"Moreau won't be escaping after all," Nitro's voice comes through comms, and I can hear the smile in it. The distinctive flick of a lighter follows. "Boom."
I process that information with grim satisfaction. Moreau must have tried to run from Cerberus detention while we were occupied with the gala, he must have believed he could slip away on a boat. But Nitro was waiting, and Nitro never misses.
"Confirmed?" Fitz asks over the channel.
"Boat's in pieces," Nitro says, puffing on what sounds like an expensive Cuban cigar. "Nothing left to identify. Clean work."
"Copy," Fitz says. "All teams, return to Opus Noir. We'll debrief Laurent and the girl, then hand them over to DGSI. Operation complete."
Operation complete. Amelie is safe. The Iron Choir's kidnapping plan failed. And Moreau is dead, eliminating the traitor who endangered us all.
The helicopter lifts off from Port Hercules and heads back to Opus Noir. I settle beside Marissa while the medic works on her shoulder, cleaning and packing the wound with practiced efficiency.
"Bullet went straight through," the medic says. "Clean wound. No major damage. She'll need proper medical treatment, but she's stable."
"Told you I'd be fine," Marissa says, but her voice is thready and her skin is too pale.
"You'll be fine when I say you're fine," I tell her, taking her uninjured hand in mine. "Until then, you follow my orders."
"Yes, Sir," she murmurs, and her eyes drift closed.
"Marissa." My voice sharpens with command. "Eyes open."
Her eyes open again, focusing on me with effort. "So demanding."
"You have no idea." I lean closer, making sure she can hear me over the helicopter noise. "But you're about to find out. Once you're healed, once this mission is over, you and I are having a conversation about what happens next."
"What happens next?" she echoes.
"You heal," I say. "Then we stop pretending there's nothing between us."
"I choose you," she whispers.
"I know." I brush blood-matted hair away from her face. "I saw it when you threw yourself between Amelie and gunfire."
"Moreau played you," she says.
"He did," I acknowledge. "But I let him. That's on me. And I'm sorry for it."
"I know." Her hand tightens in mine. "I forgive you."
"Just like that?"
"You threw yourself into a killbox for me," she says simply. "You chose me when it mattered. That's all I need."
The helicopter banks over the Mediterranean. Below us, Monte Carlo's emergency lights flash red and blue as police lock down the Hotel de Paris.
I keep holding Marissa's hand, feeling her pulse steady and strong beneath my fingers. She's hurt but alive. Amelie is safe. The mission succeeded despite the Iron Choir knowing we were coming.
"Archer," Marissa says, pulling my attention back to her. "The note you left. Did you mean it?"
"Every word," I say without hesitation.
Her eyes drift closed, and this time I let her rest. Let her body recover while I keep watch. Keep her safe. Keep her close.
The medic gives her something for the pain, and she relaxes into drug-assisted sleep. I keep holding her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles in a rhythm that grounds us both.
Laurent sits across from us with Amelie curled in his lap, finally calm enough to doze against her father's chest. Crystal bracelets catch the light every time she shifts.
