Chapter 23 Paul Six Days
TWENTY-THREE
Paul: Six Days
The holographic display bathes the war room in cold blue light, turning everyone into ghosts. I lean forward, hands braced on the table's edge, staring at the three-dimensional rendering of the Faulks estate. Every window. Every door. Every potential exit.
Every barrier between me and Vivianne.
My fingers itch to reach into the hologram, to tear through the digital walls and pull her out. Five weeks since she posted that cryptic message about Paris gardens and three-month countdowns. Five weeks of planning, preparing, assembling this team.
Six days until the wedding.
Six days until I lose her forever.
"You listening, de Gaulle?"
Jenny's voice cuts through my thoughts like a switchblade. She stands across the table, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. The woman radiates authority—shoulders back, spine straight, every inch the tactical commander. Her dark skin gleams in the holographic light, and those sharp eyes miss nothing.
"Every word." I straighten, meeting her gaze. Refusing to be cowed.
She doesn't look convinced. The silence stretches, taut as wire, until Merlin shifts beside me. His hand lands on my shoulder—a warning or support, maybe both.
"The estate's security is formidable." Jenny manipulates the display. The hologram zooms in, revealing guard positions, camera placements, and patrol routes marked in pulsing red. "Twenty-four-seven surveillance. Rotating guard shifts. Motion sensors on every accessible entry point."
"Which is why we're not breaking in." Mac's voice rumbles from the corner like distant thunder. The man is a mountain—six and a half feet of solid muscle packed into tactical black. His arms are crossed, biceps straining against fabric. "We're walking in."
"Elaborate." Merlin leans forward, his weathered hands folding on the table. Always calm. Always assessing. Seventy years of stealing priceless art has taught him patience I'll never master.
Jenny taps the display. Two figures materialize—generic male silhouettes with credential badges floating beside them.
"Mac and Blaze infiltrate as last-minute security hires.
We've already planted your backgrounds in their system.
Ex-military. Impeccable references. Exactly what Faulks is looking for to beef up protection for his daughter's wedding. "
"Because nothing says 'happy celebration' like a small army.
" Blaze speaks for the first time since we gathered.
He's leaner than Mac, all coiled energy and restless movement.
His eyes never stop tracking—cataloging exits, assessing threats, calculating angles.
"What's our cover story for the sudden hiring? "
"Increased threat assessment due to the bride's high profile.
" Charlie's voice is honey and smoke. She's perched on the table's edge, one long leg crossed over the other, blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail.
Beautiful enough to stop traffic. Dangerous enough to cause a pileup.
"Rich families love being paranoid. Makes them feel important. "
"Plus, the groom's family has their own security concerns." Forest adds from where he's slouched against the wall. The man is built like his name suggests—solid, immovable, radiating quiet strength. "Harringtons have made enemies. Easy to sell the extra muscle as preventative."
The hologram shifts again. The estate's floor plan spreads before us—a maze of corridors, ballrooms, and private quarters. Jenny's fingers dance through the projection, highlighting sections in different colors.
"Jon and Brett, you're on the catering team." She doesn't look at the two men, just points. "That gives you access to the main house. Kitchen. Dining areas. Anywhere food and drink need to go."
I glance at the pair. They stand close—not touching, but orbiting each other like binary stars.
Jon is darker, broader, his presence solid and grounding.
Brett lighter, leaner, moving with a fighter's grace.
The way they communicate without words speaks of years together. Battle. Blood. Brotherhood.
"Catering." Brett's mouth quirks. "Haven't done food service since that job in Prague."
"That wasn't food service." Jon's response is dry. "That was a disaster with appetizers."
"You're the one who set off the—"
"Focus." Jenny's single word cuts through the banter.
No raised voice. Just authority. The room snaps to attention.
"Charlie and I will infiltrate as either florist assistants or waitstaff.
Our primary objective is to make contact with Vivianne.
We need to reach the bridal suite and assess her physical and mental state. "
My chest tightens. Physical and mental state. Clinical terms for whether the woman I love has been broken by her captors.
"She's strong." The words come out rougher than intended. "Vivianne won't break."
Jenny's gaze locks onto mine. Assessing. Measuring. "Everyone breaks eventually. It's just a matter of how much pressure gets applied and for how long."
The truth of it sits heavy in the room. I want to argue. To insist Vivianne is different, special, unbreakable.
But I remember Catherine. My sister, whom I thought was invincible. Who walked into that museum in Florence with absolute confidence.
Who never walked out.
"What about us?" Merlin's question pulls me back from the edge of that particular abyss. "Where do Paul and I fit in this operation?"
Jenny manipulates the display again. The estate's perimeter appears, surrounding properties marked in yellow. "You're our insurance policy. Off-site, monitoring communications, ready to provide intel or extraction support if things go sideways."
"Absolutely not."
The words are out before I can stop them. I push away from the table, the chair scraping harshly against concrete. "I'm not sitting in a van while Vivianne is in there. I'm going in."
"No." Jenny doesn't move. Doesn't raise her voice. Just states it as fact. "You're emotionally compromised. Emotional compromise gets people killed."
"I know the art world. Know these people. I can—"
"Get Vivianne killed along with yourself and anyone near you when you do something stupid.
" She steps around the table, closing the distance between us.
Up close, the scars are visible—one along her jawline, another disappearing into her hairline.
Combat wounds. Proof she's earned the right to make these calls.
"This isn't negotiable, de Gaulle. You want our help? You follow our rules."
The air crackles with tension. Everyone's watching. Waiting to see if I'll push back. If I'll throw away this chance because my pride can't handle being benched.
Merlin's hand finds my shoulder again. "She's right, mon ami."
I want to shrug him off. Want to argue that it's my operation, my plan, my woman we're saving.
But it's not. Not really. The moment I called in the Guardians, I handed over control.
"Fine." The word tastes like ash. "We stay off-site."
"Good." Jenny turns back to the display, and the moment passes. "Now, let's talk about contingencies."
The briefing continues for another two hours. Escape routes. Communication protocols. What to do if Vivianne can't or won't leave. What to do if Faulks or the groom make an appearance. What to do if everything goes to hell.
That last section takes the longest.
Mitzy bounces forward when Jenny finally calls for tech review, her rainbow hair catching the holographic light like a prism. She's brilliant, her eyes holding the sharp focus of someone who sees the world in ones and zeros.
"Okay, okay, okay." She spreads an array of items across the table. Watches. Earrings. Tie clips. Pens. All looking completely ordinary. "These are not your grandfather's spy gadgets."
She picks up a watch—sleek, expensive-looking, the kind any security professional might wear. "Micro-camera. Comms unit. Emergency beacon. Plus—" She presses something on the side, and the air around it shimmers. "—a targeted EMP. Thirty-foot radius. Kills all electronics dead."
"How long?" Mac reaches for the watch, turning it over in his massive hands with surprising care.
"Sixty seconds. Ninety if you're lucky." Mitzy grins. "Plenty of time to get somewhere you shouldn't be."
She moves to the earrings—elegant drops that catch the light. "Fast-acting sedative. Aerosol delivery on contact. Touch these to someone's skin, they're down in three seconds, out for twenty minutes."
"And these?" Charlie holds up what looks like a simple hair clip.
"Tracker. Plant it on someone, we can follow them anywhere within a ten-mile radius." Mitzy's grin widens. "Also doubles as a lock pick if you're desperate."
The technology is remarkable. My work with Merlin has always relied on simpler tools—talent, timing, insider knowledge. This level of sophistication is military-grade. Maybe beyond.
"Where did you get this equipment?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Mitzy's grin falters. She glances at Sam, who's been silent throughout the briefing. He steps forward, and the easy-going mask he usually wears drops away.
"We have resources." His voice is flat. Final. "That's all you need to know."
The message is clear—don't ask questions we won't answer.
Fair enough.
"One more thing." Jenny pulls up a new image.
A man in his late forties, distinguished-looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and calculating eyes.
"Donovan Price. Head of Faulks estate security.
Former military. Delta Force. He's not just muscle—he's smart, experienced, and loyal to Henry Faulks above all else. "
"Which means?" Forest asks.
"Which means if he suspects anything—anything at all—he won't hesitate to lock down the entire estate." Jenny's expression goes grim. "If that happens, we abort. Vivianne's safety is priority one. We don't take risks that might get her hurt."