Chapter 5
CONNOR
Ihadn't slept.
Not a single hour. Not even close.
I'd spent the night in my apartment, door locked, pistol within reach, staring at the ceiling and running through everything Micah had said. Every word. Every implication. Every piece of information he'd dropped like breadcrumbs leading me somewhere I wasn't sure I wanted to go.
Micah knew everything.
Well, almost everything.
He knew I was on the run. Knew about the organization—the "family"—that had found me and was getting close. He knew things I hadn't told anyone, things I'd buried so deep I'd almost convinced myself they weren't real anymore.
He didn't say how he knew. I didn't ask.
Micah Dane was the kind of man who told you what you needed to know when you needed to know it. Asking for more was a waste of breath, and he'd respect you less for trying.
But then he'd said it.
St. Paul's School for Boys.
The words had hit me like a fist to the sternum. I'd frozen, my entire body going rigid, every muscle locking down like I was fourteen again, standing in that cold hallway with linoleum floors and fluorescent lights that buzzed like dying insects.
St. Paul's.
Where it all began.
I shoved the memory away, clamped down on it before it could take root. I didn't want to think about those years. Didn't want to remember what we'd been before we became what we were.
Damn those years.
But Micah's offer—that was harder to ignore.
Protection. Resources. A network designed to keep men like me alive when the system decided we were expendable.
I'd asked what the catch was.
There was always a catch.
Micah had looked at me with those dark, unreadable eyes and said there wasn't one.
I didn't believe him. Not fully. But nothing in his voice, his posture, his expression told me he was lying. And I'd spent enough years reading men in high-stakes situations to know when someone was feeding me bullshit.
Micah Dane wasn't.
So, I'd asked what the next steps were.
He'd handed me an address. Told me to go there. Told me that when I arrived, I was to say three words to the man at the door.
"What, like a password?" I'd asked, still half-convinced this was some elaborate joke.
Micah hadn't smiled.
"I request sanctuary," he'd said.
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and strange.
I'd stared at him, waiting for the punchline.
It didn't come.
"If you go," Micah had said, "good. I'll see you soon. If not, best of luck."
We'd shaken hands. His grip was firm, deliberate. Then he'd walked out into the night, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
And I'd been alone with them ever since.
Morning came slow and gray, the kind of overcast Parisian sky that made everything look washed out and temporary. I showered, shaved, dressed in clean clothes that didn't feel clean enough. My reflection in the mirror looked tired. Older than I felt.
I thought about Mila.
It hadn't been hard to find her. I'd tracked her movements the same way I'd tracked targets—methodically, from a distance, staying in the periphery.
She'd walked along the Seine, stopped at a boulangerie, bought something sweet.
An éclair, maybe. She'd eaten it slowly, licking chocolate from her thumb, completely unaware that I was watching from across the street.
I'd wanted to go to her. Wanted to cross that distance, sit beside her, ask if she'd meant what she said about running into me by accident.
But I didn't.
Because I was no good for her.
I was damaged goods. A man hiding. A man running. And whatever spark had passed between us—it didn't matter. It couldn't matter.
She deserved better than someone like me.
So, I'd stayed where I was, watched her finish her pastry, watched her walk away. And then I'd gone back to my apartment and stared at the address Micah had given me until the ink blurred.
I made five passes near the address over the next three hours.
Not close enough to draw attention. Just close enough to get a feel for the place. The neighborhood was nicer than mine—clean streets, well-maintained buildings, the kind of area where money lived quietly and didn't apologize for it.
The building itself looked ordinary. Cream-colored stone, tall windows, a door that could have belonged to any upscale residence in Paris. Nothing about it screamed safe house or covert operation.
Which, of course, made it perfect.
On the sixth pass, I stopped pretending I wasn't going to do this.
I walked up to the door and pressed the call button.
A male voice answered in French, clipped and professional.
For a second, I thought I'd gotten the address wrong. That this was all some stupid prank. That Micah had sent me to some random apartment just to see if I'd actually follow through.
But then I remembered his face. The seriousness in his tone.
I cleared my throat and said the three words.
"I request sanctuary."
There was a pause. Then a just-perceptible beep, like my voice had unlocked something.
The male voice came back over the intercom, this time in English.
"Straight up the stairs, Mr. Ward."
The door clicked open.
I pushed it in and felt the heft immediately. The damn thing weighed more than some vault doors I'd breached. Solid. Reinforced. But from the outside, it looked absolutely ordinary.
The first thing I noticed when I closed the door behind me was the silence.
Complete. Absolute.
I couldn't hear the street. Couldn't hear traffic or voices or the hum of the city that had been pressing in on me since I arrived in Paris. It was like stepping into a vacuum, a space carved out of the world and sealed off from it.
My instincts kicked in. I scanned the interior—carpeted stairs, muted lighting, walls that looked like plaster but probably weren't. Everything about the place screamed money and function in equal measure.
I climbed the stairs slowly, every sense on high alert.
At the top, a door on the right opened before I could knock.
A man stood in the doorway, wearing what I could only describe as a "casual butler" outfit—pressed slacks, a crisp white shirt, a vest that looked tailored. His posture was military. His eyes were sharp.
"Mr. Ward," he said in a British accent, smooth and practiced. "Welcome. Please, come in."
I stepped inside, cataloging everything.
The man closed the door behind me with the same deliberate care I'd seen in operators who knew how to move through hostile environments without making noise.
"Can I offer you anything?" he asked. "A drink? Something to eat?"
I glanced at him, then at the room. "Is it too early for a real drink?"
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. "The bar is always open here, sir."
"Whatever's easiest," I said. "On the rocks."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Bourbon, I'd wager."
"Yeah."
He gestured toward a pair of leather chairs positioned near a wood-burning fireplace. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Your drink will be here momentarily."
I waited until he left, then moved to the chair and sat, my hand instinctively checking the pistol tucked into my waistband.
The room was impressive—old Paris royalty meets functional American.
High ceilings, dark wood paneling, furniture that looked antique but felt solid.
A fireplace that actually worked, flames crackling low and steady.
I pulled out my phone to check the time.
No signal.
None.
I frowned, glancing at the screen. Outside, I'd had full bars. Now? Nothing.
What the hell was this place?
I looked around again, taking in the details. The walls were thick. The windows—if there were any—were hidden behind heavy drapes. The air felt controlled, filtered. This wasn't just a safe house.
This was a fortress.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and I turned.
Micah walked in, carrying two glasses filled halfway with brown liquid. He moved with the same controlled economy I remembered from the field, his presence filling the room without effort.
"Glad you came," he said.
I stood, meeting his eyes. "I wasn't sure I would."
Micah grunted, handing me one of the glasses. He raised his own. "To new opportunities."
I clinked my glass against his and took a sip.
The bourbon hit my tongue like liquid gold. Smooth. Complex. Better than anything I'd ever tasted.
Micah watched me, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "You like it?"
I took another sip, savoring it. "Yeah. What is it?"
"Stick around and I might tell you."
I nearly choked. "Jesus."
"Welcome to The Sanctuary," Micah said, settling into the chair across from me.
I sat back down, the weight of the moment pressing in. "The front door," I said. "It's armored."
Micah grinned. "Can stop anything up to a tank round. For a time."
"And the rest of the place?"
"Similar." He gestured around the room. "Your room is just down the hall. Private. Secure. The butler—his name's Ellsworth, former SAS—will handle everything you need."
"Everything?" I asked, thinking this sounded like something out of a James Bond movie.
"Weapons. Comms gear. Transportation. Access." Micah's gaze didn't waver. "Everything."
I set my glass down on the side table, letting the statement settle. Then I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
"Why are you really doing this?" I asked. "What the hell is going on?"
Micah sipped his drink, staring at the fireplace for a long moment. The flames cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes.
Finally, he spoke.
"I've recently been through something that has me rethinking what's possible in the world.
" His voice was low, measured. "We go into the military thinking we can change things.
Kill every bad guy on the planet. Make it safer.
But when it comes down to it, some whisper from a spook or a new law from a politician fucks everything up. "
He paused, turning the glass in his hand.
"What if there's another way?"
I frowned. "What way?"
"Money and power."
The words landed heavy.
"Think about it," Micah continued. "What if we'd had money and power on our side in Helsinki? Sri Lanka? Budapest? Prague?"
Those were all places we'd worked together. Every single op had gone to shit. And yet, somehow, we'd salvaged the mission. Barely.
I exhaled slowly. "If we'd had unlimited resources? There's a lot I'd have done differently."
Micah's gaze sharpened. "Like save your friends?"
The question cut straight to my core.
My friends. My brothers. Scattered around the world, running from the same past I was.
"What do you know about them?" I asked, voice tight.
"They're being found," Micah said. "Hopefully, before your other old friends find them."
The message. The warning. The nine of us, on the run, our pasts coming to drag us back.
"What's your plan?" I asked.
Micah leaned back, swirling his drink. "You're the guinea pig."
I stared at him.
"You get protection," he said. "Resources. And you get to root out the cancer. Bury it in a deep grave, piece by piece. Then help protect your brothers."
It sounded too good to be true.
I told him as much.
Micah didn't argue. Instead, he reached into his pocket and slid a black card across the side table.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Pick it up."
I did.
The moment my fingers touched it, the card glowed red. Bright. Pulsing. Then it faded back to black.
I turned it over in my hand, heart kicking. "What the hell?"
"It's tuned to your DNA," Micah said. "Only you can use it. It's your key in. Your credit card. Your proof of identity."
I stared at the card. "You're serious."
"Unlimited purchasing power," Micah said. "But have a purpose. No itemized reports needed. Use it wisely."
I couldn't quite process that. "There's really no limit?"
Micah grinned. "None. But don't buy a yacht just to see if it works."
I almost laughed. Almost.
Then Micah said something that knocked me sideways.
"You're free to invite friends or companions into The Sanctuary."
My mind went straight to Mila.
No.
I couldn't do that. Couldn't drag her into this mess.
But the thought stuck, burrowing in. Maybe just dinner. Something normal. Something that didn't involve guns and encrypted messages and men from my past trying to kill me.
Yeah. That was the way.
Micah finished his drink and stood. "One more thing."
I looked up.
"Your old friends," he said. "They're in Paris. And they're sniffing. So keep your head down, but eyes out."
My blood went cold.
Micah set his glass on the mantle and headed for the door. "I've got to fly back to Charleston."
"What's in Charleston?" I asked.
He grinned over his shoulder. "If you survive this, maybe you'll get to see."
He paused at the door, hand on the frame. "Stay safe, Connor. And don't do anything I'd do."
Then he was gone.
And I was left alone with my thoughts.
Of which there were many.