"Reinforcements?" I ask.
"Two SUVs parked at the facility. Could be shift relief, could be rapid response." Van der Berg taps the map. "We plan for worst case. My team stages here, loading dock east side. We create distraction if needed, provide covering fire during extraction, block pursuit vehicles."
Luc leans over the map. "Entry point?"
Van der Berg traces the route with his finger. "North wall emergency exit. Your demolitions expert bypasses the card reader, we're inside the storage section in under a minute."
"Can you do it?" Van der Berg looks at me.
"Yes."
Isabella's studying the photos, calculating. "Compound identification will take minutes if the units are properly labeled and staged together."
"And demolition?" Van der Berg's watching me, assessing timelines.
I run through the sequence mentally. "Charges are pre-configured. Once Isabella confirms targets, placement takesunder five minutes. Detonation sequence runs on wireless trigger with a built-in delay after we're clear."
Van der Berg processes the timeline. "Tight. But workable." He studies the facility photos Luc provided from my recon. Interior shots I captured before getting made. "Storage section here, climate-controlled units along the east wall. Your targets are most likely in this section. Security station is here, camera feeds, alarm panel. We neutralize that first."
We go through extraction protocols, communication signals, emergency rally points. Van der Berg's team operates with military precision. No wasted words, no unnecessary questions, just cold assessment of how to execute an assault that could kill us all.
By the time we finish, Isabella excuses herself and heads to the bathroom. The moment she's gone, Van der Berg leans forward.
"You trust her under fire?"
"Yes."
"What's her tactical background?" Van der Berg's tone is assessing, professional. "She doesn't move like an operative."
"Because she's not. She's a chemist." I hold his eyes, let him see exactly how far I'll go to protect what's mine. "But she ran through Rotterdam streets last night with Lazarev's men hunting her. She didn't slow down, didn't panic, followed every order I gave without hesitation. She'll do the same tonight, or I'll pull her out myself."
Van der Berg reads the threat underneath, weighs it, then nods slowly. "Your operation. Your call. But if she compromises my team, we leave her behind."
"Touch her and you won't make it to the extraction vehicle." Not a threat, a promise. "She's my responsibility. She fucks up, I handle it. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
Something shifts in Van der Berg's posture. Recognition.
"Clear enough."
"Make sure your team's equally clear."
The team disperses to final equipment checks. Luc pulls me aside, voice dropping to the register he uses when delivering bad news.
"Van der Berg's people are solid," he says. "But they're mercenaries. Guns for hire. They'll extract if things go sideways, with or without us, and they won't lose sleep over it."
I've worked with enough contractors to know the math. I've already factored this in.
"And Lazarev's presence changes everything. If he recognizes you, this becomes personal. He'll burn resources the Iron Choir wouldn't waste just to watch you die." Luc's jaw sets, the muscle there ticking. "He's been waiting years for this. He won't let you walk away."
I stop. Look at him directly. "How do you know about Lazarev?"
Something shifts in Luc's expression—acknowledgment that he's said more than he should have without explanation. "You think I didn't keep tabs on you? All those years?"
"We haven't spoken in years."
"Doesn't mean I stopped giving a shit." Luc's voice drops lower, harder. "Yemen made international news, Remy. A joint operation that killed twenty-three civilians, an investigation that destroyed careers. Your name came up in the after-action reports I tracked down through old contacts. And Lazarev's name came up right next to yours—the contractor who provided faulty intelligence and blamed you for following orders."
I process that. Luc watching from a distance. Following my operations. Knowing about the worst moment of my career without ever reaching out.
