Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brie
“This is a kill box, Brie. Everything about this reads trap.” Hudson’s voice threads through my earpiece like static over wire—too calm, too precise—the kind of tone men use when the math already says loss.
I force a light smile as Adrien glances back at me from the café counter where he’s ordering croissants and lattes. Morning light fractures through the window, gilding the air around him—civilian softness disguising a man bred for control.
“Quinn pulled the plans for the Montmartre. No clean approach—she’ll see you coming. There’s a dozen entry points.” Too many doors. Too many unknowns waiting behind them.
Every entrance is an exit. I’d expect nothing less from a woman who’s spent decades perfecting disappearance.
“The property was once tied to the Hermès family,” I murmur. Old money clings to those walls like perfume that never washes out. “She’s rented it—and she’s connected enough to do it with almost no notice. She’ll want discretion.”
“If you’re implying she won’t fire inside, you’re forgetting suppressors,” Hudson says. “She can do what she wants and move bodies through the alley. We don’t have coverage in place. Push to this afternoon and I can layer support.”
“What resources?” The question is from a place of curiosity, as I’m still fleshing out this new group I’ve joined.
“Our backer can tap a global black-ops outfit.”
“Which?”
“Arrow Tactical.”
“We can’t wait. She’ll be suspicious.”
“Understood.” His disapproval rings clear. “You’re carrying, right?”
My hand ghosts over the tote strap, reassurance by reflex. “Debating. If they sweep bags, it sends the wrong signal.” One wrong weight on my hip and the meeting shifts from conversation to cautionary tale.
“Not a question. Given your background, she’ll expect it.”
It’s a myth that CIA always carries. Often we don’t—collection beats confrontation. Like this. I don’t argue with my boss, but my gut outranks the briefing when I’m the one in the room.
I keep scanning the sidewalk through the café window. Paris hums outside—bicycles clicking over cobblestone, a woman laughing in a language that always sounds like seduction.
“Brie?”
“Understood.”
“Comms?”
“Pointless—she’ll jam them. I’ll record.”
“She won’t say anything incriminating.” He’s right of course. She’ll be careful with her words. “Can he hear you right now?”
My eyes meet Adrien’s across the small cafe. He looks frustrated with the speed of service, but there’s probably a reason this little café didn’t have a line during what should be the morning rush.
“No.”
“His plan to take over Eddie’s role. Is that a ruse, or does he plan to continue sourcing content for Magpie?”
“Do we care?” It’s a question I’ve asked myself, and I’m curious to hear my boss’s take.
“If she’s willing to expose the parties extorting the senator, then no. At least, that’s the boss’s take.”
The boss. Our silent financial backer.
“And yours?”
“I’d like to gain more intel before coming to that conclusion.”
“The stated plan is to end his role as a source.” My gut check is Adrien has zero intention of exposing his membership, but my experience is that many fall to opportunity’s siren song.
Adrien arrives at the table with our lattes in to-go cups, his eyes narrowing with the question he doesn’t voice. I give him a soft smile I want to believe. The truth is thinner.
His father’s message landed with a location—23 Avenue Junot, Pavillon D—and a thirty-minute window. A pulse of coordinates disguised as civility. I didn’t need Hudson to tell me we just let Moira choose every advantage.
After I end the call, Adrien asks, “Your boss?”
I nod in the affirmative and break apart a piece of croissant. Hardly the breakfast of champions, but my body hasn’t adjusted to the time change, and the request to meet at nine in the morning is unexpected.
I tucked the subcompact in the tote’s side pocket. If someone checks the bag, they’ll find it. I’m not carrying anything on my body.
If she wishes to eliminate us, we could make the task quite simple for Moira. But if she’s friends with his father, if they go way back as photographs indicate, then it’s unlikely she’d kill her friend’s son. Unlikely, but not impossible.
“What’s wrong?” Adrien’s fingers lightly brush my shoulder, then he caresses my cheek as he stands beside me, choosing not to sit.
I inhale deeply, clearing the fog and settling the uncertainty. “Nothing. Let’s do this. We’re about a five-minute walk away.” He studies me like he knows I’m lying. Maybe he does. Maybe he loves that I still can.
The black iron gate lifts out of cobblestone like a secret kept too long. It groans as it opens, old metal confessing everything it’s seen. Ivy climbs the pillars; dappled light freckles the path. Even the air smells restrained—wet stone, moss, and wealth.
The townhouse-turned-five-star inn is a whispered Paris secret, and Quinn flagged that it can be booked outright. She believes Moira has it through the weekend.
Is it chance that we arrived when she has it reserved? Or is she that connected?
We’ll likely never know, and it’s not particularly relevant.
I scan the skyline and the old stone wall, covered in a mix of healthy and dead ivy, searching for eyes. Footsteps on stone blend with birdsong, as the scent of earth mixes with car exhaust. A man in black trousers, tuxedo coat, wingtips, and white gloves approaches.
“He needs a top hat, doesn’t he?” I murmur. Adrien’s mouth twitches; tension breaks for a heartbeat before knitting again.
As the middle-aged man grows closer, I study his profile, searching for weapons.
I don’t see one, but he could easily have one tucked away.
The gate creaks. “Please, come in,” he says, and my gaze lifts to the camera perched on the pillar.
He doesn’t ask our names. Someone’s watching and already knows.
The man locks the gate behind us while we stand patiently to the side. “Follow me,” he says, taking the lead along the path and never once glancing over his shoulder.
We pass small white iron café tables and chairs with red cushion seats, the colors standing out among the winter garden over evergreens and step through glass doors into a hallway.
The absence of others is eerie, if only because I’m positive others are watching, even if it’s only through a lens.
Silence here isn’t emptiness—it’s curated, the hush of money buying invisibility.
Adrien remains close to my side, his hand often brushing my lower back, protective in his closeness. Each touch a Morse code of reassurance I pretend not to need.
I appreciate the sensation, but I’m also fully aware that if we find ourselves in a situation that requires hand-to-hand combat, I’m the one with Krav Maga training, and I will not allow him to use his body as a shield.
The tuxedoed man leads us through a series of salons before arriving at a book-lined room.
A long brown leather sofa sits on one wall, and a high back velvet armchair in the corner.
In the chair sits an older woman with sparkling blue eyes, platinum blonde hair cut in a blunt, sharp-angled bob.
Her long black skirt nearly reaches the ground, and black leather shoes with rounded toes peek beneath the hem.
The periwinkle sweater with a boatneck softens her appearance, and it’s difficult to align this person with a woman rumored to have built an organization others fear.
The room smells faintly of spritzed perfume and old paper—refinement masking rot.
She doesn’t rise as we enter. Power measured not in movement but in the certainty she doesn’t have to.
One door behind us stands open; a hidden panel in the bookcase is cracked; a third door at the back is closed. If I were placing a team, I’d put one behind each of the latter two.
“May I get anything for you?” the tuxedoed man asks the room.
“We’re fine, Charles. Thank you,” Moira Kelly answers. “You may close the door behind you. We won’t be long.”
To us, she says, “Please, sit.” Her gesturing palm is a small invitation that doesn’t reach her eyes. Those eyes could catalog sins faster than any database. Now I see what connected looks like: a woman whose stillness makes the air obey.
Her gaze lingers a beat too long on my tote. She waits until Adrien and I are seated to begin.
“I don’t normally take meetings. But your father and I…
I’ll make an exception for him. As a favor.
” She crosses one leg over the other, then rests one palm over her knee, and the other palm over the hand, posture erect, shoulders back, eyes sharp and astute.
“I suspect this will be a waste of your time, but I sensed you wouldn’t accept me at my word unless we met in person. ”
“What did my father tell you?” Adrien asks.
“It’s not so much what your father said, but what I’ve learned about you over the years. You see, Adrien, I’m in the business of knowledge. I’ve watched you grow from afar.” She smiles. “I have observed you since your toddler days.”
“Then you already know why I’m here.”
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here. I won’t ask you to explain Ms. Anderson’s presence.
I know why she’s here. She’s your security.
” Her gaze travels to the cracked door. “I’m not alone either.
I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m also not a monster.
You’re safe. I have no plans to harm you. ”
“I don’t believe my father would set up this meeting if he believed you would harm his only living son.”
Her lips press together, thoughtful. “And your reason for coming all this way?’
“You’ve been profiting from my business.”