"Handheld if possible. And sample vials in case visual identification isn't sufficient to verify formulation."
"Already coordinated." Remy straightens, pulls out his phone. Makes a note with quick, efficient movements. "What else?"
"Protective equipment. The base catalyst causes second-degree chemical burns on skin contact. Respiratory exposure leads to pulmonary edema within minutes. The binding agent is relatively stable but aerosolized particles cause severe respiratory irritation. The activation compound is neurotoxiceven in trace amounts. Symptoms include muscle tremors, loss of motor control, seizures, respiratory failure."
The kitchen goes quiet. Heavy silence that presses against my ribs.
Remy's face doesn't change. "Hazmat protocols?"
"Full protective gear. Gloves, respirator, sealed suit if available. Decontamination procedures in case of exposure. Emergency atropine injectors if neurological symptoms present."
"On the list." He pockets his phone. "Timeline for identification once you're on site?"
I run through it mentally. "Minutes per component if containers are properly labeled and I have UV light. Longer if I need to verify through physical testing. Worst case, it could take most of our operational window if compounds are unlabeled and I have to test multiple samples."
"Tight operational window." Remy's voice is flat, professional. "Based on standard demolition protocols. You'll have limited time for identification. I need enough to set charges and confirm placement."
Limited time for identification. Not a lot of margin for error if something goes wrong.
"What if they're not all in the same location?" I ask.
"Then we adjust on site." His tone is matter-of-fact. "You identify what's there, I destroy it, we move to the next location. But they'll likely stage all three components together for final distribution. Makes tactical sense—compounds are useless separated, so they'll bring them together at Rotterdam before dispersing to buyers across Europe."
Luc closes his laptop. "The Iron Choir runs these operations quietly. Too much security draws attention they don't want. Probably minimal on-site personnel, possibly armed, definitely trained."
"Then we neutralize them." Remy's voice carries no emotion. No hesitation. Just cold operational reality. "Non-lethal if possible. Lethal if necessary. But no witnesses who can identify us or report our presence before charges detonate."
The way he discusses killing should bother me. The clinical assessment of who lives and who dies. Instead, it grounds me. Remy knows how to handle threats. I know chemistry. We might survive this.
Margot appears from somewhere, sets a plate of beignets on the table. Powdered sugar dusts her fingers, and the smell of fried dough and confectioner's sugar fills the kitchen. "You're talking about walking into a facility with armed security, identifying chemical weapons, planting explosives, and getting out before everything blows." She looks at me directly. "You sure about this?"
The question carries weight beyond the words. About Remy. About choosing this life over safety.
"Yes."
Margot's face changes. Acknowledgment settling into her eyes. "Then eat. Both of you. Can't run ops on empty stomachs."
I take a beignet. The fried dough and sugar taste like childhood, like Sunday mornings in Paris before everything got complicated. Margot pours herself coffee and sits across from me. Remy remains standing, positioned between me and the doorway. Protective placement, unconscious or deliberate.
"Remy tells me you're from Paris," Margot says.
"Born there. Grew up in Geneva. My father moved us when I was young."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "Wealthy family, then."
"Wealthy father. We don't speak."
"His choice or yours?"
"Both." I take another bite of beignet, the sugar coating my tongue. "He wanted me to follow family tradition. Medicine,law, business. I chose chemistry instead. We haven't been on speaking terms since I left for university."
Margot's expression softens. "The Pascals understand difficult family dynamics. Between Remy disappearing for years to play soldier and Luc running operations that may or may not be legal, we've had practice navigating complicated."
"My operations are perfectly legal," Luc says without looking up from his phone.
"Sure they are." Margot's smile is wry. "Just like Papa's offshore business was perfectly legal."
"Papa's business was legal," Remy says. His tone is flat. "The competitors he occasionally sabotaged to protect his market share, less so."
