But this was Connor.
Connor fucking Ward. The kid who'd sat next to me in that first assembly at St. Paul's when we'd still thought we'd grabbed life by the balls, before we understood we'd been tricked and enslaved. The one who'd held the line when everything went to hell.
My friend.
So, instead I asked, "Is this about St. Paul's?"
"It is."
I waited.
Connor's jaw tightened. "Merrick's dead."
The name landed like a blade between ribs. Merrick. Sadistic prick who'd been a couple years ahead of us, who'd perfected cruelty into an art form.
"Did you kill him?"
"Yes."
"Good."
But that couldn't be the end of it.
Connor shook his head, reading my silence. "St. Paul's didn't disappear. They grew. Part of something bigger now."
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "What's that got to do with me?"
He gave me a look—really? Did you really just ask that?
I didn't apologize. Just waited.
Connor exhaled. "There's a place. In Paris. I want you to come."
"I'm fine in Bangkok."
"My assets saytheyknow where you live. Where you fight. It's only a matter of time."
Assets.
I studied him more carefully. Connor had been Navy—SEAL Team Six, last I'd heard. Operators didn't haveassets. Theywereassets.
"Who are your assets?"
Connor's expression shifted into something I couldn't read. "You need to come to Paris to see. Everything will make sense there."
I shook my head. "I'm good here."
"What if you could have whatever asset you needed?" He paused. "What if we could take down St. Paul's together?"
I snorted. "Look how well that worked out before."
His face went serious. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a black card. Matte finish. No visible markings.
He held it out.
I took it.
The moment it touched my hand, the surface flared red—a pulse of light that traveled across the card's face before fading back to black.
