I stared. "What the hell?"
"DNA-coded. Only works for you. Credit card. And more."
"More?"
He didn't elaborate. Instead, he pulled out a notecard with an address written in Thai script.
"Private airport. There's a plane waiting."
I looked up sharply. "What is this?"
"Safest way to travel. A car will meet you in Paris. Take you the rest of the way."
"The rest of the waywhere?"
Connor's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"The Sanctuary."
I waited for him to laugh.
He didn't.
"And then what?"
"Go to the door. Press the bell. When someone answers, say these exact words:I request sanctuary."
Silence stretched between us.
"Is this a joke?"
Connor punched my arm—gentle, brotherly. "No. This is life and death." His expression sobered. "Enjoy the flight. The booze is free. See you in a couple days."
He moved toward the door.
"Connor—"
He paused, hand on the knob, looking back.
A hundred thoughts crowded my throat. I swallowed them, all except one.
"It's good to see you."
Something softened in his eyes. "You, too, brother."
Then he was gone.
I stood there holding a black card and a piece of paper with an address I couldn't read, wondering what the hell had just happened.
But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't good seeing him. More than good.
Proof the Nine still existed. That brotherhood wasn't just trauma. That maybe, somewhere in the wreckage St. Paul's had made of us, something worth saving had survived.
So, what the hell?
Worst case, I got a free trip to Paris.
It took me five minutes to pack.
