Chapter 18
18
CHERISE
J uliette Morin’s death doesn’t feel real until I see the freeze-frame still of her body on the surveillance monitor—head tilted back in an unnatural position, blood dried in a delicate line down her throat where the diplomatic pin pierced her. A warning. A message. A clean, silent kill meant to send shivers through the bones of anyone foolish enough to think they could outplay Vallois.
I don’t shiver. I breathe. Long and slow—anchored by the weight of what I now know and the man standing just steps away, a silent promise in human form. The image of Juliette’s lifeless body is a warning, but it doesn’t send me running. It solidifies something inside me.
I know exactly what kind of man arranges that kind of execution. It’s not just about power. It’s about performance. About showing your prey that you’re already in their shadow before they even see the blade.
Juliette was dangerous. Arrogant. Complicit in every dark deal she brokered. And still—she didn’t see it coming. That’s what chills me to the core. Not just her death, but the precision of it. The message in blood that even someone as ruthless, as connected, as careful as Juliette... was disposable. That’s the reach we’re up against.
Nick moves through the ops room like a storm locked in a body. Quiet. Intent. Watching him work is like watching violence take shape in real time, beautiful and terrifying. He doesn’t bark orders. He doesn’t pace. He assesses. Strategizes. Plans. His presence anchors me, even as the world around us slips deeper into shadows.
Nick stands in front of the operations terminal, arms crossed, jaw set, his silhouette cut sharp against the blue glow of the screens. Logan and the others move like ghosts through the room, collecting fragments—satellite sweeps, encrypted comms, digital crumbs scattered across the ether. Cerberus operatives loyal to Fitzwallace send whispers from the shadows, piecing together a map, but it’s like trying to catch smoke. Every lead fades before it sharpens. Every thread breaks before it connects. Nick doesn't speak, but I can feel the pressure building behind his stillness—the storm just beneath the surface, coiled and waiting for the right flash point.
I take a breath and step closer, thoughts turning over like puzzle pieces in my mind.
"When Hector hosted events in Lyon," I say, voice low but firm, "he always booked them with six-day gaps. Never seven. Never five. Six. He always said it gave him some breathing space. He used Corsica once. He said he liked it, as it was discreet and not under the same microscope as Monaco."
The second the words leave my mouth, I see it land in Nick’s eyes, sharp and certain. The dots are connecting faster now, a pattern rising out of static. Corsica isn’t just a possibility.
Nick’s gaze shifts to me instantly. "Corsica?"
I nod. "He called it a buffer zone. Said the consulate routes were barely watched because they weren’t 'prestigious enough to warrant concern.' If he and Vallois are relocating, and Juliette was silenced for being too close to the logistics..."
"...then Corsica’s the next waypoint." Nick’s voice is a growl of agreement, low and lethal. His eyes don’t leave mine as he says it, and I realize he’s not just agreeing with my conclusion. He’s already there—mentally mapping exits, flank points, contingencies. My memory didn’t just help; it confirmed a kill zone.
He turns to Logan. "Pull every satellite vector in and out of Corsican airspace in the last twelve hours. Cross-check with port activity and private charter logs. I want every cargo manifest flagged."
Logan doesn’t question it. He just moves... fast.
Nick looks back at me. His hand brushes the small of my back—not to guide, not to claim. Just... contact. Grounding—not me, but him—like he needs to feel me there, the same way I need him.
I exhale, heart still hammering. "Juliette thought she was insulated—too vital, too connected to ever be considered expendable. But that kind of arrogance? It always creates a blind spot. She was so focused on managing the threats around her, she never saw the one aimed from within."
"She was wrong. And so is Vallois if he thinks Corsica—secluded, diplomatic, quiet—can hide him from what’s coming. We see him now. We know where he’s headed. And we’ll be waiting."
The edge in Nick’s voice doesn’t scare me. It steels me. Because I know what’s coming next.
War.
* * *
The comms unit flares to life behind us—secure, encoded, but familiar. A quiet beep precedes the flicker of the screen, illuminating the dim room with Cerberus insignia before shifting to the sharp, weathered face of Fitzwallace. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days—jacket off, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched with barely leashed urgency. Nick doesn’t hesitate. He swipes to accept the call and leans in, his posture steel and shadow, ready for whatever comes next.
"I just got word," Fitz says without preamble. "You’ve ID’d Corsica."
Nick nods once, slow and sure, then turns toward the screen. "We’re moving now," he says. A declaration. A line in the sand.
The blue light from the monitor throws sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the lines etched deep from years of violence, loss, and calculated silence. For a moment, no one moves.
Then Logan’s already shifting into motion behind him, barking quiet commands through an earpiece, while I stay frozen, heart pounding, because I understand what just happened—Fitzwallace gave us the green light.
Nick doesn't even flinch.
"I can have field operatives in place within twelve hours," Fitzwallace says, the words clipped but measured, like he already knows what Nick’s going to say before he says it.
Nick doesn’t blink. “We don’t have twelve hours.”
The silence after those five words is deafening. Even Logan stills across the room.
Nick folds his arms, his body radiating lethal resolve. “Juliette’s execution wasn’t a message—it was a trigger. Vallois is cutting his ties, accelerating the exit plan. If we stall, we lose him. Possibly forever.”
Fitzwallace exhales through his nose, muttering something unintelligible before straightening. “Then you go in with what you have. But you won't have much in the way of backup or Cerberus air support. You’ll be in shadow territory. We have no field operatives in close proximity...”
“Understood,” Nick replies, calm as ice.
Fitz’s eyes shift to me. “And her?”
Nick doesn’t hesitate. “She’s in. This window exists because of her. She’s not just part of this op—she’s part of the outcome.”
Fitz’s brow furrows. “You’re certain?”
“You’ve tried to sideline JJ in the past,” Nick reminds him, his voice low but edged with steel. “And we both remember how fast she dismantled your contingency plans and ran her own op out from under you.”
The corner of Fitz’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue. “We’ll start backfilling. Operatives will be on standby for extraction and cleanup, but until then… you’re ghosts. No paper trail, no protection.” He pauses, gaze locked on mine. “Cherise. There are very few people I trust in this world with full operational autonomy. Nick is one of them. That trust now includes you. Don’t let that go to your head—but don’t waste it either.”
My spine straightens. “Understood.”
Fitzwallace nods once, then severs the connection. The screen goes dark.
Nick steps closer, his voice low, barely more than a breath between us. "Still want in?"
His eyes hold mine—not commanding, not coaxing. Just open. Raw. And it wrecks me more than if he’d barked an order.
I don’t hesitate. “More than ever,” I say, my voice steady with something deeper than determination. It’s resolve. It’s ownership. It’s the sharp, blistering truth of who I’ve become—and who I choose to be next to him, no matter the cost.
He nods once, jaw tight. “Gear up. We leave in twenty.”
* * *
The prep is fast. Surgical. Logan sweeps the room one last time, his movements sharp and efficient as he confirms comm relay frequencies and uploads decoy files into the surveillance grid. Every action buys us a few more seconds of ghost status.
Nick moves to the far wall, where a steel panel slides open to reveal the embedded weapons cache. Inside, rows of matte black gear gleam under the recessed lighting—tactical sidearms, compact comms rigs, spare burner phones, modified flashbangs, and two subcompact submachine guns.
He selects a lightweight pistol for me, placing it in my hand—sleek with a balance that sings in my grip. I test the weight instinctively, flicking the safety catch and letting the grip settle into my palm like it was always meant to be there. It's not just a weapon. It's a declaration. One that tells me I'm not a bystander in this war—I'm part of the line they're going to regret crossing.
"Safety’s off," he says quietly. "If you aim, you shoot. No second-guessing. You remember how to use a gun?"
I check the mag, pull back the slide with a clean snap, then let it settle into place before slipping the weapon into the holster at the small of my back. My voice is calm. Steady.
"I remember."
His eyes hold mine a second longer, then he nods. Once. Sharp. Satisfied.
Logan passes us both burner IDs, complete with forged diplomatic credentials. My alias is listed as a cultural attaché for a shell nonprofit. My French is good enough to pass, especially if I keep the words clipped and the tone disinterested.
Nick shrugs into a sleek gray blazer over a Kevlar-embedded shirt, concealing two knives at the small of his back and a collapsible baton inside a false seam of his coat. He clips the earpiece in, syncs it to the local signal scrambler, and turns to face me.
"Last check," he says.
I tug on gloves, zip the suit up to the collar, and test the mic embedded at my throat.
“Operational and silent,” Logan confirms from the console.
Nick scans me once—his gaze razor-edged and thorough, cataloging every detail like he's already five steps into the op. Not just checking for visible threats, but for something deeper: my steadiness, my resolve. The room around us fades into static, all background to the intensity between us. When he steps closer, close enough for his breath to whisper over my cheek, he doesn't speak at first. Just lifts his hand and brushes his knuckles down the length of my arm—a touch so brief it could be mistaken for nothing. But it isn’t. It’s a signal. A grounding.
“Whatever happens,” I say, thinking of the gun holstered at the small of my back, “I want Hector to know it was me.”
Nick nods once, and I see the flicker of pride behind the steel in his eyes—an emotion that never softens his edges but sharpens them, like I'm another weapon he's counting on. He says nothing else, doesn't need to. The pride in his eyes isn’t just about my readiness. It’s about the choice I made—the same one he’s making by letting me come with him. Not as cargo. Not as leverage. But as someone who can hold the line beside him when it matters most.