"Then we rely on ourselves," I finish. "Whatever assets we can find, our operational expertise, Isabella's chemistry knowledge. We go in fast, hit hard, and get out clean before anyone realizes what happened."
"Day after tomorrow," Isabella says.
I confirm. "Day after tomorrow."
Hours pass. We refine the framework, outline contingency strategies for scenarios ranging from clean operation to complete chaos. Isabella provides technical specifications for identifying her compounds: molecular weight markers, specific synthesis byproducts, formulation characteristics that can't be faked. I outline demolition strategy in general terms, knowingthe specifics will depend on actual facility layouts my contacts are working to acquire.
Luc works through logistics: transport options, equipment sourcing, emergency extraction protocols if everything goes wrong. He's good at this. Years running his own ops have sharpened the skills Delta Force gave him.
By mid-afternoon, we have a working framework. Not a complete plan, since that requires intelligence we're still gathering, but solid enough that we can move fast once we have the details.
Isabella stands, stretches, moves to the French doors overlooking the back gallery. Magnolias bloom white in the fading light, their scent drifting through the open doors. She's been steady through the planning, asking the right questions, providing critical technical details. But now, watching her silhouette against the afternoon light, I see the tension in her shoulders.
Fear she's been hiding under operational competence.
"After Rotterdam," she says quietly, not turning around. "What happens after?"
Her question carries weight, everything unspoken between us. After Rotterdam, if we survive, if we successfully eliminate the compounds and disrupt the Iron Choir network...
"We'll see what's left standing," I say.
She turns, dark eyes studying me. "You mean the compounds or us?"
"Both."
Luc appears in the doorway. "I'm heading out. I'm meeting one of my contacts to see if there's any indication of compromise in the network. I should be back by midnight."
"Be careful," I say.
"Always am." He pauses, looks at Isabella, then back to me. "She's good for you, brother. Don't fuck it up."
Then he's gone, leaving us alone in the study with maps and plans and Rotterdam looming ahead.
Isabella doesn't move from the French doors. Twilight deepens outside, amber light fading to violet. Magnolia scent drifts through on the humid air.
"I'm scared," she says finally. Simple admission. No deflection. "I've been scared since Prague, but this is different. Rotterdam feels... final."
I cross to her, stop just close enough that she could reach for me if she wanted. "You don't have to go."
"Yes, I do." She turns to face me. "That delivery system—it's my responsibility. My work, weaponized. If I don't help stop it..." She trails off. "I have to see this through."
"Even if it kills you?"
"Even then." Her gaze holds mine. "But I'm trusting you not to let that happen."
"Isabella—"
"I know the risks. I know what we're walking into." Her hand finds my chest, fingers spreading over my heart. "But I also know you. And I know that if there's anyone who can get us out alive, it's you."
Trust like that anchors something I've been running from. A part of me waiting for someone to see past the weapon I've made myself into. To see the man underneath and choose me anyway.
"When we get back from Rotterdam," I say, covering her hand with mine. "When this is over. We need to talk about what happens between us."
"Then we figure out what comes next," she says. "Together."
A promise falls into place between us. Not temporary. Not just for the mission. Permanent.
She steps closer, near enough that I can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes. "I'm holding you to that."
