Chapter 6
KANE
Iwoke to a hand on my shoulder.
The attendant stood over me, apologetic, speaking softly in accented English. "Monsieur, we have landed. Your car is waiting."
I blinked, disoriented.
I'd slept.
Through the entire flight. Through descent. Through landing.
When was the last time that had happened?
Never. Not since the military. Maybe not before. I always woke when planes touched down, when engines shifted pitch, when anything changed. Vigilance didn't have an off switch.
Except, apparently, it did now.
I sat up slowly, noting the empty whiskey glass on the tray table, the cabin silent except for auxiliary power humming. My body felt rested in a way I didn't trust.
"Thank you," I said, voice rough.
She nodded and retreated.
Outside, Paris greeted me with cool air and overcast skies. The private terminal was minimal—discreet security, people paid not to ask questions.
A man in a dark suit stood near the exit. No sign. No gesture. He simply looked at me.
I looked back.
"Mr. Black."
I nodded.
He gestured toward a blacked-out SUV. "This way."
The vehicle was anonymous, designed to blend. He opened the rear door and I slid inside, duffel beside me.
No conversation. No music. Just the engine's hum as we merged onto the highway.
The driver handled the vehicle like he'd done time in a combat zone.
Not erratic. Efficient. Smooth lane changes, constant mirror checks, positioning for exit options. The kind of driving you learned when vehicles became weapons.
Former operator, maybe.
I didn't ask.
Forty minutes later, after two long stints in Paris traffic, we turned onto a quieter street.
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.
Wide entrance hall. Hardwood floors gleaming. Console table with fresh flowers. Artwork on the walls—tasteful, expensive.
The space felt lived in, but curated.
I turned right through the first doorway.
The room opened into something between study and sitting room. Bookshelves. Desk near the window. Two leather chairs facing each other.
And standing near a sidebar, pouring coffee from a silver kettle, was a man in a perfectly tailored suit.
He looked up.
Silver hair. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Lean build, suggesting discipline. Movements precise, controlled.
But his eyes told me everything.
Warrior's eyes. Clear, assessing. The eyes of someone who'd shed blood and made peace with it.
He set the kettle down and crossed the room, extending his hand.
"Ellsworth."
I shook it. Firm grip. No posturing.
"Kane."
"Welcome to the Sanctuary." He gestured toward the coffee. "I assumed you might appreciate some after your flight. Perhaps something to eat?"
I could always eat. But curiosity outweighed hunger.
"How long have you worked here?"
Ellsworth's mouth curved. "Not long."
"So, this is new?"
He tilted his head. "There are questions one should ask, Mr. Black, and questions best left lying in the grass where one found them."
Despite everything, I liked him immediately.
"Yeah," I said. "I'd like something to eat."
"Of course—"
"Can I make it?" The words came out before I'd thought them through. "Would that be okay?"
Ellsworth's eyebrow rose.
"It hasn't been done yet. Mr. Ward might burn a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But yes, the kitchen is fully stocked."
He led me down another hallway into a kitchen that belonged in a magazine.
Marble countertops. Professional appliances. Copper pots hanging from a rack. Everything gleaming, waiting.
I didn't know why I'd asked to cook.
Just like I didn't know how I'd slept through the flight.
Maybe seeing Connor. Maybe knowing I wasn't completely alone.
For now, I didn't care.
I opened the refrigerator.
Four beef filets wrapped in butcher paper. Root vegetables. Fresh herbs. Butter. And—I almost laughed—a six-pack of American craft beer.
Perfect.
I glanced back at Ellsworth, who was hovering. Curious.
"Is it okay to use the steaks?"
"Of course. Consider anything yours to use."
I grinned. "You want one?"
"Not this time. Though, I am curious."
I got to work.
Cooking was something my mother had done. Before St. Paul's. Before everything went to hell. She'd moved through the kitchen with precision I'd later learned to apply to violence—measuring, timing, adjusting on instinct.
I'd watched more than helped. But I'd absorbed it.
And thanks to my travels, I'd picked up skills. There were intangible benefits in my line of work. Small pleasures in places where pleasure was scarce.
Cooking was one.
I seasoned the filets simply—salt, pepper. Set them on the counter while I preheated cast iron until it was almost smoking. Chopped vegetables—carrots, parsnips, potatoes—tossed them with olive oil and thyme, slid them into the oven.
The sear was perfect. That satisfying sizzle as meat hit hot iron. I flipped them once, added butter and crushed garlic, basted until medium-rare.
Ellsworth drifted closer.
I plated one filet, added vegetables, cut a small piece.
"Here." I held it out on a fork. "Proof I'm no slouch."
Ellsworth accepted it, chewing thoughtfully. A slight nod.
"Next time, I will take a filet."
I smiled.
"But for now, there's work to be done. I'll be back in a few hours. Make yourself at home. Bedrooms upstairs. Pick whichever you'd like."
He left quietly, the front door closing with that heavy thunk.
I ate slowly, savoring every bite. Cleaned up, washing dishes by hand.
Then, I went upstairs.
Five bedrooms, all immaculate. I chose the corner room—two windows, clear sightlines to the street.
Old habits.
The shower was exactly what I needed. Hot water, good pressure, steam filling the bathroom. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting tension bleed away.
Afterward, I meant to nap.
But I felt wired. Awake in a way that had nothing to do with rest.
I needed to move.
I grabbed the black card and headed downstairs.
The door unlocked with a soft click. I stepped outside.
Paris was shifting into evening, streetlights flickering on. The temperature had fallen, air sharp and clean.
I started walking.
The city unfolded in layers—wide boulevards narrowing into tight streets, cafés spilling onto sidewalks, couples leaning into each other. Everything moved with a rhythm I could almost feel.
I passed bakeries and wine bars and galleries. Heard conversations in half a dozen languages. Watched people exist without urgency.
Yeah, I could get used to this.
But as I kept walking, deeper into neighborhoods that grew quieter, a familiar pull took hold.
I wasn't looking for it.
But I found it, anyway.
Every city had one. An underground. Where real action happened.
Bangkok and places like it had taught me how to find them. Same markers, if you knew where to look. Streets that emptied too quickly. Doors without signs. Men with postures that said guard in every language.
I followed instinct, turning down an alley that smelled like garbage and cigarettes, past a loading dock where three men stopped talking.
One looked at me. I looked back.
He jerked his chin toward a door behind them.
I nodded and kept walking.
The door led to stairs. Stairs led down. And at the bottom, muffled through concrete, I heard it.
Fists hitting flesh.
A fight.
I smiled.
Yeah. Perfect way to cap the day.
No need to tell Connor.