"Entirely, sir. Took extensive notes. Mrs. Patmore's efficiency in the kitchen. Carson's attention to protocol and detail. The way Mr. Bates handled crisis with quiet dignity. Anna's unwavering loyalty even when circumstances were difficult. It was quite educational."
He paused, then added with perfect timing, "Though, I must admit, the show makes it look far easier than it is in practice. The silver alone requires an alarming amount of polishing. And don't get me started on the proper way to press a dress shirt. There are apparently very strong opinions about collar stiffness."
"Jesus Christ."
"Indeed. I also consulted several historical texts on household management and watched YouTube tutorials on napkin folding. One does one's research, sir."
I shook my head, still grinning. "You're something else, Ellsworth."
"I do try, sir. Though between you and me, I suspect Mr. Carson would have an apoplexy if he saw how I actually run this household. Far too much improvisation and not nearly enough adherence to tradition."
The humor faded slightly as I shifted gears, my mind returning to the problem at hand. To Merrick. To the threat that was still out there. To the hunt that was coming whether I was ready for it or not.
"What's the development?" I asked, my voice dropping back into operational mode.
Ellsworth's demeanor shifted instantly—no less personable, but sharper. Focused. The soldier emerging cleanly from beneath the butler's veneer like he'd just taken off a coat.
"We've tracked Merrick to two square blocks," he said, his voice crisp and professional. "Near the 11th arrondissement. Industrial area. Warehouses, old factories, buildings that used to house manufacturing but have been abandoned for years. The sort of place where people mind their own business and don't ask questions."
"Smart."
"Indeed. He's moving between three primary locations, likely trying to stay unpredictable. But he's not as careful as he thinks he is. Habits and all. He's establishing patterns despite his best efforts."
Ellsworth moved to the desk and pulled out a tablet I hadn't noticed before. A few taps brought up satellite imagery of the area.
"Here," he said, pointing to a cluster of buildings. "These three structures. He's visited each of them multiple times over the past forty-eight hours. But this one?—"
He zoomed in on a large, blocky building.
"—an abandoned textile factory. Shows significantly increased activity. Vehicles coming and going. Foot traffic at odd hours. Heat signatures suggest at least ten to fifteen people inside at any given time."
I studied the image, my tactical brain already working through approaches and angles.
"Guards?" I asked.
"At least four visible on rotation. Two at the main entrance, two roaming the perimeter. Likely more inside, though we won't know exact numbers until we get closer."
"Shifts?"
"They're rotating every six hours. Maybe they're expecting trouble and trying to stay fresh. Maybe it’s just what they do. But it seems that they’re ready."
"Good," I said, and meant it. "They should be."
Ellsworth's mouth curved slightly. "My thoughts exactly, sir."
I moved to the window, looking out at the city. Paris stretched out below us—beautiful, indifferent, carrying on with its day like violence wasn't brewing just beneath the surface. Like men weren't planning how to kill each other in abandoned factories while tourists took pictures of the Eiffel Tower.
"Between the two of us," I said slowly, thinking it through out loud, "we should be able to narrow it down. Get eyes on the locations. Confirm which one Merrick's actually using as his main base."
"Precisely, sir."
"Then we go in. Clean and quiet."
"As one does."
I hesitated, then turned to face him. "Should we bring more men? Micah's got resources. We could have a full team here in hours. Professionals who know what they're doing."
It was the smart play. The tactical play.
