situation, calculate angles and distances, prepare for violence. I move with purpose, every sense on high alert.
The mission just became extraction if this goes sideways.
Because somewhere between Monaco and Marrakesh, between rope and trust, between Nocturne and Marissa, I crossed a line I didn't even know existed. I fell in love with the woman I was supposed to protect, and now the thought of losing her feels like it would tear something fundamental out of my chest.
Logan's voice returns, urgent. "Kingslayer, we just intercepted communications. Moreau made contact with someone in Marrakesh. We don't have details, but the timing suggests he's warned them about Nocturne."
I'm already moving faster, my footsteps carrying me across tilework toward the archway. Behind me, Koval speaks into his radio. Guards respond. The entire estate goes on alert, and I'm walking straight into the center of it.
But I don't stop.
Because Marissa is on that terrace, possibly facing the Conductor's interrogation while he decides whether she's an asset or a threat. And if Moreau has warned him, if he knows she's Interpol, then every second I waste is a second closer to losing her.
The archway opens onto the private terrace. Lanterns cast pools of warm light across expensive tilework. Water features murmur in strategic locations, providing acoustic cover. And at the far end, standing near the balustrade overlooking the valley below, the Conductor and Marissa.
She's still playing Nocturne. I can see it in her posture, the confident tilt of her head, the way she holds her wine glass with practiced elegance. But I also see the tension in her shoulders, the slight rigidity in her spine that means she's on high alert.
The Conductor notices me first. His expression shifts, polite interest hardening into something colder. "Mr. Hayes. I don't recall extending an invitation to join us."
"My apologies," I say, keeping my voice level even as my heart hammers against my ribs. "But I need to speak with Nocturne. It's urgent."
Marissa turns, and her eyes meet mine. For a fraction of a second, her mask slips. I see the fear underneath, the question in her gaze:What's wrong?
"I'm in the middle of a conversation," the Conductor says, voice carrying steel beneath the polish. "Whatever you need to discuss with your asset can wait."
"I'm afraid it can't." I move closer, positioning myself so I'm between Marissa and the Conductor. Professional protocol says I should defer to him, should wait for their conversation to conclude naturally. But my entire body refuses to leave her exposed to this threat. "There's been a development. We need to leave. Now."
The Conductor’s expression doesn’t change, but the temperature on the terrace drops. Guards emerge from the shadows, weapons still holstered yet unmistakably present. The warm Moroccan night turns brittle.
“How interesting,” the Conductor says at last. “You arrive demanding immediate extraction.” His gaze shifts between Marissa and me. “Almost as though you’re trying to remove her before our conversation concludes.”
Marissa’s pulse jumps. I see it in the quick flutter at her throat, the slight widening of her eyes. She understands now. The ground has shifted, and whatever game we were playing has crossed into something far more dangerous.
“There’s been a compromise,” I say, leaning fully into the lie because the truth would destroy us both. “Tonight’s gathering may no longer be secure. I’m moving Nocturne to a secondary location until the situation is contained.”
The Conductor’s smile is thin. “A compromise,” he repeats softly, disbelief threaded through the word. “How convenient. And who, exactly, brought this to your attention?”
Behind me, more guards enter the terrace. I count positions automatically, calculating odds. We're outnumbered and outgunned. If this goes kinetic, if the Conductor decides to detain us or worse, our chances of fighting our way out are minimal at best.
But I'll burn this entire estate to the ground before I let them take her.
"My handler," I say, the lie coming smooth because I've spent years learning how to sell fiction as truth. "He's monitoring communications. There's chatter suggesting that Interpol has surveillance on this location. We need to disperse before they move in."
The Conductor studies me for a long moment. His gray eyes are calculating, weighing truth against deception, trying to determine if I'm genuinely concerned about security or if I'm running interference for some other reason.
Then he smiles. "You know what I think, Mr. Hayes? I think you're lying. I think you've received information that concerns you deeply, and you're trying to extract Nocturne before I can determine what that information might be. Which suggests that perhaps your asset's freelance status wasn't quite what you've led us to believe."
Marissa's expression never wavers, but I feel the shift in her energy. The way she's preparing for violence, calculating her own odds, readying herself to fight if necessary.
"The Conductor is mistaken," she says, voice steady as stone. "My loyalty can be purchased. You know why I left. You know what I want. Let's discuss terms."
"Terms," the Conductor repeats, moving closer to her. My body rejects the movement on a cellular level. "How interesting. Because I've just received some very interesting intelligence. About an Interpol operation targeting our organization. About a deep cover operative posing as a freelance contractor. And the description of this operative matches you rather precisely, my dear."
Moreau warned them. The bastard warned them, and now Marissa's cover is completely blown.
