She's about to respond when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, frowning at the screen. Fitz. At this hour. Never good news.
"Fitz," I say, voice shifting to operational mode. "What's wrong?"
"Situation in Prague," Fitz says without preamble. "Nitro needs backup. How fast can you and Nocturne get to Opus Noir?"
I glance at Marissa, who's already reading the situation in my expression. "Give us thirty minutes."
"Make it twenty. This is bad, Archer. Really bad."
"Understood. We'll be there soon."
I end the call and look at her. "Get dressed. We need to get to Opus Noir immediately."
"What happened?"
"Situation in Prague." I'm already moving, pulling on clothes with practiced efficiency. "Nitro needs backup. Fitz wants us ready to deploy."
Prague. Nitro. Backup required. The familiar adrenaline surge hits my system despite the morning-soft intimacy we just shared. This is who we are. What we do. Protectors and eliminators and everything in between.
She meets my gaze across the room. "You and me?"
"You and me," I say. "Every damn time."
We dress fast, gathering gear and weapons with the synchronized efficiency of partners who know exactly how the other moves. Her shoulder must be protesting the tactical vest's weight, but she doesn't complain. Just checks her weapons with the same professional focus I use.
Minutes later we're in the car heading toward Opus Noir, weapons secured, tactical vests in place. I drive with focused precision while she runs through mental checklists of what we might need for Prague.
I reach across the console and lace my fingers through hers.
Prague. Nitro. Whatever situation requires backup from both of us.
The mission never stops. But now I'm not facing it alone.
She squeezes my hand, and I glance at her. The certainty in her eyes matches what I feel.
We're going to be fine. Better than fine.
We're going to be unstoppable.
REMY
The chemical plant reeks of sulfur and bad decisions.
I press my back against the corrugated metal wall, breathing shallow through my nose while my gloved fingers trace the brick of C-4 strapped to my chest. Old habit. Comfort check. The weight's familiar, grounding—like rosary beads for a man who stopped praying years ago.
Across the warehouse floor, three mercs in tactical gear sweep the space with mounted flashlights, their boots echoing off concrete. Professional. Disciplined. The kind of hired muscle that doesn't come cheap.
Which means whoever's bankrolling this operation has resources.
"Nitro." Fitz's voice crackles through my earpiece, calm as Sunday mass despite the situation. "Target is on the move. Second floor, northwest corner."
I key my mic twice. Acknowledgment without words. Twenty years in explosives taught me when to stay quiet.
The target—Dr. Isabella Durand, French chemist who decided growing a conscience was worth dying for—is somewhere in this industrial graveyard. My job: extract her before the syndicate finds her. Before they decide a dead scientist can't testify about weaponized delivery systems.
Before I have to scrape another civilian off the pavement because someone else's intel was shit.
My jaw clenches. Yemen floods back—the compound, the fire, the screaming. Orders followed. Collateral accepted. The kind of math that keeps you up at night wondering if you're still human or just pretending.
