Chapter 1
REMY
Present Day
Maman always said I had a talent for finding trouble. Tonight, trouble's waiting on a catwalk in Prague, and I've rigged six ways to burn this place down.
I press my back against the corrugated metal wall, the unlit cigar clamped between my teeth, breathing shallow through my nose.
An old habit, a comfort check. The familiar taste of tobacco grounds me—like rosary beads for a man who stopped praying years ago.
Maman would've had words about that, rest her soul.
Probably involving a wooden spoon and a lecture about disrespecting the Virgin.
Across the warehouse floor, mercs in tactical gear sweep the space with mounted flashlights, their boots echoing off concrete.
They're professional, disciplined—not the cheap muscle you hire for a quick job.
They move in practiced formation, covering angles, communicating through hand signals. Former military personnel, most likely.
Whoever's bankrolling this operation has serious resources.
I count several in my line of sight, but there'll be more. There are always more. The Iron Choir doesn't skimp on security when they want someone badly enough.
"Nitro." Fitz's voice crackles through my earpiece, calm as Sunday mass despite the situation. "Target is on the move. Second floor, northwest corner."
I key my mic twice. Acknowledgment without words. Decades in explosives taught me when to stay quiet.
The target—Dr. Isabella Durand, French chemist who decided growing a conscience was worth dying for—is somewhere in this industrial graveyard.
My job: extract her before the Iron Choir finds her.
Before they decide a dead scientist can't testify about weaponized delivery systems. Before I have to scrape another civilian off the pavement because the intel was shit.
My jaw clenches. Yemen floods back—the compound, the fire, the screaming. Orders followed. Collateral accepted. The kind of math that keeps you up at night wondering if you're still human or just pretending.
I shake it off and focus on the job.
According to Cerberus intel, Durand stole evidence from a Geneva lab weeks ago and went underground. Cerberus tracked her movements and identified the Iron Choir as the pursuing threat—their signature operational patterns all over her trail.
Then she surfaced here in Prague under her real name—legitimate credentials, published research, recommendations from Zurich.
The kind of academic pedigree that gets you a position at a chemical plant without raising flags.
On paper, she's just another brilliant chemist relocating for a new opportunity.
What she's actually doing with that stolen evidence is anyone's guess, but the Iron Choir isn't taking any chances.
Cerberus tracked her down days ago. It's taken the Iron Choir longer, but tonight they found her. Hence the mercs, the mission, and me with enough explosives to level a city block.
Movement on the catwalk above. A slender figure, feminine, moving too fast to be careful. Lab coat flapping. She stumbles, catches herself on the railing. Even from here I can see her hands shaking, almost smell the fear rolling off of her.
I've acquired the target.
The mercs spot her half a second after I do. Weapons swing up, red laser dots painting the catwalk like targeting coordinates. Several converge below her position, cutting off ground-level escape routes.
"Contact!" one of them shouts—Eastern European accent, Czech or Polish.
There's no time to think. I move.
The remote detonator in my pocket triggers charges I placed earlier—strategic positions calculated to cause maximum chaos, minimum casualties.
Old factory equipment explodes in sequence: north wall, then south, then the ventilation system.
Smoke and fire and the beautiful percussion of controlled destruction.
The shock waves roll through the warehouse, rattling windows, sending the mercs scrambling for cover. Metal screams. Glass shatters. A chemical tank ruptures, spewing acrid smoke that burns my throat.
The mercs scatter like roaches when the lights come on. Confusion is my oldest friend.
I hit the catwalk stairs at a run, taking them several at a time. The metal structure shudders under my boots, bolts groaning from the blast damage. Above me, Dr. Durand is still moving—smart girl, didn't freeze—but she's heading toward a dead end where the catwalk terminates at a locked fire door.
"East exit," I call up in French, my Louisiana drawl turning the words thick and slow. "Allez!"
She spins, and I catch my first real look at her face in the firelight. Elegant features. Green eyes wide with terror but sharp with intelligence. Beautiful enough to make men stupid. Lab coat singed at the hem, hair escaping from what was probably a professional bun this morning.
I make a lot of stupid decisions. At least this one's calculated.
"Who are you?" she demands, voice steady despite the chaos. Controlled. That takes spine when the world's burning around you.
"Your ride." I reach the catwalk level and extend my hand. "Remy Pascal. Cerberus. We need to go. Now."
She hesitates. Behind us, the mercs are regrouping, voices shouting in German and English through the smoke—mix of accents, international crew.
Professional soldiers recovering from surprise faster than I'd like.
Below, my charges have created a wall of flame between us and them—but fire's temporary. Chemistry's unforgiving.
"You're American military," she says, reading me in seconds. The accent, the bearing, the controlled violence I carry like a second skin. "Special operations."
"Used to be." I keep my hand extended. "Right now I'm the man between you and a bullet. Your choice, Chère."
Another explosion—this one not mine. A different blast pattern, wrong timing, reckless placement that sends a fireball rolling up the east wall instead of creating controlled chaos. The warehouse shudders. Somewhere above us, metal screeches as a support beam buckles.
Her eyes narrow. "That wasn't you."
"Non." My gut goes cold. "That's someone else with professional-level training."
And if demolitions expertise like mine is in play, that narrows the field to maybe a handful of people on the continent. Most of them I know. One of them with serious motivation to be here.
Dr. Durand takes my hand.
Her grip is firm, steady. The contact hits me somewhere behind my ribs, but there's no time to process it.
I pull her close as another charge detonates below—sloppy work, reckless—and press her against the catwalk railing. Her body fits against mine, all curves and tension. She smells like smoke and something floral underneath. I need to focus.
"Stay low," I order. "Follow my lead. Don't argue. Clear?"
"Crystal." But there's fire in her eyes that says this woman doesn't take orders easily.
That's good. Broken spirits don't survive what's coming.
We move through smoke and chaos, her hand locked in mine.
The catwalk sways beneath us, damaged from the explosions.
I test each step before putting full weight down, feeling for structural integrity.
Isabella matches my pace without complaint, trusting my assessment even as the metal groans beneath our feet.
Gunfire erupts below. Bullets spark off metal railings, forcing us to duck. I return fire with my sidearm—controlled bursts, not trying to kill, just buying time and distance. Shell casings ping off the grating.
Somewhere in the chemical haze and adrenaline, I make a tactical error: I look at her face again. At the determination cutting through her fear. At the way she's cataloging the explosion patterns while we run—scientific mind working even in crisis. She's not panicking. She's analyzing.
She's cargo. Cargo to protect. Nothing more.
The lie sits heavy in my chest.
We hit the east exit as the warehouse groans behind us, metal shrieking as support beams fail.
My truck is waiting exactly where I left it, engine running—never turn off a getaway vehicle.
The industrial parking lot is empty except for scattered debris and burning chemical drums that cast everything in hellish orange light.
I pull her toward it, but she digs her heels in at the passenger door.
"The data," she says. "I have evidence. In my bag. I left it—"
"Forget it." I open the door, ready to physically place her inside if necessary. Every second we stand here is a second closer to death.
"No." She pulls back, stronger than she looks. "That data proves what they're building. Who's funding it. Without it, this is pointless."
"Without you alive, the data's worthless." My voice drops to command register, the tone that made SEALs fall in line. "Get in the truck."
She meets my eyes, and recognition flashes across her face. She sees what I am—what I do—and instead of fear, I see calculation. This woman is doing the same math I am. Running the risk assessment. Weighing outcomes.
"They'll kill more people," she says quietly. "The delivery system I designed can be weaponized for chemical or biological agents. Aerosolized. Dispersed over populations. The data proves they're planning to sell it to the highest bidder."
Her words hit like shrapnel.
How many people, I want to ask. How many innocents are we weighing against your life right now?
But I already know the math. It's always the same math.
"Where's the bag?" I ask.
She points to a second-floor window. "My office. Northwest corner."
Of course it is.
I look at the warehouse—fully engulfed now, flames licking through broken windows, black smoke pouring into the night sky.
Look at her—determined, terrified, refusing to leave without finishing what she started.
Look at my truck—ready to take us to safety.
Maman's voice whispers in my head. Fais do-do, mon petit. Le bon Dieu, he watches over fools and children.
Pretty sure I stopped qualifying for either category around Yemen.