The train picks up speed, carrying me toward a future I can't predict.
Behind me, Geneva and everything I built there. Ahead, Prague and whatever time I can buy myself before they close in. The hunt's already started, but I'm not the naive scientist who walked into that lab tonight.
They'll be looking for Dr. Isabella Durand, distinguished chemist from a respected family. That woman died tonight in Emil's lab. Whatever I have to do to survive this—I'll figure it out. Fast. Or I'll be dead before I get the chance.
1
REMY
Present Day
Maman always said I had a talent for finding trouble. Tonight, trouble's waiting on a catwalk in Prague, and I've rigged six ways to burn this place down.
I press my back against the corrugated metal wall, the unlit cigar clamped between my teeth, breathing shallow through my nose. An old habit, a comfort check. The familiar taste of tobacco grounds me—like rosary beads for a man who stopped praying years ago. Maman would've had words about that, rest her soul. Probably involving a wooden spoon and a lecture about disrespecting the Virgin.
Across the warehouse floor, mercs in tactical gear sweep the space with mounted flashlights, their boots echoing off concrete. They're professional, disciplined—not the cheap muscle you hire for a quick job. They move in practiced formation, covering angles, communicating through hand signals. Former military personnel, most likely.
Whoever's bankrolling this operation has serious resources.
I count several in my line of sight, but there'll be more. There are always more. The Iron Choir doesn't skimp on security when they want someone badly enough.
"Nitro." Fitz's voice crackles through my earpiece, calm as Sunday mass despite the situation. "Target is on the move. Second floor, northwest corner."
I key my mic twice. Acknowledgment without words. Decades in explosives taught me when to stay quiet.
The target—Dr. Isabella Durand, French chemist who decided growing a conscience was worth dying for—is somewhere in this industrial graveyard. My job: extract her before the Iron Choir finds her. Before they decide a dead scientist can't testify about weaponized delivery systems. Before I have to scrape another civilian off the pavement because the intel was shit.
My jaw clenches. Yemen floods back—the compound, the fire, the screaming. Orders followed. Collateral accepted. The kind of math that keeps you up at night wondering if you're still human or just pretending.
I shake it off and focus on the job.
According to Cerberus intel, Durand stole evidence from a Geneva lab weeks ago and went underground. Cerberus tracked her movements and identified the Iron Choir as the pursuing threat—their signature operational patterns all over her trail.
Then she surfaced here in Prague under her real name—legitimate credentials, published research, recommendations from Zurich. The kind of academic pedigree that gets you a position at a chemical plant without raising flags. On paper, she's just another brilliant chemist relocating for a new opportunity.
What she's actually doing with that stolen evidence is anyone's guess, but the Iron Choir isn't taking any chances.
Cerberus tracked her down days ago. It's taken the Iron Choir longer, but tonight they found her. Hence the mercs, the mission, and me with enough explosives to level a city block.
Movement on the catwalk above. A slender figure, feminine, moving too fast to be careful. Lab coat flapping. She stumbles, catches herself on the railing. Even from here I can see her hands shaking, almost smell the fear rolling off of her.
I've acquired the target.
The mercs spot her half a second after I do. Weapons swing up, red laser dots painting the catwalk like targeting coordinates. Several converge below her position, cutting off ground-level escape routes.
"Contact!" one of them shouts—Eastern European accent, Czech or Polish.
There's no time to think. I move.
The remote detonator in my pocket triggers charges I placed earlier—strategic positions calculated to cause maximum chaos, minimum casualties. Old factory equipment explodes in sequence: north wall, then south, then the ventilation system. Smoke and fire and the beautiful percussion of controlled destruction.
The shock waves roll through the warehouse, rattling windows, sending the mercs scrambling for cover. Metal screams. Glass shatters. A chemical tank ruptures, spewing acrid smoke that burns my throat.
The mercs scatter like roaches when the lights come on. Confusion is my oldest friend.
I hit the catwalk stairs at a run, taking them several at a time. The metal structure shudders under my boots, bolts groaning from the blast damage. Above me, Dr. Durand is still moving—smart girl, didn't freeze—but she's heading toward a dead end where the catwalk terminates at a locked fire door.
"East exit," I call up in French, my Louisiana drawl turning the words thick and slow. "Allez!"
