"Just don't make me regret it."
The clearing appears through the trees, the helicopter visible in the moonlight with the pilot waiting beside it. I pull up and kill the engine, then toss the car keys to the pilot.
"Ditch it and then arrange to be picked up," I say. "I want it somewhere the Iron Choir won't find it anytime soon."
He catches them with a nod, professional enough not to ask questions about the injured woman I'm bringing back. Operational security means the less he knows, the better.
I help Nocturne into the co-pilot seat, noting the way she winces when the harness presses against her injured ribs. She settles in without complaint, her gaze tracking my pre-flight checks with professional interest.
"You fly?" she asks quietly.
"Most Cerberus operatives do." I run through the startup sequence, instruments coming to life across the console. "Can't always rely on having a pilot handy."
Monte Carlo spreads below us as we lift off, glittering lights cascading down the hillside toward the harbor. I angle toward the entertainment district where Opus Noir sits, its elegant facade promising discretion and exclusivity to patrons wealthy enough to afford the membership fees.
The flight's short, maybe minutes at most, but tension fills the confined space. Nocturne sits beside me, exhausted and injured, trusting me to bring her into the organization that came to kill her. Every tactical consideration says this is a mistake. Every instinct says it's the right call.
"Thank you," she says quietly, almost too soft to hear over the rotors. "For believing me."
"I haven't decided if I believe you yet." The admission comes out rougher than I intend. "But I'm giving you the chance to prove it."
The building's rooftop helipad comes into view, landing lights already activated. Someone at operations center anticipated our arrival, prepared the approach. I bring us down smooth and controlled, the skids touching concrete with barely a jolt.
Nocturne follows me across the helipad to the rooftop access door, moving carefully to protect her injuries. We descend one level into the operations center.
Computer arrays line the walls, displaying real-time intelligence feeds from across Europe. Weapon lockers stand ready for rapid deployment. A conference area occupies the center space, surrounded by tactical planning boards covered in operation details.
Fitzwallace waits at the conference table, his presence commanding immediate attention. Tall, muscular, carrying authority in every line of his posture. Logan stands beside him, arms crossed, suspicion evident in every angle. Beyond them, through the glass partition separating the tactical bay from the main operations floor, Nitro watches from his workstation with quiet intensity.
"Nocturne," Fitz says, his voice flat. "Thank you for coming in."
"Not exactly voluntary," she replies, glancing at me. "Archer's fairly persuasive."
"Archer has good instincts." Fitz gestures to the table. "Sit. Tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to Interpol right now and let them sort out whether you're an asset or a liability."
She sits, back straight despite obvious exhaustion. "Because Interpol's compromised. Because the Cardinal's been feeding the Iron Choir intelligence for years. And because if you hand me over, Amelie Laurent gets kidnapped and you lose your only witness who can prove the Iron Choir's entire European operation."
Logan moves forward, aggression barely contained. "We have your dossier. We know what you've done. What makes you think we'd trust anything you say?"
"Dossier's false." Her voice stays level. "Written by the Cardinal to eliminate me before I could expose his work with theIron Choir. Every operation listed, every kill attributed to me, all of it designed to turn Cerberus against their own asset."
"Our own asset?" Logan's tone drips skepticism. "You've been off-grid for months. You've participated in Iron Choir operations. You've killed people."
"I've maintained my cover while gathering evidence." She meets his hostility without flinching. "Evidence Archer has on that flash drive. Evidence that proves everything I'm telling you."
Fitz raises a hand, cutting off Logan's response. "Before we go further, let's see what we're working with. Archer, the flash drive."
I pull it from my vest pocket and slide it across the table to Nitro, who's appeared from the tactical bay with a secure laptop. He plugs it in, fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced efficiency. Within moments, files populate the screen visible on the large display mounted on the operations center wall.
Financial records appear first. Spreadsheets dense with account numbers and transaction histories. Swiss banks, Cayman holdings, shell corporations layered deep enough that it would take forensic accountants weeks to unravel the full structure. But the pattern's there, visible even at first glance. Money flowing from Iron Choir operations into accounts linked to European intelligence agencies.
"Christ," Logan mutters, leaning closer to study the data.
Communication intercepts follow. Encrypted messages between Iron Choir leadership and someone identified only as "Nightingale." Damning operational details. Target locations. Security protocols. Everything the Iron Choir would need to stay ahead of international law enforcement.
Operational logs fill the next folder. Detailed plans for the Laurent kidnapping—reconnaissance photos of the family, security assessments of their Paris residence, extraction routesmapped through the city. Timeline marked with precision that suggests military training. Target acquisition set for days from now.
And woven through everything, one name appears repeatedly. One signature on authorization documents, one point of contact for intelligence sharing, one person positioned to feed the Iron Choir exactly what they need while maintaining perfect deniability.
