When I pull back, his expression has shifted. Still controlled, still the demolitions expert planning an op, but with hunger underneath that promises consequences. Retribution for making him wait. The darkness in his eyes promises he'll collect.
The clock ticks down. Tomorrow we leave for Rotterdam. Tomorrow we walk into a facility that might have Iron Choir security, Lazarev's people, and enough weaponized compounds to kill thousands. We either eliminate the threat or die trying.
But standing here with Remy in the fading light, I'm not afraid anymore. Just determined. Ready. Committed to seeing this through no matter what comes.
We separate at dawn. Different routes, different covers, different arrival times at Schiphol. And after that, assuming we survive, we figure out what comes next.
12
REMY
Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson at dawn. Gate B17. Coffee cooling in my hand while I scan faces in the crowd.
Three men in suits near the departure screen. Too alert. Eyes tracking movement patterns instead of reading phones like everyone else. One shifts weight when I glance his way.
Could be nothing. Could be Iron Choir watchers running surveillance on departing flights.
I drain my coffee and move toward boarding, keeping my gait casual. Even at my size, posture can make me fade into crowds. Don't draw attention, don't create patterns, don't make eye contact. The men don't follow. Probably just paranoid corporate security on their own business.
Probably.
Isabella's somewhere over the Atlantic right now. Different airline, different route, Paris connection before Amsterdam. We separated at Louis Armstrong, staggered our departures in case someone's tracking.
Missing her feels like losing control. Like the part of me that knows better is being overridden by something more primitive.
Mine. The thought surfaces with predatory certainty.
She walked into this world knowing what it costs. Now she's in too deep to walk away.
My phone vibrates mid-flight. Encrypted message from Luc.
Contact confirmed target facility. Sophie's trail led to Lazarev's shell company clearing customs yesterday. Same warehouse. He's there NOW.
Fuck.
I read it twice. Lazarev isn't just buying—he's on site during staging. Which means he knows the timeline, knows when the compounds arrive, potentially knows we're coming.
Second message:
Rotterdam contact reports increased security. Four guards now. Rotation patterns changed. Someone tipped them.
The suspected leak isn't suspected anymore. It's confirmed.
Someone in our operational chain sold us out, and now we're flying into a facility that knows we're coming.
I type back:
Abort?
Luc's response is immediate:
Your call. But compounds ship to buyers in 48 hours. Miss this window, they scatter across Europe.
I stare at the message. Abort means Isabella's research becomes weapons in the hands of buyers across the continent. Means thousands dead when those compounds deploy inmetro stations, office buildings, anywhere enclosed populations gather.
Continue means walking into a trap with Isabella beside me.
I close my eyes. Make the calculation.
