Chapter 14
ARCHER
Monte Carlo, Safe House
A private airstrip sits on the edge of Monte Carlo, the Mediterranean sprawling blue and endless beyond the tarmac.
Marissa hasn't let go of my hand since we landed.
Her fingers lace through mine with a grip that's part anchor, part lifeline.
She's stopped shaking, but barely. Adrenaline crash from Marrakesh is hitting hard now that we're on solid ground with time to process what happened.
I keep her close as we cross to the waiting vehicle.
Two Cerberus operatives meet us at the car, both faces I recognize from previous operations.
Logan must have called in local assets. One opens the rear door, and I guide Marissa inside before sliding in beside her.
She immediately curls into my side, and my arm goes around her automatically.
Every instinct I have screams to protect her, to keep her close, to make sure nothing touches her again.
Our drive takes us along the coast, past the gleaming excess of Monte Carlo's casino district and down toward the water.
White stucco with a terracotta tile roof, the cottage sits right on the rocky Mediterranean coastline.
A wooden dock extends into the water where a boat is moored.
It looks like a charming vacation rental, the kind of place tourists would pay a fortune to stay in for a week. That's exactly the point.
I've been here before, know what lies beneath the innocent exterior.
Real security isn't visible—it's the sophisticated surveillance hidden in the landscape, the reinforced structure that could withstand an assault, and the high-tech operations center buried in the rock beneath our feet.
That boat isn't just for show—it's a fast escape route if we need it. Cerberus doesn't do anything halfway.
Inside, the cottage maintains the illusion.
Stone floors, open concept living area with a big stone fireplace and comfortable leather furniture, a well-equipped kitchen.
Windows offer stunning views of the Mediterranean.
But I know what's below—a fully equipped operations center that rivals Opus Noir.
Backup command, redundant systems, and a hidden helicopter bay that can deploy from underground if extraction becomes necessary.
I've used that helicopter before. I hope I don't have to again.
Fitz meets us in the living area. Dark circles under his eyes, coffee cup in hand, tension radiating from every line of his body.
Logan stands near the windows, arms crossed, expression grim.
They've been here for hours already, working in the ops center below, coordinating with assets at Opus Noir, trying to salvage an operation that went sideways in Marrakesh.
"Sit," Fitz says, gesturing to the seating area. "We need to debrief."
Marissa straightens, pulling away from me slightly. I feel the loss immediately but don't fight it. She needs to be Nocturne right now, needs the professional armor. I understand that. But my hand stays on the small of her back, letting her know I'm here.
We settle onto one of the sofas. Logan takes a chair across from us. Fitz remains standing, pacing like he needs the movement to burn off frustration.
"Your cover is blown," Fitz says without preamble. "The Conductor knows Nocturne is compromised. Moreau made sure of that before he ran. Intel suggests the Iron Choir is treating you both as hostile operatives."
"Which means they'll be expecting us," Logan adds. "Any move we make, they'll anticipate."
Marissa's spine goes rigid beside me. "The mission—"
"Continues," Fitz cuts her off. "Laurent's daughter is still in danger. Gala is still happening in a few days. We adapt."
"How?" I ask, keeping my voice level even though frustration simmers beneath. "If they know we're coming, they'll adjust their plans. Move the timeline. Change tactics."
"We're working on that," Logan says. He pulls up a tablet, tapping through screens. "Our intel suggests the gala is still their target window. Best opportunity—diplomatic immunity, international guests, chaos they can use as cover. Moving up the timeline means losing those advantages."
"Unless Moreau gave them something that makes the advantages irrelevant," Marissa points out. Her voice is steady, but I hear the exhaustion underneath. "He knows my real identity. My entire Interpol cover. Every contact I've made in the Iron Choir over the years."
"True," Fitz acknowledges. "Which is why we're assuming worst-case scenario and planning accordingly. Moreau is en route to Monte Carlo. Intel puts his arrival in the next couple of days. We'll intercept him before he can make contact with the Conductor's people here."
"And then what?" My question comes out sharper than I intend. "Detain him? Question him? He's Interpol's Director of Operations. This isn't some low-level operative we can disappear."
"We'll deal with Moreau when he arrives," Fitz says, and there's steel in his voice that says the conversation about that particular problem is closed.
"Right now, focus on the gala. We have a few days to prepare.
Laurent is cooperating fully—he'll bring Amelie as planned, but with additional security we're embedding into his detail. Iron Choir won't see them coming."
"They'll see us coming," Marissa says quietly. "That's the problem."
Silence settles heavy in the room. She's right. Iron Choir knows we're in play. Knows we're coming for them. Any tactical advantage we had is gone. Now we're walking into a situation where they'll be watching for us specifically.
"So we use that," I say, mind already working through possibilities. "They know we're coming. They'll be looking for us. Which means we become the distraction while other assets move on Amelie."
Fitz nods slowly. "That's the working theory. You two draw their attention, keep them focused on the visible threats, while our embedded team secures the target."
"Bait," Marissa says flatly. "You're using us as bait."
"I'm using your blown cover as an asset," Fitz corrects. "Iron Choir will commit resources to tracking you. Resources that won't be focused on Laurent and his daughter."
I feel Marissa tense beside me. She's processing the tactical reality, but underneath, I sense her resistance.
This isn't how operations are supposed to work.
Clean infiltration. Invisible protection.
Getting in and out without the enemy ever knowing you were there.
This is messy. Exposed. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with becoming targets.
"We'll make it work," I say, making the decision for both of us. "Give us the parameters. We'll draw them out."
Fitz's expression softens slightly. "I know this isn't ideal. But it's what we have. And you two are the best chance Amelie has."
Briefing continues for another hour. Details about the gala venue, security protocols, contingency plans.
Logan walks us through the embedded team members, their covers, their positions.
We review floor plans and emergency exits and communication protocols.
By the time Fitz finally calls it, the sun has set outside the windows, and Marissa looks like she might collapse.
"Get some rest," Fitz orders. "We reconvene in the morning. Lot of work to do before the gala."
Logan gestures toward the bedrooms. Two of them—one larger with a queen bed and attached bath, the other smaller. He shows us to the larger room. Queen bed, glass doors opening onto a patio that overlooks the water, en suite bathroom that's clean and functional.
"I'll leave you to it," Logan says. "If you need anything, comms are active. Kitchen's stocked, security is tight. Ops center downstairs has everything—tactical armory, surveillance feeds, secure communications, and emergency extraction if it comes to that."
He leaves, closing the door behind him. Silence that follows is almost overwhelming after the chaos of the past day. Marrakesh. Escape. Flight. Debrief. It all crashes down at once, and Marissa sways slightly on her feet.
I'm beside her in a heartbeat, hands on her shoulders, steadying her. "Hey. When was the last time either of us got a good night's sleep?"
"At the riad," she says, voice rough. "Before everything went to hell."
That was more than a full day ago. Add in the adrenaline, the violence, the terror of almost dying, and she's running on empty. I guide her toward the bed, but she pulls back.
"I need a shower first," she says. "I can still smell Marrakesh on me. Gunpowder and blood and that estate."
I understand. Sometimes you need to wash off the mission before you can let yourself rest. "Go. I'll be right here."
She disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear water running. I strip out of my clothes, leaving them in a neat pile near the door. My weapons go on the nightstand, within easy reach. Then I follow her into the bathroom.
Steam fills the space, warm and humid. Through the glass shower door, she's standing under the spray, head bowed, hands braced against the tile. Water sluices over her body, washing away Marrakesh, but her shoulders are shaking.
I open the shower door and step inside. She turns, surprised, and tears mix with the water on her face. She doesn't try to hide them.
"Hey," I say softly, pulling her against my chest. "I've got you."
Her arms come around me, holding tight, and she lets herself break. Just for a moment. Just here, where no one else can witness it. I hold her under the spray, one hand stroking her hair, the other pressed against her spine, grounding her through the crash.
When the tears slow, I reach for the soap. "Let me."
She nods, turning so her back is to me. I work the soap into a lather and start at her shoulders, washing away the gunpowder and blood and fear. Taking my time. Making sure every inch of her is clean, is cared for, is safe.