His expression doesn't change, but his weight shifts forward slightly. "You infiltrated their meeting tonight."
"The Silent Canticle. The Conductor himself laid out the operation." No closer movement, no gestures that could be interpreted as threatening. "They'll kidnap her during thediplomatic gala in Monte Carlo and use her as leverage to force her father to dismantle the Interpol task force hunting them. If he refuses, they kill her and move to contingency targets."
"And you just happened to steal their files and escape with this information." His tone carries skepticism. "Convenient timing for someone who's been working for them."
"Deep cover for five years. Pretending to be what they needed me to be while feeding intelligence back to handlers who got executed for knowing too much." The words taste bitter. "My last handler died in Vienna—execution-style in a safe house where he thought he was meeting me. Someone betrayed him. Someone at Interpol who needs me dead before I can expose what I know."
"Who?"
"The Cardinal. Interpol's mole who's been feeding the Iron Choir intelligence for years. The same person who convinced Cerberus I'm a traitor, who fabricated the dossier you received, who sent you here to eliminate the one operative who can prove his coordination with the people we're supposed to be hunting." Meeting his eyes, holding his gaze. "I don't know his real identity yet. But he has access to everything—Interpol's operational planning, Cerberus's coordination with European intelligence, real-time updates on where investigations are focusing. And it's all on this drive."
Archer's face stays neutral, but doubt creeps into his eyes—micro-movements, the way his gaze flicks to the flash drive and back, the slight furrow between his brows. The same doubt that made him come alone, that made him remove his magazine before entering. "You're asking me to believe there's a mole at the highest levels of Interpol, that you've been loyal this entire time, and that the Iron Choir is about to escalate to kidnapping children."
"I'm asking you to look at the evidence before you decide." Tilting my head toward the flash drive. "Everything you need to verify what I'm telling you. Or you can shoot me now, report mission accomplished, and watch Amelie Laurent become leverage or a corpse when the Iron Choir moves in days."
Silence stretches between us, sharp and dangerous. He's weighing options, calculating risk, deciding whether the woman bleeding in front of him is worth believing. His eyes show the crack in certainty that comes from seeing too many operations go wrong for the right reasons.
"Why run to a registered safe house?" he asks. "If you're being framed, why make it easy for us to find you?"
"Because running means that child dies. Running means the Iron Choir wins. Running means five years of compromises were for nothing." My voice stays steady despite the exhaustion threatening to pull me under. "I came here because I needed to make contact with someone who would listen. Someone who might ask questions before pulling the trigger. I'm betting everything that you're that person."
"You're betting your life on it."
"I'm betting a child's life on it." Hands lowering completely, the flash drive still visible. "Days on the clock until they move. You can kill me after you read what's on this drive, if you still think I'm lying. But if you ignore me, if you walk away without looking, then we both know what happens to Amelie Laurent."
The standoff stretches between us—not quite an execution, not quite a negotiation, something uncertain that neither of us expected. He's Cerberus's best eliminator, sent to neutralize a threat. The target stands before him, bleeding and exhausted, betting everything on the recognition that flickered in his eyes when they locked onto mine.
Archer doesn't move closer. But his voice carries something different when he speaks. "Show me what you've got. But if you're lying, I can always kill you later."
Tension hums in the space between us—the awareness of two operatives circling each other, questioning orders, trusting despite every instinct screaming not to. He's doubting his mission. The woman he came to eliminate is trusting him with evidence that could destroy her if he chooses not to believe it. And somewhere in Monte Carlo, the Iron Choir is counting down to an operation that will change everything.
The flash drive is small and heavy in my palm. Days until they move on Amelie. Hours, maybe, until the Cardinal realizes I'm still alive and sends someone else. And standing between me and execution is a man who came here to kill me but hasn't pulled the trigger yet.
I’m close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes that mirrors my own. Close enough to wonder if that flicker of recognition was real or wishful thinking. Close enough to die.
4
ARCHER
The flash drive sits in Nocturne's outstretched hand, small and unassuming. She stands across from me in the villa's study, bleeding and exhausted, offering me evidence that could either be salvation or the most elaborate trap I've ever walked into.
My weapon rests in its holster. Empty. The magazine sits heavy in my tactical vest pocket where I put it before entering the villa—a calculated decision that made me vulnerable but signaled something more important than firepower.
Every instinct screams to follow orders. Eliminate the target. Secure the monastery evidence. Report back to Cerberus with one less complication in an already compromised operation.
But I removed that magazine myself. Made the choice before I crossed the threshold. And standing here now, watching her bleed from injuries sustained at the monastery while she offers me intelligence instead of running, I'm questioning every assumption that brought me to Monaco.
"Review it," she says quietly, her voice carrying that same steady calm that's been throwing me off since I found the Interpol safe house. "All of it. Then decide if I'm worth the bullet."
Against protocol, against training, against every tactical consideration that should matter, I reach out and take the flash drive from her hand.
Her shoulders drop slightly, relief bleeding through the tactical composure she's maintained since the monastery. She doesn't thank me. Doesn't say anything. Just touches those crystal bracelets on her wrist, fingers tracing the stones like they're a lifeline keeping her tethered to something real.
"Sit down before you fall down," I say, gesturing to the desk chair. "And don't move while I verify what you're giving me."
She sits without argument, her injured arm cradled against her torso. Blood's seeped through her makeshift bandage, dark stains spreading across the fabric. She needs medical attention. Needs sleep. Needs about a dozen things that aren't happening until I confirm whether she's an asset or a threat.
I pocket the flash drive, the small weight settling against my vest. Everything she's claiming could be verified or dismissed with the right equipment, the right analysis. But not here. Not in a villa that might already be compromised, with systems that could be monitored.
