But I wasn't two blocks from the Sanctuary when I spotted them.
Two familiar figures moving down the street with the kind of purposeful stride that said they were looking for someone specific.
The fat men from the fight club.
And they weren't alone.
Three other men flanked them like bodyguards. Well-dressed in expensive suits that couldn't quite hide their bulk. Tailored jackets. Designer shoes. The kind of clothes that said money but the postures—weight forward, eyes scanning, hands ready—that said violence was their primary language.
Trouble.
Professional trouble.
I wasn't one to run.
Never had been. Running meant showing weakness, and weakness got you hurt or killed.
So, I walked straight toward them instead, keeping my pace even, hands visible at my sides, body language calm.
Non-threatening.
For now.
Fat Man #1 saw me first and waved me over with forced casualness, smile too wide.
"American friend!" he called out.
I stopped a few feet away, close enough to talk, far enough to move if this went sideways. "I'm in a rush."
Fat Man #2's smile didn't reach his eyes, which were calculating and cold despite the friendly expression. "You should make time, my friend. Is important. Very important."
"Not now."
One of the suited men shifted deliberately, moving his coat aside just enough to show the pistol holstered at his hip in a quick leather rig.
The message was clear.
They were all armed.
And this wasn't a request.
In any other place—Bangkok, Moscow, Caracas, half a dozen war zones where life was cheap and witnesses were scarce—I would've fought, for sure. Would've taken my chances despite the bad odds. Three armed men weren't ideal, but I'd faced worse and walked away.
But this was Paris.
The sky had gone inky, streetlights casting pools of amber across wet pavement. Pedestrians still moved through the city—couples drifting arm in arm, late dinners spilling laughter onto sidewalks, tourists lingering too long over photos they didn’t need. Old women walked their tiny, ridiculous dogs one last time before bed, jeweled collars catching the light.
Witnesses.
Too many innocent bystanders who didn’t deserve to be caught in the blast radius if this went bad.
And hadn't Connor said something about keeping a low profile? About not drawing attention to the Sanctuary or the operations they were building here?
I couldn't remember the exact words now, but the implication had been crystal clear.
Don't make waves.
Don't create problems.
