Laurent leaves with Logan escorting him back to his car. Silence settles heavy in the conference room. Through the windows, I can see Monte Carlo sprawling below, glittering and oblivious to the danger brewing beneath its surface.
"Back to the safe house," Fitz says. "We have work to do."
The drive back feels longer than it should. Archer sits beside me in the rear seat, and I can feel the weight of Laurent's trust pressing down on both of us. That photograph of Amelie, her smile, those crystal bracelets. We can't fail her.
When we reach the cottage, the afternoon sun is already shifting toward evening. Fitz heads straight down to the opscenter, but I pause in the living area, pulling out the photograph Laurent gave me.
Archer stops beside me. "Are you okay?"
"Just processing." I study Amelie's face again, the crystal bracelets on her wrist that her father uses as an identifier. "The Conductor knows we're coming. They know who I am. They'll be ready for us."
"We'll handle it." His hand finds mine.
His certainty cuts through the doubt threatening to pull me under. I lean into him slightly, drawing strength from his solid presence. "We have so little time to prepare for an operation where every advantage we had is gone."
"Then we build new advantages," he says simply. "We outthink them. We win."
I want to believe him. Need to believe him. Because the alternative is unthinkable. I turn the photograph over, reading Laurent's handwriting again.Six years old. Loves the ocean.
"I made her a promise," I say quietly. "In my head, when I looked at her photo. I promised I'd keep her safe."
"Then we will," Archer says. "Because you don't break promises."
I tuck the photograph carefully into my pocket, like it's something precious, because it is. It's proof of what we're fighting for and who we're protecting.
Fitz's voice carries up from below. "Tactical prep. Let's move."
Archer and I follow, and the silence between us feels loaded with everything we didn't say in front of Laurent. "Food, then tactical prep. We have a lot of ground to cover before tomorrow's meeting with Moreau."
In the ops center we review intelligence reports on Iron Choir movements across Monte Carlo. We study gala venue blueprintsuntil I can navigate the space with my eyes closed. We memorize faces of embedded team members and their cover identities. We plan communication protocols and emergency extraction routes.
Logan walks us through updated surveillance feeds showing Moreau at Hotel de Paris. He's made no contact with known Iron Choir operatives yet, but that doesn't mean anything. He could be waiting for tomorrow's meeting, or he could be playing a deeper game we don't understand.
"He has resources we can't track," I say, watching Moreau on the screen. "Contacts we don't know about. He could be coordinating with the Conductor right now through channels we can't monitor."
"Which is why we go to tomorrow's meeting prepared for anything," Fitz says. "Armed, wired, with backup in position. He makes one wrong move, we take him down."
"And if he's genuine?" I ask. "If he actually has intelligence we need?"
"Then we use it," Fitz says. "But carefully. Moreau burned you once. He doesn't get a second chance."
By the time Fitz calls it for the evening, my brain feels oversaturated with tactical details and contingency plans. I should head upstairs to the bedroom, get some rest, but instead I find myself drawn to the armory on the lower level. I need to check my equipment, need the ritual of preparation that grounds me before operations.
Archer follows without question, understanding.
The armory is exactly what I expected from Cerberus. It's clean and organized, stocked with enough weapons and gear to outfit a small army. Everything from handguns to tactical vests to communication equipment is lined up with military precision.
I pull a vest from the rack, checking straps and adjusting plate carriers. Muscle memory from years of operations takes over, hands moving through familiar patterns.
Archer moves behind me, hands settling on my shoulders. "Let me."
I let him take the vest, turn to face him. His fingers work the straps with practiced efficiency, adjusting fit and checking connections. This is professional preparation, nothing more, but when his hands linger on the vest straps, there's something else in his expression, something vulnerable.
"We have a short window," he says quietly. "We can do this."
"And after?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "What happens after?"
His hands still on the vest. A long pause stretches between us, filled with everything we haven't said, everything we've been avoiding while the mission consumed us.
