Chapter 18
ARCHER
Hotel de Paris glitters like a trap dressed in silk.
Chandeliers throw light across marble floors and gilded walls, and Monaco's elite move through the ballroom in evening wear that costs more than most people make in a year.
Champagne flows. Laughter rises. Orchestra music drifts from the stage at the far end of the massive space.
Perfect cover for an abduction.
I adjust my position near the north entrance, scanning faces, tracking movement patterns, cataloging threats.
My tux fits perfectly—tailored specifically to conceal weapons and light weight protective clothing.
The weapon holstered at my back feels reassuringly solid.
Marissa is across the ballroom near the south terrace doors, stunning in a black gown that probably conceals the sane kind of protective measures.
She hasn't looked at me once since we arrived.
"All positions report," Logan's voice comes through my earpiece, calm and controlled from the command center at Opus Noir.
The embedded team checks in one by one. Security detail. Surveillance. Perimeter. Extraction. Everyone in place. Everyone ready.
"Laurent's arriving now," Logan says. "Amelie is with him."
I watch the main entrance as Deputy Director Laurent enters with his daughter. Dark hair swept back with clips, wearing a blue dress that makes her look like a princess. Crystal bracelets gleam on her tiny wrist—the identifier we've been waiting for.
She holds her father's hand and looks around the ballroom with wide eyes. To her, this is just a fancy party. She has no idea people in this room want to take her. Has no idea her father brought her here as bait to catch them.
Laurent's embedded security detail moves with practiced efficiency, maintaining close proximity without appearing to be anything more than standard protection. They're good and professional, exactly what we need.
"Nocturne has visual on target," Marissa's voice comes through comms. Professional. Controlled. No hint of the warmth I heard when she whispered my name in the darkness.
"Kingslayer confirms," I say, matching her tone. "Package identified."
Package. Not a child with wide eyes and crystal bracelets. Package.
The evening progresses with agonizing slowness. Laurent mingles with diplomatic contacts. Amelie stays close to her father, occasionally wandering to the dessert table under the watchful eyes of embedded security. The orchestra plays. Couples dance. Everything appears normal.
But my instincts scream wrong.
I catch Marissa's gaze across the ballroom for the first time tonight. Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before she looks away, but in that brief connection I see the same unease I feel. Something's off. The Iron Choir knows we're here. Knows we're watching. So where are they?
"Kingslayer," Logan says in my ear. "We're picking up unusual movement on the perimeter. Multiple vehicles. Could be nothing."
"Or could be everything," I mutter, hand drifting toward my weapon. "Stay sharp. They're coming."
Laurent moves toward the terrace with Amelie, embedded security flanking them subtly. The positioning is good with multiple exit routes and hard to corner. If the Iron Choir moves now, they'll have to fight through layers of protection.
Unless they don't care about subtlety anymore.
"Movement," Logan's voice sharpens with urgency. "Multiple hostiles. East and west entrances. Armed. They're coming now—"
The ballroom erupts into chaos.
Glass shatters as armed men in tactical gear crash through the terrace doors. Screams echo off marble as Monaco's elite scatter in panic. Orchestra music dies mid-note, replaced by the crack of gunfire and the metallic slide of weapons being drawn.
The Iron Choir hits hard and fast, no subtlety, no finesse, just overwhelming violence designed to create maximum confusion.
I'm already moving, weapon drawn, targeting the nearest hostile. He drops. Then another. I lose count in the chaos, and it doesn't matter. All that matters is reaching Marissa and Amelie before the Iron Choir does.
Across the ballroom, Marissa moves with lethal efficiency. She shields Amelie with her own body, eliminating threats with precision that takes my breath away. No hesitation. No fear.
I fight toward them, cutting through hostiles who thought they could take a young girl as leverage. More drop as I advance, more threats eliminated with each shot. I lose count somewhere around the terrace doors.
We end up back-to-back in the center of the ballroom, Amelie between us, embedded team forming a perimeter around our position. Blood stains Marissa's gown, and I pray it isn't hers.
"North exit," she says without looking at me. "Extraction vehicle waiting."
"Copy," I say, and we move as one unit.
No discussion needed. No coordination required. Our bodies remember even if doubt tried to poison my mind. We're synchronized in a way that comes from trust built through action, not words.
I cover our six while she leads Amelie through the chaos, embedded team clearing the path ahead. More hostiles emerge from service corridors. I drop them without breaking stride. Marissa does the same with targets flanking our position.
Amelie is crying silently, tears streaming down her face, but she follows Marissa's whispered instructions. Laurent is somewhere behind us with his own security detail, trusting us to get his daughter out alive.
We're almost to the north exit when I see it. The positioning. The angles. The way hostiles are flanking to cut off escape while leaving the center exposed.
They're herding us into a killbox.
"Marissa—" I start, but she sees it too.
"I see it," she says. "Someone has to draw their fire away from Amelie."
She moves before I can stop her, stepping toward the exposed angle.
"Not without me," I snarl, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. I position myself between her and the kill zone, suppressing fire forcing the hostiles into cover.
"Move," I order, voice dropping into the command tone she recognizes. "Get Amelie to extraction. Now."
She obeys.
The embedded team surges forward, clearing the path while I provide covering fire.
North exit opens onto a service corridor. Extraction vehicle is outside, almost there, almost safe.
We push through the doors. I'm covering our six when Marissa gasps.
I turn and see blood soaking through her gown at the shoulder. She stumbles, and I catch her before she can fall.
"Stay conscious. That's an order." My voice drops into command register—the tone that makes people obey without thinking.
She laughs through the pain. "Using your Dom voice on me?"
"Damn right. And you will obey." I keep her upright, keep moving. Blood soaks through my jacket, but her pulse is strong.
"Yes, Sir." The words are barely a whisper, but they're steady. Certain.
We reach the vehicle, and I help her inside before sliding in beside her. Amelie is already secured with an embedded operative, crying but safe. Her father will follow in a separate vehicle with his own security detail.
Our driver accelerates away from the Hotel de Paris as sirens wail in the distance. Monaco's police will lock down the area, but we'll be long gone before they arrive. Cerberus doesn't leave evidence.
I pull off my jacket and press it against Marissa's shoulder, trying to slow the bleeding. She hisses through her teeth but doesn't pull away.
"Through and through," she says, assessing her own wound with clinical detachment. "Missed the bone. I'll be fine."
"You'll be fine when I say you're fine." I keep pressure on the wound. "Stay conscious. Follow orders. I'm not losing you."
"So commanding," she murmurs, and her eyes meet mine with heat that cuts through the pain.
The extraction vehicle speeds through Monte Carlo's streets, taking corners fast enough to make Amelie whimper. I keep one hand on Marissa's shoulder, the other reaching across to touch Amelie's small hand where she clutches her crystal bracelets.
"You're safe," I tell the girl. "We've got you. Your father is coming."
She nods, tears streaming down her face, but there's steel beneath the fear. Strength that will carry her through this trauma and make her someone formidable when she grows up.
"Extraction vehicle en route to Port Hercules," Logan says through comms. "Helicopter is waiting at the harbor."
The time feels like hours. Marissa's breathing is becoming labored, and blood is seeping through my jacket despite the pressure I'm applying. She needs medical attention. Needs it now.
"Not going anywhere," she says before I can speak, voice weaker but steady. "You ordered me to stay."
"That's right." I lean closer, pressing my forehead to hers for a brief moment. "And you obey me."
"Always," she whispers. "Sir."
The vehicle pulls into the harbor extraction point, and I see the helicopter waiting, rotors already spinning. The embedded team moves with practiced efficiency, securing the perimeter while we load.
I carry Marissa to the helicopter despite her protests that she can walk.
Amelie follows with an operative who's doing an admirable job of keeping the traumatized child calm.
Laurent's vehicle arrives moments later, and the Deputy Director rushes to his daughter, pulling her into his arms with relief that makes his whole body shake.
"Thank you," he says to me, to Marissa, to everyone. "Thank you for saving her."
I nod. Laurent's gratitude doesn't need a response.
Marissa is already being treated by the helicopter medic when an explosion lights up the open water beyond the harbor. I turn and see flames rising from a boat that's cleared the breakwater, far enough out that the blast won't damage the docks or hurt civilians.
"Moreau won't be escaping after all," Nitro's voice comes through comms, and I can hear the smile in it. The distinctive flick of a lighter follows. "Boom."