We go. Adjust plan for four guards. Send updated facility intel.
His response:
Sending now. Be careful, brother.
London Heathrow blurs into Amsterdam Schiphol. I clear customs fast, collect the rental Luc arranged, and drive south toward Rotterdam with updated intelligence burning holes in my brain.
Four guards instead of one. Lazarev possibly on site. Someone in our chain feeding them information.
Isabella's flight lands while I'm scouting approach routes to the safe house. I watch her emerge through arrivals—hair severe and professional, moving with confidence that wasn't there in Prague.
Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine.
We maintain distance until we're alone in the rental car.
"Any problems?" she asks.
"Four guards now instead of one. Lazarev's on site. Someone leaked our timeline." I pull out of parking, merge onto the highway. "We're walking into a facility that knows we're coming."
She goes very still. "Abort?"
"The combined compounds ship out to their end-users in forty-eight hours. We miss this window, your research kills thousands."
Isabella processes that in silence. When she speaks, her voice is steady. "Then we don't miss the window."
No fear. No hesitation. Just operational commitment.
Watching her transformation does something dark and possessive in my gut.
The safe house is exactly where Luc's team said. An apartment on the second floor of the converted warehouse, anonymous enough to disappear. I clear the rooms fast while Isabella waits by the door.
"Four guards changes everything," she says once we're inside.
"Luc's sending updated facility intel. We adapt." I check windows, confirm sight lines. "You stay here while I scout. Lock the door. Don't answer for anyone except me or Luc."
Her jaw sets. "I'm part of this op."
"You're the only one who can identify compounds. Which means you stay secure until insertion." I let command drop into my voice. Not anger. Certainty. "This isn't negotiable."
She holds my gaze. Testing. Then yields. "Fine. But bring back detailed recon."
"Already planned." I cross to her, catch her chin. Thumb brushing her jaw. "I've been doing this since before you learned to pipette, chère. I'll be fine."
"You'd better be." She leans into the contact for a moment. Learning to yield when I push. "Go."
I leave before discipline fails.
Rotterdam's warehouse district after dark. Shipping containers casting shadows under sodium lights. I park four blocks out and move through the darkness on foot.
Black tactical clothing, rubber-soled boots, tools in a gym bag. Standard infiltration loadout.
The facility sits between two larger warehouses. Reinforced doors, cameras at corners, motion sensors on the roofline.
Luc's updated intel shows four guards now. Two inside on rotating patrol, one at a security station, one roving exterior perimeter. Shift change at midnight, but the overlap is longer now—twenty minutes instead of ten. Someone's tightening security.
I circle the perimeter twice. Loading dock empty. Personnel entrance with card reader. Service access behind locked gate.
But buildings need ventilation.
