Townhomes lined both sides—stately, elegant, money whispered rather than shouted. Wrought iron balconies. Tall windows with heavy shutters. Narrow stoops leading to doors that cost more than most cars.
The SUV slowed.
The driver pointed. "There."
I reached for my wallet.
He smiled faintly. "No, thank you, sir."
Right.
I pocketed the bills. "Thanks."
He nodded once, and the SUV disappeared.
I stood on the sidewalk, letting the city settle around me.
The street was quiet the way expensive neighborhoods always were—not empty, insulated. A woman walked past with a small dog on a jeweled leash. Somewhere, a door closed. Baking bread drifted from an unseen patisserie.
Trees lined the street, branches bare but elegant, casting shadows across cobblestones older than any country I'd operated in.
Paris felt different than Bangkok.
Older. More deliberate. Like the city had been performing the same rituals for centuries.
I looked up at the building.
Three stories. Pale stone. Dark green shutters, closed. Black door, brass hardware polished. A camera tucked above the frame.
It looked like every other building on the block.
Which was the point.
I climbed the steps and pressed the bell.
A voice crackled through the intercom in rapid French.
I didn't understand a word.
Feeling like an idiot, I said the three words.
"I request sanctuary."
Silence.
Then the voice returned, smooth and British.
"Straight down the hall and to your right, Mr. Black."
A soft click.
I pushed.
The door swung open easily despite its weight. Solid wood, reinforced—I could tell from how it moved. Functional, not decorative. The kind that would stop anything short of a breaching charge.
It closed behind me with a heavy thunk, sealing out street noise completely.
Soundproof.
