Code Name: Kingslayer (Club Opus Noir #3)

Chapter 1

MARISSA

Swiss Alps, The Silent Canticle

The monastery clings to the mountain like a prayer abandoned by God.

Stone walls rise from the Alpine darkness, centuries of weathering leaving them pitted and scarred.

Wind howls through broken shutters, carrying the scent of snow and decay.

Most people would call this place haunted.

Anyone sensible would turn back at the iron gates rusted open like broken promises.

Nocturne—female assassin, traitor, phantom.

At least, that's what they call me now. What the Iron Choir believes.

What Interpol's files probably say, assuming anyone still updates them.

What matters tonight is that the Iron Choir thinks I'm theirs, which means I can walk through these gates without a bullet finding me.

Cold bites through my tactical gear as shadows shift under a waning moon.

Hours of careful positioning went into this approach—watching guard rotations, tracking the arrival of expensive cars that don't belong on a mountain road leading nowhere.

The Iron Choir has owned this place for years, using it as a meeting point when their business requires discretion.

Tonight's gathering pulled in their inner circle from across Europe—whatever they're planning is significant enough to risk exposure.

Weeks of tracking their movements, piecing together fragments of intercepted communications and overheard conversations.

Whispers of a "final solution" to their Interpol and Cerberus problem.

Language that makes my blood run cold, the kind that brought me here despite every instinct screaming too dangerous, too exposed.

Rough stone scrapes against my fingers as I press close to the wall, feeling along until the service entrance appears. Old monasteries always have them—discreet doors for servants and supplies.

The lock is medieval. Iron and simple mechanics that would have kept out medieval thieves but pose no challenge to modern tools. My pick slides home, and the mechanism yields with a satisfying click. Hinges swing inward silent, oiled recently. They use this entrance regularly.

Inside, darkness wraps around me. Shapes emerge in the gloom as my eyes adjust. The corridor is narrow, designed for single-file movement, walls close on both sides.

Dust motes hang in the air, disturbed by my passage.

Old stone mingles with cigarette smoke. Coffee. Lingering traces of human occupation.

Voices drift from somewhere deeper in the building, muffled but distinct. Male voices, speaking in French with the clipped precision of people accustomed to being obeyed. Words aren't clear yet, but the rhythm tells me this is a meeting in progress. My pulse quickens, adrenaline sharpening focus.

Ancient fireplaces line one wall of the monastery's kitchen, large enough to roast entire animals, now cold and empty. Modern equipment has been added, incongruous against the medieval architecture. A coffee maker sits on a stone counter, its light glowing red. Someone made a fresh pot recently.

The voices are clearer now, coming from beyond the far door. My hand drifts to the knife strapped to my thigh, a reflexive gesture that steadies me. Tonight, I hope I won't need it.

Every step through the kitchen requires patience, weight distributed carefully to avoid creaking floorboards or disturbing loose stones.

Light spills through the door leading deeper into the monastery, left ajar. Approaching at an angle, keeping to what shadows remain, I risk a glance through the opening.

The great hall beyond has been transformed from a place of worship into something else entirely.

Long tables that might have once held prayer books now support laptops and secure communication equipment.

Men in expensive suits cluster around one table, their attention fixed on a projected image. Tense. Focused. Not a casual gathering.

Dmitri Koval—the Iron Choir's lieutenant who runs their Berlin operations.

A woman, Angelique Toussaint, whose legitimate art gallery in Paris launders more money in a month than most banks see in a year.

Others whose names live in dossiers and surveillance photos, men who orchestrate violence from boardrooms and private clubs.

But the man speaking is someone new. He stands at the head of the table, commanding attention without raising his voice.

Average height, unremarkable features that would disappear in a crowd, but something in his posture speaks of absolute authority.

This could be him. The Conductor. The Iron Choir's enigmatic leader who orchestrates their operations from the shadows.

My breath catches. Five years of deep cover, never in the same room with him. Never confirmed his existence beyond scattered reports and secondhand accounts. Now I may watching a myth take human form.

His suit is tailored but not ostentatious. His watch is expensive but not flashy. A man who understands the value of blending in, of being overlooked until the moment he chooses to strike.

"The timeline has been accelerated," he says, his voice carrying across the hall with quiet authority. "We move on the Laurent child during the Monaco diplomatic gala."

The name hits me like a physical blow. Amelie Laurent. Six years old. Daughter of Interpol's Deputy Director. Her photo in the briefing brings her to life—a smiling child with dark curls and her father's eyes. The Iron Choir has been circling her family for months, probing for weaknesses.

Now they're moving. During an event where security will be stretched thin, where diplomatic protocols will create blind spots.

I press closer to the door, straining to hear every word. My heart hammers against my ribs, but my breathing stays slow and controlled.

"Once we have the child, her father will have no choice but to comply," The Conductor continues. "He will dismantle the task force, redirect Interpol's resources, and ensure that our operations proceed without interference. Any resistance will be met with consequences he cannot bear."

Koval leans forward, his scarred hands flat on the table. "And if he refuses?"

The Conductor's smile is cold. "Then we demonstrate our resolve. The child becomes an example, and we move to the contingency targets. Either way, Interpol's effectiveness in Europe will be crippled."

"What about Cerberus?" someone asks from a position out of my sightline. "They've been circling closer. If we move on Interpol, they'll respond."

The Conductor's expression doesn't change. "One problem at a time. Neutralize Interpol first, then we'll address Cerberus. Without Interpol's coordination, Cerberus becomes an isolated threat. Manageable."

My stomach twists. This is worse than imagined—not just a kidnapping, but a systematic attack designed to fracture the very agencies hunting them. With Interpol compromised, they'll operate freely, expanding networks, consolidating power.

"The attacks are coordinated," another voice adds.

Toussaint this time, her tone matter-of-fact as she discusses violence like a business transaction.

"Paris, Berlin, and London will experience incidents that appear unrelated but will strain intelligence cooperation.

By the time they realize the pattern, it will be too late to respond effectively. "

They're planning false flag operations designed to make European intelligence agencies suspect each other, to breed paranoia and distrust. Destabilization on a massive scale.

I need proof. Everything they're saying is useless unless documented, unless brought back to someone who will act on it.

My handler is dead. I found him in a Vienna safe house—bullet to the head, execution-style.

Professional. Someone betrayed him. Someone betrayed me.

But the information still matters. The mission still matters.

Getting proof means getting closer, taking risks that could expose me. If I walk away now, an innocent child dies, and they win. Everything sacrificed over five years, every compromise and moral calculation, means nothing.

When their attention focuses on the projected image, I step through the doorway. Moving along the wall requires agonizing patience, each step placed with exquisite care. Deep shadows fill this space, and I use them, slipping between the pools of torchlight.

A side room offers better cover. The door hangs open, revealing a monk's cell repurposed as storage. Filing cabinets line one wall. A desk holds a computer, screen glowing softly.

I cross to the desk and ease into position. The computer is unlocked, screen showing a file directory. Careless. Or arrogant. They've operated with impunity for so long they've forgotten what real opposition looks like.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, navigating through folders.

Financial records. Operations logs. Communication intercepts.

Target dossiers with photos and vulnerabilities cataloged.

Timeline maps showing every checkpoint from kidnapping to ransom delivery.

Extraction routes through Monte Carlo's labyrinthine streets.

Analysis documents outlining the domino effect—how Interpol's compromise will cascade through European intelligence, fracturing alliances, breeding distrust.

And there, buried in a subfolder marked "Internal Security": surveillance photos of my handler. Meeting times. Location data. A report dated two days before his execution in Vienna.

Source: Cardinal.

Someone at Interpol fed them everything. My handler didn't die because of bad luck or operational exposure. He died because someone he trusted sold him out. Someone who knew our protocols, our safe houses, our communication methods.

I pull the small flash drive from my pocket. I plug it in and start the transfer. Progress bars creep across the screen. Come on. Come on.