Chapter 31
CONNOR
The plan was simple. Almost insultingly so.
Which was exactly what made it right.
"We go in direct," I said, spreading the satellite image across the desk between us. "No games. No elaborate infiltration. We move fast, casual, and we hit hard."
Ellsworth nodded, his finger tracing the perimeter of the textile factory on the screen. His movements were precise, methodical—the same way I imagined he approached everything. Measured, deliberate, effective.
"Zip-tie and gag any civilians," he said. "Focus on finding Merrick."
"He's the key," I agreed. "Everything else is noise."
The target was Merrick. The guards were obstacles. The building was just a location. But Merrick—he was the objective. The piece of my past that had followed me to Paris and threatened everything I was trying to build with Mila.
End him, end the immediate threat.
At least, that's what I told myself.
Ellsworth disappeared into another room and returned carrying a case I hadn't seen before—hard-sided, unmarked, the kind of thing that screamed expensive and possibly illegal. He set it on the desk between us and opened it with the reverence of a jeweler presenting something rare.
Inside lay two pistols.
Matte black. Compact. Suppressors already attached. But it was more than aesthetics. The craftsmanship was immediately apparent—every line clean, every angle intentional. These weren't mass-produced sidearms pulled from an armory. These were works of art that happened to be lethal.
I lifted one, and the weight distribution told me everything before I even checked the chamber.
Custom work. Precision machining. The grip molded itself to my hand like it had been made specifically for me—which, I was beginning to suspect, it had. The balance was perfect. Not front-heavy from the suppressor, not awkward in the draw. Just ... right.
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Friend from the service," Ellsworth said casually, like he was discussing where he'd bought his shoes.
"Gunsmith. Makes anything I need, for a price.
Though between you and me, I think he charges more out of principle than necessity.
Gives him something to do besides tinker in his garage and yell at the television. "
I sighted down the barrel, feeling the way the weapon moved with me instead of against me. "This is incredible."
"He was set out to pasture, too," Ellsworth continued, and there was an edge to his voice now—the same frustration I'd heard earlier when he'd talked about retirement.
"Bit like me. Brilliant mind, decades of experience, suddenly considered obsolete because some spreadsheet said he'd reached retirement age. Bloody waste, if you ask me."
An idea sparked, cutting through the pre-op focus.
"Think he'd be interested in more regular work?" I asked. "Like an in-house weapons specialist?"
Ellsworth's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "You mean like Q?"
"Exactly like Q."
He considered it, already working through logistics. I could see it in the way his expression shifted—practical, assessing, calculating odds.
"I'll mention it to him," he said finally. "Though, I imagine Mr. Dane would need to approve the arrangement. Budgets and all that tedious business."
"Micah will bite," I said with certainty. "This is exactly the kind of asset The Sanctuary needs. Customized equipment. No questions asked. Someone who understands operational requirements."
Ellsworth smiled. "I'll make the call tomorrow."
But there was no time to pursue that now.
We loaded into the car twenty minutes later, both dressed in dark, nondescript clothing that would blend into shadows. Nothing tactical. Nothing that screamed operator. Just two men who could be anyone, going anywhere. Very European.
Ellsworth drove with his characteristic calm. The city slid past—elegant facades giving way to industrial sprawl, beauty surrendering to function block by block until we were in the part of Paris tourists never saw.
We parked half a mile out, the car tucked into an alley between abandoned warehouses where it wouldn't draw attention.
Ellsworth handed me the radio bud. Tiny thing. Barely visible once it nestled in my ear canal. Military-grade tech in a package smaller than a bean.
"Comms check," he said, his voice coming through clear despite standing right next to me.
"Clear," I replied.
"We go in separately," he said, all business now. "I'll take the north approach. You come from the south. Converge at the main structure once we've confirmed Merrick's location."
"Copy."
We split without ceremony. No handshakes or last-minute pep talks. Just two professionals going to work.
The weight of the pistol pressed against my lower back, reassuring and familiar. The suppressor added length, but Ellsworth's gunsmith had engineered the holster to accommodate the extra inches without printing through my jacket.
As soon as Ellsworth disappeared around the corner, his voice came through the comms.
Different now.
Clipped. Precise. All the genteel butler polish stripped away to reveal the operator underneath—the man who'd spent twenty-two years doing extremely illegal things in extremely dangerous places.
"Moving to position," he said. "No visual on hostiles yet."
I moved through the abandoned streets, my approach silent and measured. Years of training had taught me how to move through urban environments without drawing attention—how to use shadows, how to time movements to ambient noise, how to become functionally invisible, even in daylight.
The area was perfect for our purposes. Broken windows. Graffiti-tagged walls. Debris scattered across cracked pavement. The kind of place where people minded their own business because asking questions was how you got hurt.
Perfect for Merrick's purposes.
Terrible for his health.
I scanned for cameras and found none. Either they didn't think they needed them or they'd been lazy about security. Either way, it worked in our favor.
"First visual," Ellsworth reported, his voice perfectly even. "Two hostiles at north entrance. Armed. Assault rifles. AK pattern. Amateur stance."
"Copy. Still moving into position."
"Moving to engage."
I waited, my own approach continuing as I closed the distance to the southern side. The building loomed ahead—three stories of weathered brick and broken promises, most windows either shattered or boarded over with rotting plywood.
Ten seconds passed. Fifteen.
"First target down," Ellsworth said, his voice even as glass. Like he was commenting on the weather. No strain. No breathlessness. Just simple reporting. "Moving to second."
I was genuinely impressed. The man hadn't sounded even slightly winded. No elevated breathing that would suggest he'd been running or engaging in close-quarters combat. No indication of exertion at all.
Maybe he just knew these streets better. Maybe he'd scouted ahead, mapped every alley and shortcut.
Or maybe, he was just that good.
"Second target neutralized," came the update less than thirty seconds later. "Proceeding to interior. South side still clear?"
"Approaching now," I replied.
I rounded the final corner and spotted my first hostile.
Young guy, maybe mid-twenties, holding a submachine gun with the casual grip of someone who'd never actually had to use it. Mall ninja bullshit. All show, no substance.
He was looking the wrong direction entirely, attention focused on his phone—probably scrolling through social media while he was supposed to be on watch.
Amateur hour.
I raised the pistol. The custom grip fit my hand like it was part of my body. The sights lined up perfectly. Two taps. Headshots guaranteed the target stayed down.
The suppressed rounds made soft coughs—not silent, but quiet enough they wouldn't carry far in an industrial area where ambient noise from distant traffic and wind through broken structures created constant background sound.
He crumpled without making a noise beyond the soft thump of his body hitting concrete. Even the clatter of the gun was muffled.
"South entrance clear," I reported, stepping over the body. "Moving inside."
The door wasn't locked. Didn't even have a working handle. I pushed it open with my shoulder and slipped into the darkness beyond.
Compared to some of my hardest ops—the ones in Ramadi and Manilla that had pushed me to the absolute edge of what I thought I could survive—this was a cakewalk.
These weren't trained operators. They weren't soldiers or even particularly competent mercenaries. They were thugs playing at being dangerous, relying on intimidation and numbers instead of actual skill.
The interior was exactly what I expected. Open floor plan. Rusted machinery pushed against walls like forgotten dinosaurs. Broken office furniture scattered around—chairs with three legs, desks with missing drawers, filing cabinets tipped on their sides with papers spilling out like guts.
Concrete floors. Metal catwalks overhead. Plenty of cover if you knew how to use it.
But these idiots didn't.
I moved through the shadows, footsteps silent. The pistol felt like an extension of my arm. Natural. Instinctive.
Two more targets presented themselves—both armed, both completely unprepared for someone who actually knew what they were doing.
Four rounds. Two bodies.
"Second floor clear on my end," I reported. "Three hostiles down."
"Third floor clear," Ellsworth replied. "Two more eliminated. No sign of primary target."
Shit.
We'd cleared most of the building and Merrick still hadn't shown. Either he wasn't here—which would be a massive tactical failure on our part—or he was holed up somewhere we hadn't checked yet.
We converged on the second floor near what used to be the foreman's office, meeting where the overhead lights had been stripped out, leaving only darkness and faint glow from broken windows.