Chapter 22
Arsenal
Iwoke to the silence of the Paris penthouse, the sky still black outside the cathedral-height windows, and for a moment, I’d almost forgotten where I was.
The suite’s air hung heavy with last night’s cologne of jet lag, city rain, and suppressed fear.
I padded barefoot through the hushed corridors, shirtless, scars and all, straight to the kitchen and the squat Italian espresso machine, a brushed-chrome cannon that hissed and gurgled with every shot.
By my second cup, I felt human; well, as human as I was. By the third, I was a goddamn machine.
The penthouse had three bedrooms—Harper was dead asleep in ours, her hair a lion’s mane spilled across white linen—but I needed a table, a big one, with good sight lines and bad chairs.
I found it in the glass-walled “library” off the main hall: a twelve-seat slab of reclaimed oak, flanked by shelves of unread hardbacks and a disused wet bar.
I dragged in a stack of tourist maps, the latest intel from Rafe’s Birmingham office, and a roll of Paris street grid printouts that Wrecker and Parker had marked up on the flight.
Every marker was a wound: blue for safe houses, and green for likely routes.
Our last intel had put Brie and Nanette with the Renault Pack.
Figuring that remained the same, we’d marked that area in red.
By the time the sun edged over the Seine, I had the city’s skeleton sketched in front of me like a murder board.
At 6:04, Wrecker stomped in, already in jeans and a gray tee, hair still wet from the shower. He poured himself a mug, ignored the little cup the Italians wanted you to use, and leaned over my shoulder. “You sleep?” he asked.
“Some.” I flicked the topmost printout. “You see this?”
He did. “Renaults moved their base of operations from the outskirts to right here.” He pointed at the block just west of La Défense. “That’s a change. They usually keep a low profile in suburbia.”
“Means they’re either scared, or showing off.”
Wrecker grunted, then thumbed through his phone. “Got word from Marcel. They’re on their way. Bringing the new guy.”
“He solid?”
“Rafe says he’s ex-Legion. Wolf and a half.”
I liked the sound of that.
Behind us, I heard the faint snap of slippers on hardwood.
Parker drifted in, this time in an “In My Smut Era” hoodie, and yoga pants.
Her face was all sharp planes and half-lidded electric blue eyes, but she moved like she’d never slept at all.
She surveyed the table, snagged a mug for herself, and perched on the edge of a side chair.
“This is it?” she said, gesturing at the maps.
“Start here. Build out as we get eyes,” I told her. “We’re looking for patterns.”
She nodded, clicking on her phone, scanning for any overnight pings. “Witch is still asleep?” She asked, meaning Gwen.
“Not for long,” Wrecker said. “She’s got a hard-on for morning rituals.”
“Gross,” Parker deadpanned.
At 6:13, the secure phone buzzed. I answered, voice low. “Arsenal.”
A half-second delay, then a baritone with a hint of Marseille: “This is Marcel. We are downstairs.”
“Come up. Room’s open.” I killed the call, then looked at Wrecker. “He said ‘we.’”
“They always move in pairs. Etienne’s the backup.”
“Fine by me.”
I heard the lock cycle and went to the door.
The first thing you noticed about Marcel and Etienne was that they didn’t look like wolves, not at first glance.
Marcel wore a black windbreaker over a suit that screamed unlicensed security, and his hair was shaved on the sides with the top swept back and slicked down.
Etienne was shorter, stockier, with an old rugby player’s nose and a faded tattoo that ran from the base of his left ear to the edge of his jaw.
Both moved with the loose, dangerous grace of men who’d broken a lot of bones in their lives, most of them not their own.
Marcel carried a battered messenger bag. He offered a hand, and when I shook it, I saw the old Legion scar across his palm. “Arsenal,” he said, voice level. “You look like your reputation.”
“Thanks. Coffee’s in the kitchen. We’re in the library.”
He nodded to Etienne, who peeled off, probably to sweep the suite. Bronc would have approved.
We sat around the slab of a table, Wrecker and Parker on one side, me and Marcel opposite. Marcel unrolled a tube of blueprints, layering them over my tourist maps, and we got to work.
“King Rafe briefed you?” I asked.
“Yes. The girl and her mother are living with Renault pack, in Bougival. Two weeks now.”
I glanced at Parker, who tapped her phone. “Confirms with what we got from Gwen’s contacts.”
“Renaults run the local territory like a fortress,” Marcel said. “But it is not impenetrable. We have eyes on three blocks, and a friendly bakery two doors down.”
I could almost see Aspen’s face light up. “What’s the move?” I asked.
Marcel shrugged. “It depends. You want to pull the girl now, or wait for opportunity?”
“Depends on who’s watching,” I said. “Any sign Steiner’s got teams in the city?”
“No. But he has connections. The local police are easy to buy, and if he wants to move muscle, it’ll be mercs. Maybe Eastern European. Maybe local. But they do not stand out.”
“Great,” Parker muttered. “Everybody’s invisible except us.”
That stung a little, but she was right. We were the only Americans in this equation, and I hated being the loudest color on the board.
We worked through the next hour, mapping likely times for the Renault pack to move as a group—early morning runs, the weekly Friday marché, some nightclubs along the Seine where the young ones preened and fought. Etienne came in, nodded once, and sat at the far end, hands folded. Watchful.
At 7:22, Harper arrived. She wore leggings, an old Army sweatshirt, and her hair pulled back so tight it looked like a golden whip. She smiled at me, then at Marcel. “Bonjour,” she said, her accent flawless.
Marcel softened instantly. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Wrecker grinned behind his mug.
I introduced her, then caught her up: “They’re in Bougival. Renault stronghold.”
She blinked, then sat hard, staring at the maps. “Bougival?”
Marcel nodded. “You know it?”
“Familiar. My mother spoke of it. I’d forgotten,” Harper said.
“It’s famous for Impressionist painters.
Renoir, Monet, Sisley—they all lived there at some point.
There’s a little island on the river. Mom talked about it.
Said it’s some place we’d all need to visit someday.
” Her voice went soft. “She’d say, ‘If I ever got the chance, I’d want to go where the colors blend into magic. ’”
Something cold rolled down my back.
“That would be it,” Marcel said, catching my glance. “They live on the main road. She paints most days. The daughter—your sister—studies art at the Atelier du Chateau de Bougival. Uses the name Gemma.”
Harper gave a laugh and said, “That was the name of our cat growing up.”
She traced her fingertip along the river on the map. “I can just see them there. They’d love shopping in small stores and stopping at small cafes.”
Marcel checked his phone, then pointed at the same spot. “You’re correct about that. They stop at a small cafe called La Palette on Thursdays. Usually mid-morning.”
Parker looked at me. “That’s tomorrow.”
I nodded. “We’ll want eyes on it.”
Wrecker cracked his knuckles. “Who’s handling the pull?”
Marcel shrugged. “We can do it, or you can. But if you want to keep it quiet, best way is to isolate one at a time.”
“Mom first,” Harper said, and everyone looked at her.
“She’ll trust me. If I come in heavy, she’ll think I’m in trouble. She always said, ‘Never bring trouble to the doorstep, but if you have to, make sure you close the door behind you.’”
Marcel smiled. “She is very French.”
Harper nodded, but her eyes were hard. “Brie won’t listen to me if she believes one of the Renault boys is courting her. I need to get to Mom first. If she believes I’m not in danger, she’ll help.”
I felt pride bloom in my chest, a thing so raw it almost hurt. Harper saw the board as well as any of us.
Marcel passed her a manila folder. Inside were a dozen candid photos, taken from across streets, through cafe windows, at the market. Nanette and Brie, side by side. Brie was taller now, hair cut in a stylish bob, but her eyes were pure Lawson: the kind that could start a fire in a snowstorm.
Harper took a long time with the photos. “Is she happy?” She asked, not looking up.
Marcel said nothing.
I answered for him. “She’s safe for now. That’s all we know.”
She nodded, sliding the photos back. “Then we keep it that way.”
The rest of the meeting was about logistics.
Wrecker and Etienne would run surveillance from the cafe, using a burner phone with a direct uplink to the penthouse.
Parker would monitor local comms and troll the darknet for any sign Steiner’s men had landed.
Marcel would coordinate with the bakery for an emergency fallback, just in case.
I would escort Harper and watch her back. Always.
When the briefing broke, the world was waking up outside: traffic horns, bakery scents, the high song of a street cleaner.
Parker drifted off to call Gunner in Dairyville and update him on the plan.
Wrecker left to secure the hardware, and Etienne trailed him, silent as a rumor.
I poured a fourth coffee and sat at the window with Harper, watching the city come to life.
“You okay?” I asked.
She stared into her mug. “I will be. I just… I miss her, even though I’m angry.”
I thought of my own brother, dead and gone for twenty years, and how every night I talked to him in my dreams. “She’ll be glad to see you.”
Harper snorted. “She’ll be furious. But that’s better than her being afraid.”
I slid my hand over hers, anchor and lifeline. “We do this right, she’ll never have to be.”