If she moves, if this is an ambush trigger, I'll have moments at most to reload and respond before whatever she's planned unfolds. But she just sits there, exhaustion carved into every line of her posture, watching me with that same steady assessment that's been unsettling since I caught up with her. Like she's measuring something more fundamental than threat response.
"You could have run," I say. "Taken this evidence and disappeared. New identity, new country, new life. Why stay?"
"Because running means Amelie Laurent gets taken. Running means the Cardinal keeps his position. Running means the Iron Choir continues operating with impunity across Europe." Her fingers find those stones again, that unconscious gesture revealing something deeper than tactical calculation. "Ididn't spend five years embedded in hell just to save myself at the end."
Her voice carries conviction that matches what I saw at the monastery. Dead Iron Choir operatives. Burned archives. A woman who fought her way out instead of walking away clean. Everything except the dossier that painted her as corrupted beyond redemption.
I pull out my comm unit. "I need to bring you in."
Her expression doesn't change, but tension coils through her shoulders. "To Cerberus?"
"To Fitzwallace. He needs to see this evidence directly." I key in the encrypted channel. "And he needs to verify your story before we commit resources to stopping a kidnapping based on intelligence from a compromised asset."
"I understand," she says, but resignation in her voice hits different than operational protocol.
Fitz answers on the second ring. "Status?"
"I'm at the villa with Nocturne. She's alive, injured, and providing intelligence that could change everything." My gaze stays on her while I talk. "Claims to have comprehensive evidence on the Iron Choir—financial records, communication intercepts, operational plans. Including a kidnapping plot targeting Interpol Deputy Director Laurent's daughter."
Silence stretches across the connection, long enough that tension builds in my chest. When Fitz speaks again, his tone holds decision that could reshape Cerberus operations across Europe.
"You've verified this?"
"Not yet. But the monastery evidence supports her story. Dead Iron Choir operatives, burned archives, stolen files. She fought her way out instead of walking away clean. And she came to a registered safe house instead of running." I keep my voicelevel, professional. "The intelligence needs verification, but my instinct says she's telling the truth."
Another pause. Fitz knows me well enough to recognize when I'm operating on gut feeling versus tactical analysis. "Bring her in. Opus Noir, operations center. We review the evidence together and debrief directly."
"Copy that." I cut the connection and holster my comm unit, then pull the magazine from my vest pocket. The weight feels familiar in my palm as I slide it home with a decisive click, chambering a round before securing the weapon in its holster.
Nocturne watches the movement, understanding flickering across her features. Not a threat. A commitment. If I'm bringing her into Cerberus operations, I do it armed and ready to protect what I'm vouching for.
"We're moving," I say. "Can you walk?"
"I can walk." She stands, favoring her injured arm but maintaining balance. "Where are we going?"
"Monte Carlo. Opus Noir." I move toward the door, checking the hallway before gesturing for her to follow. Then I pause, turning back to the desk where her Glock sits. I pick it up, check the chamber—loaded but not chambered, tactical discipline even in extremis—and hold it out to her grip-first.
She stares at the weapon for a heartbeat, then at me, something shifting in her expression. Understanding. Maybe the beginning of trust.
"You'll need it if this goes sideways," I say simply.
She takes the Glock, chambers a round with smooth efficiency, and secures it in her holster. The gesture's small—acknowledgment, maybe gratitude—but she doesn't waste words on it.
"Don't make me regret it." I lead her into the corridor. "Cerberus maintains operational headquarters at Opus Noir. Fitz wants to question you directly."
"Opus Noir?" Curiosity colors her tone. "The BDSM club?"
"The club's a cover. Operations run from the upper levels." I guide her through the villa's corridors, weapons ready, senses tuned for any indication the someone’s been through the place in our absence. "Perfect location for moving high-value assets without drawing attention."
"Clever," she murmurs. "Hide your intelligence operation behind Monaco's most exclusive adult entertainment."
We reach her vehicle in the villa's garage without incident. She hands me the keys without being asked, acknowledging the reality that she's in no condition to drive. I secure her in the passenger seat, noting how exhaustion's carved deeper lines around her eyes, how her breathing's gone shallow with pain. She needs medical attention. But protocol demands debriefing first, verification before treatment.
I drive fast, taking the mountain roads toward the clearing where I landed the helicopter. Nocturne sits silent beside me, her hand pressed against her injured arm, her gaze tracking the darkness beyond the windshield.
"If this goes sideways," I say quietly, "it's on me. Understand? I'm vouching for you. If you're playing me, if this is elaborate cover for something worse, then I'm the one who brought you into Cerberus operations."
"I understand," she says. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry you have to take that risk."
