"Why didn't you contact me?"
"Because you were building a life away from the family. Away from New Orleans. Away from all of it." His eyes meet mine. "Figured you'd reach out when you were ready. Took you long enough."
Fair enough.
"Lazarev's been off grid for?—"
"I saw him in Prague," I cut in. "He was there. At the warehouse fire."
Luc nods, processing the update. "Then he's active again. And if he surfaced in Prague, tracked you there, he's been following your operations more closely than anyone realized." His expression darkens. "Word in contractor circles was he'd gone to ground, but intel's always behind the curve. He's unhinged, obsessive, and he's been tracking you for years. This operation with Isabella? Perfect opportunity for him to settle the score."
"Then you understand why I can't walk away from this."
"I understand why you won't." Luc's eyes go flat, emotionless—the expression of a man who's made hard calls and lived with the consequences. "But you know we might not all make it out. And if it comes down to a choice between Isabella and the mission?—"
"Won't happen."
"But if it does," Luc presses, "you need to be ready to make the call. The hard one. The kind that keeps you up at night."
I let him see I've already made every calculation, weighed every possible outcome. "I've made harder calls than this, brother. I'll do what needs doing."
"Make sure you remember that when she's bleeding and the op's going to shit." Luc's expression doesn't change, but there's weight behind the words. The weight of missions where he's made those calls, where he's left people behind to complete objectives. "I've seen good men hesitate at the wrong moment.I've watched them die because they couldn't pull the trigger when it mattered."
"I'm not them."
"No. You're not." He steps back. "Get your gear ready. We move in two hours."
Isabella emerges from the bathroom. I catch her hand, pull her into the bedroom, close the door, lock it.
"How are you holding up?" I ask.
"Scared. Focused. Ready." The same answer she gave earlier. But her hands are steady, her breathing controlled. Fear channeled into operational readiness the way I've been teaching her.
"Good." I cup her face, force her eyes to mine. "When we're inside that facility, you do exactly what we practiced. Identify the compounds fast, confirm verbally, then step back while I place charges. Van der Berg's team handles security. You don't engage hostiles, you don't make tactical decisions, you follow orders without question. Clear?"
"Clear."
"And if something goes wrong, if we get separated, you go to the north wall emergency exit and wait for extraction. Don't try to find me, don't try to help, don't do anything except get out alive."
Her expression hardens. "I'm not leaving you."
"You will if I order it." I let my hand slide to her throat, thumb pressing against her pulse. Not threatening, claiming. "This isn't negotiable, Isabella. You follow orders or you stay here. Choose."
She stares back, testing, trying to find the line she can't cross. Then she yields. "I'll follow orders."
"Say it properly."
"I'll follow your orders, Sir."
"Good girl." I kiss her, hard and possessive, claiming her one more time before we walk into a facility that might kill us both. When I pull back, her eyes are dark and wanting. "After Rotterdam, we have the conversation about what happens between us. Until then, you're mine. You do what I say, when I say it, without hesitation. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Get your gear on. We leave in ninety minutes."
Isabella moves with quiet efficiency while I finish final preparations. Checking equipment, memorizing the facility layout one more time on Luc's tablet. No hesitation, no fear bleeding through to compromise her focus.
Van der Berg's team suits up in tactical black. Suppressed weapons, night vision, communications gear. They move like a single organism, years of operations together showing in wordless coordination.
