Which was exactly what made it right.
"We go in direct," I said, spreading the satellite image across the desk between us. "No games. No elaborate infiltration. We move fast, casual, and we hit hard."
Ellsworth nodded, his finger tracing the perimeter of the textile factory on the screen. His movements were precise, methodical—the same way I imagined he approached everything. Measured, deliberate, effective.
"Zip-tie and gag any civilians," he said. "Focus on finding Merrick."
"He's the key," I agreed. "Everything else is noise."
The target was Merrick. The guards were obstacles. The building was just a location. But Merrick—he was the objective. The piece of my past that had followed me to Paris and threatened everything I was trying to build with Mila.
End him, end the immediate threat.
At least, that's what I told myself.
Ellsworth disappeared into another room and returned carrying a case I hadn't seen before—hard-sided, unmarked, the kind of thing that screamed expensive and possibly illegal. He set it on the desk between us and opened it with the reverence of a jeweler presenting something rare.
Inside lay two pistols.
Matte black. Compact. Suppressors already attached. But it was more than aesthetics. The craftsmanship was immediately apparent—every line clean, every angle intentional. These weren't mass-produced sidearms pulled from an armory. These were works of art that happened to be lethal.
I lifted one, and the weight distribution told me everything before I even checked the chamber.
Custom work. Precision machining. The grip molded itself to my hand like it had been made specifically for me—which, I was beginning to suspect, it had. The balance was perfect. Not front-heavy from the suppressor, not awkward in the draw. Just ... right.
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Friend from the service," Ellsworth said casually, like he was discussing where he'd bought his shoes. "Gunsmith. Makes anything I need, for a price. Though between you and me, I think he charges more out of principle than necessity. Gives him something to do besides tinker in his garage and yell at the television."
I sighted down the barrel, feeling the way the weapon moved with me instead of against me. "This is incredible."
"He was set out to pasture, too," Ellsworth continued, and there was an edge to his voice now—the same frustration I'd heard earlier when he'd talked about retirement. "Bit like me. Brilliant mind, decades of experience, suddenly considered obsolete because some spreadsheet said he'd reached retirement age. Bloody waste, if you ask me."
An idea sparked, cutting through the pre-op focus.
"Think he'd be interested in more regular work?" I asked. "Like an in-house weapons specialist?"
Ellsworth's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "You mean like Q?"
"Exactly like Q."
He considered it, already working through logistics. I could see it in the way his expression shifted—practical, assessing, calculating odds.
"I'll mention it to him," he said finally. "Though, I imagine Mr. Dane would need to approve the arrangement. Budgets and all that tedious business."
"Micah will bite," I said with certainty. "This is exactly the kind of asset The Sanctuary needs. Customized equipment. No questions asked. Someone who understands operational requirements."
Ellsworth smiled. "I'll make the call tomorrow."
But there was no time to pursue that now.
We loaded into the car twenty minutes later, both dressed in dark, nondescript clothing that would blend into shadows. Nothing tactical. Nothing that screamed operator. Just two men who could be anyone, going anywhere. Very European.
Ellsworth drove with his characteristic calm. The city slid past—elegant facades giving way to industrial sprawl, beauty surrendering to function block by block until we were in the part of Paris tourists never saw.
We parked half a mile out, the car tucked into an alley between abandoned warehouses where it wouldn't draw attention.
Ellsworth handed me the radio bud. Tiny thing. Barely visible once it nestled in my ear canal. Military-grade tech in a package smaller than a bean.
