It's the first real glimpse of what going home means to him. Not tactical. Personal.
"Okay," I say. "But if you start hearing beeping, we're ditching them."
The almost-smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine. "Deal."
Hours later, we're at the airport, looking like honeymooners heading home. The forged passports from Monaco sail through security. No one looks twice at the American and his French wife, both well-dressed, both carrying just the right amount of luggage.
We board the flight to New York, connecting through JFK to Houston, then Houston to Baton Rouge. Remy gets us seats toward the back, aisle and window, nobody between us. Smart—anyone tracking direct flights to New Orleans won't see us coming. Fitzwallace will have an SUV waiting in Baton Rouge, parked in a pre-arranged spot where we can pick it up and drive the rest of the way.
As the plane taxis, he leans close enough I can smell his soap, feel the heat of him.
"When we get there," he says quietly, "everything changes. New Orleans is home. It's family. It's complicated in ways I can't explain yet."
"I understand."
"No, you don't." His gaze holds mine. "But you will."
The plane lifts off, carrying us away from Europe, from Lazarev's immediate reach, toward whatever waits for Remy in New Orleans.
I watch the Alps recede below, catching Remy's reflection in the dark glass. Rigid in the aisle seat, jaw working like he's bracing for impact.
He's taking me home with him. To family, to New Orleans, to a place he told Fitz he hasn't been back to in years. And I don't know if that makes us safer or puts everyone he cares about directly in Lazarev's crosshairs.
5
REMY
Somewhere over the Atlantic, Isabella falls asleep against the window.
Good. She needs it after what she's been through. I watch her reflection in the dark glass, the way exhaustion finally won over adrenaline. Her breathing evens out, shoulders relaxing for the first time since Prague.
Sleep should come for me too. My ribs ache, burns pull tight under my collar, and every breath reminds me that extracting her from that warehouse cost more than I'd like to admit.
But sleep means dropping my guard, and old habits don't break easy.
The cabin lights dim for the overnight flight. Around us, passengers settle in with neck pillows and blankets. The businessman three rows up pulls down his shade. A flight attendant moves through the cabin with practiced quiet, checking on sleeping passengers.
I can't help tracking them all. Threat assessment never really turns off, even at thirty thousand feet surrounded by civilians who just want to get home.
Home.
Been too long since I walked those streets. Years since I stood in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 watching them lower Papa into the family tomb while Luc and Margot stood across from me, grief and anger carving their faces into strangers. Years since I walked away from the Garden District mansion that carried our mother's scent in every room.
I'd been in Yemen when the call came about Maman. Hostage extraction gone sideways, my team pinned down in a compound that was supposed to be abandoned. By the time we fought our way out and I could get to a secure line, she was already gone. Heart attack, sudden, nothing anyone could have done.
Papa followed weeks later. They said it was a stroke, but I know better. He died of a broken heart, unable to exist in a world without Céleste Beaumont Pascal.
I made it back for his funeral. Walked into that cemetery, watched them place him beside her, and felt my siblings' accusation like physical blows even though neither of them said a word. I missed hers entirely, barely made it home for his, and they'll never let me forget it.
The flight attendant stops at our row. "Can I get you anything, sir?"
"No, thank you."
She moves on. Isabella shifts slightly, her head tilting toward me before she settles again. Even in sleep, she gravitates toward protection.
Dangerous, that instinct. Especially with someone like me.
I pull out my phone, check the encrypted messages from Fitz. Clean passports cleared customs without flags. The SUV is waiting in Baton Rouge long-term parking, keys in a magnetic box under the rear driver's side wheel well.
