The train jolts to a stop. He drops his hand as he checks the corridor, and I feel the absence like losing warmth.
"Now," he says.
I follow him into the corridor, past the other sleeping compartments. We slip out at the rear of the train, onto a platform barely lit by a single lamp.
Cold air hits like a slap. Remy pulls me into shadow as the train pulls away, taking Lazarev's hunters with it. The station is deserted, just a small shelter and a parking area where a single car sits under a broken streetlight.
Remy checks his phone—coordinates and what must be drop instructions—then leads me to the car. A nondescript Audi that could belong to anyone. Keys are tucked above the visor.
We're moving in under a minute, putting distance between us and the train route. The roads are dark, narrow, winding through countryside that could be anywhere.
"Where are we?" I ask once we're clear of the station.
"Just outside Vienna. Small station where the Prague-Vienna-Budapest route stops twice a day, too small for cameras, too remote for checkpoints." He drives with the same precision he applies to everything else, constantly scanning. "We'll ditch the car in a couple hours, pick up another."
"And then?"
"Then we call Fitz and figure out our next move."
The burner phone rings not long after. Remy answers on speaker, still driving.
"You took the early exit," Fitz says without preamble. "Smart call. I picked up chatter about compartment checks on that route."
"Lazarev's people were on the train," Remy says. "We had to improvise."
A pause. "They're expanding faster than we projected. Found the Prague safe house in no time, and now they'rechecking transport routes. Someone's feeding them real-time intelligence."
"European intelligence is compromised," Remy says, and it's not a question. "Interpol, NATO—has to be for someone feeding them real-time intel."
"Looking that way." Fitz's voice carries weight of larger problems. "Which is why I'm recommending you get to London. We've got a secure facility there, and I can bring in additional protection."
"No." Remy's refusal is immediate. "We'd stick out in the UK. Different accent, no established cover, and if there's a leak, London's where they'd expect us to go."
"Then where?" Fitz sounds tired. "Because right now, they're two steps behind you, and that gap is closing."
I watch Remy's profile in the dashboard light, see the calculation happening behind his features. He's mapping variables I can't track, weighing risks against unknowns.
"Where would no one think to look for you?" I ask quietly.
Tension coils in his shoulders. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then: "Home. New Orleans. I haven't been back in years."
"Remy," Fitz starts, caution in his tone.
"It's off everyone's radar," Remy cuts him off. "Lazarev knows my operational history, not my personal one. The Iron Choir's focused on Europe. And I've got resources there that don't show up in any file."
"Family resources." Fitz makes it a statement.
"Yeah."
Another pause. "That's a big step. You sure you want to bring this to their door?"
The muscle in Remy's jaw works. I see the conflict, the weight of choices that don't have good answers. Going home meansexposing family to danger. Staying in Europe means staying in Lazarev's kill box.
"I'm sure," he says finally. "Get us clean passports and transport to the States. We'll use the forged Monaco documents to fly commercial, disappear from there."
"I'll have everything ready by midday," Fitz says. "There's a safe house in Vienna, coded drop. Lay low until the documents come through."
"Copy that."
