She holds her father's hand and looks around the ballroom with wide eyes. To her, this is just a fancy party. She has no idea people in this room want to take her. Has no idea her father brought her here as bait to catch them.
Laurent's embedded security detail moves with practiced efficiency, maintaining close proximity without appearing to be anything more than standard protection. They're good and professional, exactly what we need.
"Nocturne has visual on target," Marissa's voice comes through comms. Professional. Controlled. No hint of the warmth I heard when she whispered my name in the darkness.
"Kingslayer confirms," I say, matching her tone. "Package identified."
Package. Not a child with wide eyes and crystal bracelets. Package.
The evening progresses with agonizing slowness. Laurent mingles with diplomatic contacts. Amelie stays close to her father, occasionally wandering to the dessert table under the watchful eyes of embedded security. The orchestra plays. Couples dance. Everything appears normal.
But my instincts scream wrong.
I catch Marissa's gaze across the ballroom for the first time tonight. Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before she looks away, but in that brief connection I see the same unease I feel. Something's off. The Iron Choir knows we're here. Knows we're watching. So where are they?
"Kingslayer," Logan says in my ear. "We're picking up unusual movement on the perimeter. Multiple vehicles. Could be nothing."
"Or could be everything," I mutter, hand drifting toward my weapon. "Stay sharp. They're coming."
Laurent moves toward the terrace with Amelie, embedded security flanking them subtly. The positioning is good with multiple exit routes and hard to corner. If the Iron Choir moves now, they'll have to fight through layers of protection.
Unless they don't care about subtlety anymore.
"Movement," Logan's voice sharpens with urgency. "Multiple hostiles. East and west entrances. Armed. They're coming now?—"
The ballroom erupts into chaos.
Glass shatters as armed men in tactical gear crash through the terrace doors. Screams echo off marble as Monaco's elite scatter in panic. Orchestra music dies mid-note, replaced by the crack of gunfire and the metallic slide of weapons being drawn.
The Iron Choir hits hard and fast, no subtlety, no finesse, just overwhelming violence designed to create maximum confusion.
I'm already moving, weapon drawn, targeting the nearest hostile. He drops. Then another. I lose count in the chaos, and it doesn't matter. All that matters is reaching Marissa and Amelie before the Iron Choir does.
Across the ballroom, Marissa moves with lethal efficiency. She shields Amelie with her own body, eliminating threats with precision that takes my breath away. No hesitation. No fear.
I fight toward them, cutting through hostiles who thought they could take a young girl as leverage. More drop as I advance, more threats eliminated with each shot. I lose count somewhere around the terrace doors.
We end up back-to-back in the center of the ballroom, Amelie between us, embedded team forming a perimeter aroundour position. Blood stains Marissa's gown, and I pray it isn't hers.
"North exit," she says without looking at me. "Extraction vehicle waiting."
"Copy," I say, and we move as one unit.
No discussion needed. No coordination required. Our bodies remember even if doubt tried to poison my mind. We're synchronized in a way that comes from trust built through action, not words.
I cover our six while she leads Amelie through the chaos, embedded team clearing the path ahead. More hostiles emerge from service corridors. I drop them without breaking stride. Marissa does the same with targets flanking our position.
Amelie is crying silently, tears streaming down her face, but she follows Marissa's whispered instructions. Laurent is somewhere behind us with his own security detail, trusting us to get his daughter out alive.
We're almost to the north exit when I see it. The positioning. The angles. The way hostiles are flanking to cut off escape while leaving the center exposed.
They're herding us into a killbox.
"Marissa—" I start, but she sees it too.
"I see it," she says. "Someone has to draw their fire away from Amelie."
She moves before I can stop her, stepping toward the exposed angle.
