Chapter 24
Arsenal
Ihad the perfect angle on the footbridge—a bistro by the Quai de Bougival.
We looked like tourists, drinking espresso and checking out maps.
There was nothing left to do but wait and watch, every nerve honed to a filament as Harper threaded her way down the riverside toward her mother and Brie.
On a weekday morning, the bank belonged to the artists.
Easels stood in tight formation along the stones, propped by hunched men in scarves and women in clattering jewelry.
I sat pretending not to be the kind of predator I was.
At this hour, the river ran gold, with the sun low enough to hide anything ugly in long shadows and reflected glare.
My team was spread in an arc: Wrecker sat with me, city map folded in his pocket like he gave a damn about history; Parker was the second-story, three windows down, pretending to photograph crows with a battered Nikon but really logging every face within a hundred yards; Doc sat in the van with Papa working comms. And then there was Gwen, nowhere and everywhere, holding the spell tight from her own corner of the world.
I tracked Harper, not because I didn’t trust her, but because every instinct in me screamed, this was the moment it all went sideways.
She wore black leggings and a canvas jacket, hair twisted in a dancer’s bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup.
She looked impossibly young. I hated that I could see her so clearly, while she couldn’t pay attention to me at all.
She slowed as she neared the patch of stone where her family painted.
Brie sat on a small folding chair, watercolors and pencils scattered around her, legs crossed at the ankles.
Their mother, Nanette, wore a beret and an old camel-hair coat, every inch the expat with a secret.
She painted fast, as if outrunning something only she could see.
Neither of them glanced up as Harper approached, but Brie’s hand stilled on the page, a tremor in the line giving her away.
Harper’s voice carried in the stillness. She engaged in small talk; kept her hands visible, palms up, the way she might approach a spooked animal. Smart girl.
Nanette didn’t look up. “You came early,” she said, painting in quick, nervous strokes.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Brie’s head jerked, just for an instant. She flicked her eyes at Harper, then away, then at her again, and all the while her hands moved in tiny, pointless circles on the paper. There was something electric between the two of them, a current too bright to hide.
I swept my eyes across the river, hunting for movement, for anyone whose eyes lingered too long on the sisters.
There were civilians, sure: two joggers, an old man with a sack of baguettes, a pair of school kids skipping stones near the bank.
But there was also the man in the dark puffer vest, hands jammed deep in his pockets, who kept pace with the painters from the far side, pretending to study the river but always glancing back at Harper.
And the woman with the pixie cut, leaning on the railing above, her reflection gone wrong in the water’s surface.
Parker had already flagged them, code names in the earpiece: VEST and PINK.
It all felt off—too easy, too clean. No sign of Steiner, no sign of the Polish mercs, just the familiar lull before a kill box closed.
Harper set her folding stool down and set up her easel.
Brie talked to Harper, accusing her of coming because of so-called “bad men” coming for them.
Harper shook her head. “It’s not safe. That’s why I’m here.”
I waited for the signal. All Harper had to do was touch Brie’s wrist, and Gwin would move to shift the veil to invisibility, and they’d move to the van that’s only 100 m down the street. Easy.
Harper reached over to tap her wrist. I could hear her words clearly before she made contact. “I have a team here who can get you out safely.” But then what I didn’t expect to hear.
Brie countered as she rose from her chair. “Luc said we’d go together. You don’t understand.”
I keyed the comm. “We’re blown,” I said, and even I was surprised at the calm in my voice. “Brie gave us up.”
The world went full color. I caught a shimmer on the bridge—Gwen, dropping the veil—and then the spell collapsed with a ripple that looked like heat rising off tarmac. Every face on the dock turned, all at once, toward Harper and her family.
The first shot came from PINK on the railing, a suppressed .
308 that left no muzzle flash but a hot metal streak through the air.
The round caught the edge of a trash can, ricocheted, and thudded into the stones an inch from Harper’s foot.
The second shot went for the real target: Gwen, perched behind a street vendor’s umbrella, the bullet ripping through her shoulder in a spray of arterial red.
The glamour died completely. Every person within a hundred yards could see what had been hidden: me, crouched and bristling with hardware; Wrecker, already moving with murder in his eyes; Harper, vulnerable as hell with her hands empty and her heart in the open.
Civilians scattered in all directions. Paint-splattered easels clattered down. The street filled with screams and shouts in French, artists abandoning their gear as they ran for cover. Some tried to drag their canvases; others just ducked behind the nearest bench.
“Go!” I roared into the comm, already leaping from my chair and sprinting towards Harper.
Harper ran to Gwen, and Nanette tried to shield Brie who had jumped up and tried to run to a man in the distance.
Luc, no doubt. Another suppressed shot pinged off the iron post inches from my ear.
Wrecker vaulted a parked Citroen, closed the distance in five strides, and bowled over VEST with the force of a freight train, both men hitting the pavement in a tangle of fists and teeth.
On the bridge, PINK had reloaded and dropped into a crouch, lining up another shot. I skidded across the stone and tackled Harper and her sister, rolling them out of the line of fire just as a third round snapped the air where Harper’s head had been.
Gwen staggered into the open, blood pouring down her arm, her face twisted in pain. She raised her good hand and shouted some kind of spell, but the words fizzled into nothing, her spell broken by the shock. I saw her knees buckle and watched her crumple, white hair soaked with red.
Harper clawed for Brie, desperate to keep hold, but the girl was screaming, fighting her off with surprising strength. “Let go!” she shrieked. “You’re ruining everything!”
“Brie, please,” Harper begged, but Brie’s nails raked Harper’s cheek, leaving twin red gashes.
I grabbed Harper’s shoulder. “We have to move. Now.”
And then I felt it—a hot, stabbing pain in my own neck, a tranquilizer dart glancing off the collar and nicking my neck.
For a moment, my limbs went to rubber, world spinning.
The next shot was for Harper, the dart thunking into the muscle of her shoulder.
She gasped, tried to rise, and collapsed against me, her face twisting with confusion.
I saw the wolves coming before I heard them—two men in dark jackets, their eyes rimmed in gold, breath misting in the cold air. They moved with the lazy confidence of men who’d done this a thousand times.
Wrecker had finished with VEST, leaving him a crumpled heap, but was still thirty yards away, tangled with a second hostile who had come out of nowhere. Parker was gone from her window, probably circling for a shot, but the angle was bad and the crowd too thick.
The wolves descended. One seized Harper under the arms, yanking her upright; the other did the same to Brie. Both girls thrashed weakly, but the drugs were already kicking in. Harper’s eyelids fluttered, and I saw the terror in her face as she realized she couldn’t fight.
“Let go of her!” I shouted, trying to rise, but my legs were weakened by the small amount of drugs that had crept into my blood. I crawled, hands scraping the stone, every muscle in my body refusing orders.
The wolf holding Harper grinned, like he’d just won the first-place prize. “Stay down, cowboy,” he said, voice flat and American. “Not your show anymore.”
He slammed a fist into my face for good measure. I tasted blood, saw stars, and hit the ground hard.
They dragged Harper and Brie to the waiting car—a black Peugeot with the plates ripped off and the windows covered in cheap tint. The door slammed, the engine screamed, and the car fishtailed up the dock, scattering fleeing artists as it went.
I tried to rise. My head swam, vision doubling, but I got to one knee, then the other. I stumbled toward the curb, just in time to see the Peugeot take the first turn, Harper’s face a pale smear in the back window.
Wrecker reached me, panting, his face split and swelling. “Get up,” he snapped, dragging me to my feet. “They have her.”
I tasted the words, wanted to spit them out, but I knew he was right.
“We’re not done,” I said, my voice a slur. “We’re not done.”
He gripped my collar, shaking me until my eyes focused. “We never are,” he said.
We staggered for the van, sirens rising in the distance, the air stinking of smoke and fear. As I collapsed into the seat, I felt my phone buzz—Parker, on the line, her voice tinny and wild: “They’re heading south. Fast. I’ll track them as long as I can.”
Papa put the van in gear and yelled for us to hang on as he took off. I became more alert my the minute since the tranq had barely grazed me. But all I could see was Harper’s face, floating in my mind, and all I could taste was the blood in my mouth.
This wasn’t the end. Not even close.
But I’d just watched the only person I ever loved get ripped from my arms, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do but hunt them down and start again.