Luc's voice comes through immediately, calm and controlled. "Confirmed. Observation post is secure. Standing by."
Then Isabella, and her voice cracks slightly despite obvious attempts at control. "You complete bastard. You couldn't have called sooner?"
Her anger cuts through the relief. Good. Anger I can work with. "Needed visual confirmation before breaking radio silence. Standard protocol."
"I don't care about your protocols right now."
"I know." I'm already moving, crossing the rooftop toward the fire escape. "Extracting to your position. I should be with you in just a few minutes."
The route back is methodical. I move through shadows, avoiding main streets where police presence is thickest. My tactical gear gets stripped and stashed in a pre-positioned bag. Just another resident in civilian clothes walking through Rotterdam's residential neighborhoods.
The observation post is a fourth-floor walkup. I take the stairs fast, tension coiling tighter with each floor. When I open the door, Isabella flies across the room.
She doesn't say anything. Just wraps her arms around me and holds on like she's physically confirming I'm solid and breathing and here.
I pull her close, breathing her in. Fear-sweat and coffee and her. Mine. Her heart hammers against my chest, pulse still racing from the adrenaline crash.
"I'm here," I murmur against her temple. "I'm fine. It's over."
"Don't ever make me wait like that again." Her voice comes muffled against my shoulder. "Hours, Remy. Hours watching that apartment burn while the comm stayed silent."
"Needed confirmation." No apology. Protocol demanded radio silence. But I hated making her wait, hated putting that fear in her voice. "It's done now."
Luc watches from the desk where his laptop still displays security feeds from the blast site. "Clean execution. Lazarev never knew what hit him."
"That was the point." I step back from Isabella, shifting enough to see Luc over her head. "How long before police start asking questions about the vacant apartment we're currently occupying?"
"Owner's legitimately traveling. We're paid through the week. But I'd rather not be here when they start canvassing for witnesses." Luc's already closing down his equipment, wiping surfaces, eliminating any trace we were here. "Margot's arranged extraction. Private airfield, flight leaves soon."
Margot's been tracking us. Good. The Pascal family takes care of its own.
Isabella pulls back, hands framing my face as she studies me with a scientist's precision. Checking for injuries, analyzing my condition, making sure I'm actually unharmed.
"I'm fine," I repeat. "Not a scratch."
"You set yourself up as bait for a man who spent years planning to kill you."
"And the trap worked." I catch her wrists, thumbs pressing against the pulse points where her heartbeat still hammers too fast. Claiming the fear. Making it mine. "Lazarev's dead. The Iron Choir's Rotterdam operation is dismantled. Your research is destroyed. It's over, Isabella. All of it."
Relief, exhaustion, fear—all written across her face. Still coming down from the adrenaline spike. She leans her forehead against mine, breathing slowly, grounding herself in the physical reality that we both survived.
"We should move," Luc says quietly. "Leave this location, extract before police presence intensifies."
Right. Still operational until we're clear of Rotterdam entirely.
I step back, switching to tactical mode. The observation post gets sanitized quickly: equipment packed, surfaces wiped, any evidence of occupation eliminated. We leave the apartment looking like it’s been vacant for weeks.
Luc drives. I sit in back with Isabella, her hand locked in mine. She's still confirming I'm real, still processing that we made it out. The private airfield is outside Rotterdam, the kind of place that caters to corporate aviation and doesn't ask unnecessary questions.
The Gulfstream waiting on the tarmac belongs to Pascal Offshore, Luc's company, inherited from Papa and still generating revenue even though Luc rarely involves himself in day-to-day operations. The corporate jet gets used occasionally for business but mostly sits idle. Until today.
Private aviation means expedited customs processing rather than the chaos of commercial terminals, though we'll still face scrutiny when we land. Margot's arranged the logistics: flight plan filed, corporate travel documentation in order, everything appearing legitimate enough to pass inspection.
Once we're airborne, the tension finally starts bleeding out of my shoulders. Isabella's curled against my side, exhausted enough that she's dozing despite everything. Luc sits across from us, watching the darkness outside the window.
"You need to call Fitz," Luc says quietly. "Report mission completion."
Right. Official channels. Cerberus protocols that demand debriefing and mission documentation.
