Chapter 4 #2
I go still. Through the compartment wall, I hear footsteps—purposeful, methodical, stopping at doors.
"Lazarev?" I whisper.
"His people." His palm stays on my shoulder. "Checking compartments. Looking for us."
"How do you know?" I whisper.
"Timing. We just moved before that last stop, and suddenly there's a compartment check?" His voice is barely audible. "Real conductors don't work like this. And I heard them board—military cadence, tactical spacing. These aren't rail employees."
My heart hammers. We're the Fontaines from Monaco, honeymooners, perfectly legitimate travelers. We have every right to be here.
The footsteps stop outside our door.
Remy pulls me back against him in one smooth motion, his body curving around me like we've been sleeping tangled together. His free hand covers mine where it's braced on the mattress.
"Stay like this," he breathes against my ear. "Don't tense."
Impossible. Every muscle wants to coil for fight or flight. But Remy's solid against my back, and some part of my hindbrain recognizes safety even as danger knocks on our door.
A sharp rap interrupts the silence. "Kontrola jízdenek."
Ticket inspection—at this hour.
Remy doesn't move for a three-count. Then he shifts, deliberately groggy, and calls out in English, "Yeah, yeah, give us a minute." Annoyed, interrupted honeymoon. The door slides open a few inches.
A man fills the gap—tall, Eastern European features, too sharp-eyed for a conductor. He says something in Czech, gestures for tickets.
Remy makes a show of extracting himself from our supposed sleep, grumbling about honeymoons and privacy. He reaches for the tickets with movements that suggest interrupted intimacy rather than tactical awareness, but I feel the tension in him, coiled and ready.
The man examines our papers with more attention than any real conductor would give. His gaze flicks to me, still in the bunk, and I do what a new bride would do—pull the thin blanket higher, look annoyed at the interruption, refuse to meet his stare.
Modesty serves as misdirection.
Remy mutters in English, "Honeymoon. Privacy. S'il vous pla?t." Playing the exasperated American husband perfectly.
Remy extends his hand for the tickets back. The man hesitates, then returns them and moves to the next compartment.
Remy waits until the footsteps fade before sliding the door fully closed and engaging the lock.
"That wasn't a conductor," I say.
"No." He moves to the window, watching the darkness outside. "That was reconnaissance. They're checking every compartment, looking for people traveling alone or in groups. A honeymoon couple doesn't fit their profile."
"Yet."
"Yet," he agrees. "Which is why we're getting off this train."
"We're moving at full speed."
A smile crosses his face, dark and not reaching his gaze. "I know."
Minutes later, the train slows for a scheduled stop—a small station outside Vienna where commuter lines intersect with international routes. Remy has our bag repacked, everything essential in his pockets, exit strategy mapped.
"When I tell you to move," he says, fingers finding my hip, "you move. No hesitation."
The touch is firm, commanding, positioning me where he wants me. I should resent the assumption that I'll simply obey. Instead, my body responds with certainty that has nothing to do with operational necessity.
"I understand," I say.
For a moment everything shrinks to just this—his touch, my response, awareness crackling between us like live current.
"When we move," he says quietly, "stay close. Let me lead."
"I will."
The train jolts to a stop. He drops his hand as he checks the corridor, and I feel the absence like losing warmth.
"Now," he says.
I follow him into the corridor, past the other sleeping compartments. We slip out at the rear of the train, onto a platform barely lit by a single lamp.
Cold air hits like a slap. Remy pulls me into shadow as the train pulls away, taking Lazarev's hunters with it. The station is deserted, just a small shelter and a parking area where a single car sits under a broken streetlight.
Remy checks his phone—coordinates and what must be drop instructions—then leads me to the car. A nondescript Audi that could belong to anyone. Keys are tucked above the visor.
We're moving in under a minute, putting distance between us and the train route. The roads are dark, narrow, winding through countryside that could be anywhere.
"Where are we?" I ask once we're clear of the station.
"Just outside Vienna. Small station where the Prague-Vienna-Budapest route stops twice a day, too small for cameras, too remote for checkpoints." He drives with the same precision he applies to everything else, constantly scanning. "We'll ditch the car in a couple hours, pick up another."
"And then?"
"Then we call Fitz and figure out our next move."
The burner phone rings not long after. Remy answers on speaker, still driving.
"You took the early exit," Fitz says without preamble. "Smart call. I picked up chatter about compartment checks on that route."
"Lazarev's people were on the train," Remy says. "We had to improvise."
A pause. "They're expanding faster than we projected. Found the Prague safe house in no time, and now they're checking transport routes. Someone's feeding them real-time intelligence."
"European intelligence is compromised," Remy says, and it's not a question. "Interpol, NATO—has to be for someone feeding them real-time intel."
"Looking that way." Fitz's voice carries weight of larger problems. "Which is why I'm recommending you get to London. We've got a secure facility there, and I can bring in additional protection."
"No." Remy's refusal is immediate. "We'd stick out in the UK. Different accent, no established cover, and if there's a leak, London's where they'd expect us to go."
"Then where?" Fitz sounds tired. "Because right now, they're two steps behind you, and that gap is closing."
I watch Remy's profile in the dashboard light, see the calculation happening behind his features. He's mapping variables I can't track, weighing risks against unknowns.
"Where would no one think to look for you?" I ask quietly.
Tension coils in his shoulders. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then: "Home. New Orleans. I haven't been back in years."
"Remy," Fitz starts, caution in his tone.
"It's off everyone's radar," Remy cuts him off. "Lazarev knows my operational history, not my personal one. The Iron Choir's focused on Europe. And I've got resources there that don't show up in any file."
"Family resources." Fitz makes it a statement.
"Yeah."
Another pause. "That's a big step. You sure you want to bring this to their door?"
The muscle in Remy's jaw works. I see the conflict, the weight of choices that don't have good answers. Going home means exposing family to danger. Staying in Europe means staying in Lazarev's kill box.
"I'm sure," he says finally. "Get us clean passports and transport to the States. We'll use the forged Monaco documents to fly commercial, disappear from there."
"I'll have everything ready by midday," Fitz says. "There's a safe house in Vienna, coded drop. Lay low until the documents come through."
"Copy that."
"And Remy? Watch your six. If they're tracking you this close, they're getting intel from somewhere."
The call ends. Remy drives in silence, tension radiating off him in waves.
"You don't have to do this," I say. "If going home puts your family at risk—"
"Everywhere puts someone at risk." His voice is flat, measured. "At least in New Orleans, I know the ground. I know who to trust."
"Will they help? Your family?"
The laugh that escapes him is bitter, dark. "That's complicated."
I want to ask why, want to understand the shadows that cross his face when he mentions home. But we've been running for two days, and some wounds aren't mine to probe.
Vienna appears in pre-dawn light, all baroque architecture and sleeping streets. Remy navigates to a residential district, pulls into an underground garage, and leads me to a door I wouldn't notice if I wasn't looking for it.
The safe house is sparse—two rooms, basic furniture, nothing personal. Windows overlook an alley, security bars on the glass, exit routes clearly marked.
Remy checks the coded drop, finds an envelope with cash and instructions. "Passports will be ready by noon. Flight leaves at three."
"That's fast."
"Fitz doesn't waste time." He opens the envelope, counts the cash with practiced ease. "We've got a few hours. You should rest."
Rest. Like my body knows how anymore.
But Remy's already moving, checking windows, mapping exits, doing what he does. Protecting. Planning. Maintaining control over variables that want to spiral.
I watch him work. Understanding settles over me, or maybe it's just recognition finally surfacing.
"Remy."
He turns, alert.
"In the compartment, on the train." I choose words carefully. "You said I needed to trust you when things go sideways."
"I did."
He steps back, and the walls rebuild. "Get some rest," he says. "We've got a long journey ahead."
It's a dismissal, clear and absolute. But I've seen what he tried to hide, and I can't unsee it.
I retreat to the bedroom, close the door, and lean against it. My hands are shaking—not from fear, but from the charged moment we just walked away from.
From the way his touch doesn't ask permission.
From the way I don't want it to.
The safe house has basic supplies. I shower first, washing away Prague and smoke and fear. The clothes in the closet are generic—jeans, a simple sweater, nothing that would stand out. European sizes, slightly loose on me, but they'll work.
When I emerge, Remy's already changed. Dark jeans, a button-down shirt that actually fits him. And his boots—the same custom Lucchese boots he's been wearing since Prague.
"You're keeping those?" I ask.
"Checked them again, twice. They're clean." He sees my expression. "I know the risk, Isabella. But these are custom-made, cost me a fortune. I've had them for years. They fit, they're broken in, and I'm not walking into my family's house in borrowed shoes."
"Your family cares what shoes you wear?"
"My family notices everything." His jaw tightens. "And showing up after years away in somebody else's boots? With a gorgeous woman at my side? That's a conversation I don't need."
It's the first real glimpse of what going home means to him. Not tactical. Personal.
"Okay," I say. "But if you start hearing beeping, we're ditching them."
The almost-smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine. "Deal."
Hours later, we're at the airport, looking like honeymooners heading home. The forged passports from Monaco sail through security. No one looks twice at the American and his French wife, both well-dressed, both carrying just the right amount of luggage.
We board the flight to New York, connecting through JFK to Houston, then Houston to Baton Rouge.
Remy gets us seats toward the back, aisle and window, nobody between us.
Smart—anyone tracking direct flights to New Orleans won't see us coming.
Fitzwallace will have an SUV waiting in Baton Rouge, parked in a pre-arranged spot where we can pick it up and drive the rest of the way.
As the plane taxis, he leans close enough I can smell his soap, feel the heat of him.
"When we get there," he says quietly, "everything changes. New Orleans is home. It's family. It's complicated in ways I can't explain yet."
"I understand."
"No, you don't." His gaze holds mine. "But you will."
The plane lifts off, carrying us away from Europe, from Lazarev's immediate reach, toward whatever waits for Remy in New Orleans.
I watch the Alps recede below, catching Remy's reflection in the dark glass. Rigid in the aisle seat, jaw working like he's bracing for impact.
He's taking me home with him. To family, to New Orleans, to a place he told Fitz he hasn't been back to in years. And I don't know if that makes us safer or puts everyone he cares about directly in Lazarev's crosshairs.