The reality settles over me like cold water. In little more than a day, I walk into a warehouse with six armed guards and Lazarev waiting. I identify chemical compounds while bullets potentially fly around me. Then I trust Remy to destroy everything with demolition charges that could kill us if the chemistry goes wrong.
My research turned weapon. My responsibility to end it.
Remy stirs. His hand slides up my ribs, cups my breast through the thin shirt I borrowed last night. It's not sexual. Just touching. Confirming I'm here.
"Your heart's racing,chère," he murmurs against my neck.
"Can't help it."
"Try." His teeth graze my shoulder. Not hard enough to mark, but enough to remind me who's in control. "We've got work today. I need you focused, not spiraling."
He's right. I take a breath, push the fear down into the space where I've been learning to channel it. Fear into focus. The way he's been teaching me since Prague.
"Better," he says, reading the shift in my body. "Get dressed. We start prep in twenty minutes."
He releases me, rolls out of bed in one fluid motion. He's completely naked and utterly unselfconscious about it. I watch him pull on tactical pants and a black shirt, every movement efficient and controlled. The body of a man who's spent years in combat situations. Scars mapping a history of violence I'm only beginning to understand.
He catches me staring. One eyebrow lifts. "See something you want?"
"Always."
His mouth curves. Predatory and pleased. "Remember that later. Right now, get moving."
I find my clothes from yesterday—dark pants, plain shirt. Luc's team provided basics when they brought us here last night. Everything smells like industrial detergent and unfamiliar fabric softener, but it's clean.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Remy's in the main room with Luc. They're spreading equipment across a folding table. Tactical vests, respirators, weapons, and something else—blocks of what looks like gray clay wrapped in plastic. C4.
"How much?" I ask.
Both men look up. Remy's expression is assessing. Measuring my reaction to seeing explosives laid out like we'replanning a demolition derby instead of destroying chemical weapons.
"Enough," he says. "Come here."
I cross to the table. Up close, the C4 looks innocuous. Just molded plastic explosive, harmless until combined with detonators and timers.
Like my compounds. Inert until combined.
The parallel isn't lost on me.
"Today, you practice compound identification under pressure," Remy says. "I need to know you can differentiate components fast. No hesitation. No second-guessing. You look, you identify, you confirm. Three seconds maximum per unit."
"Three seconds?" That's barely enough time to read labels, much less verify contents.
"You'll have a UV scanner and visual markers." He pulls a handheld device from the equipment pile and hands it to me.
I take the scanner, turn it over in my hands. Medical-grade UV equipment, the kind used for identifying biological contaminants. "Where did Luc source this?"
"Amsterdam medical supply," Luc says without looking up from the tactical vest he's checking. "Legitimate purchase under a shell account. Untraceable. Substitute compounds too. Close enough to train on without handling the real thing."
Remy spreads photos across the table. Interior shots of the facility storage units. "These are the temperature-controlled sections where compounds are most likely staged. You'll have limited time to verify which units hold legitimate cargo versus your research. Every second counts."
I study the photos. Rows of reinforced units, pharmaceutical labels in Dutch and German. Climate-controlled staging designed to move compounds without triggering customs alerts.
"How many units total?"
"Couldn't get an exact count during recon, but dozens in the target section." Remy taps one photo. "But Brenner told you three separate shipments. Three components. That narrows the field significantly."
Three components among dozens of units. Better odds than random searching, but still requiring fast identification under combat conditions.
