Chapter 12
REMY
Three men in suits near the departure screen. Too alert. Eyes tracking movement patterns instead of reading phones like everyone else. One shifts weight when I glance his way.
Could be nothing. Could be Iron Choir watchers running surveillance on departing flights.
I drain my coffee and move toward boarding, keeping my gait casual. Even at my size, posture can make me fade into crowds. Don't draw attention, don't create patterns, don't make eye contact. The men don't follow. Probably just paranoid corporate security on their own business.
Probably.
Isabella's somewhere over the Atlantic right now. Different airline, different route, Paris connection before Amsterdam. We separated at Louis Armstrong, staggered our departures in case someone's tracking.
Missing her feels like losing control. Like the part of me that knows better is being overridden by something more primitive.
Mine. The thought surfaces with predatory certainty.
She walked into this world knowing what it costs. Now she's in too deep to walk away.
My phone vibrates mid-flight. Encrypted message from Luc.
Contact confirmed target facility. Sophie's trail led to Lazarev's shell company clearing customs yesterday. Same warehouse. He's there NOW.
Fuck.
I read it twice. Lazarev isn't just buying—he's on site during staging. Which means he knows the timeline, knows when the compounds arrive, potentially knows we're coming.
Second message:
Rotterdam contact reports increased security. Four guards now. Rotation patterns changed. Someone tipped them.
The suspected leak isn't suspected anymore. It's confirmed.
Someone in our operational chain sold us out, and now we're flying into a facility that knows we're coming.
I type back:
Abort?
Luc's response is immediate:
Your call. But compounds ship to buyers in 48 hours. Miss this window, they scatter across Europe.
I stare at the message. Abort means Isabella's research becomes weapons in the hands of buyers across the continent. Means thousands dead when those compounds deploy in metro stations, office buildings, anywhere enclosed populations gather.
Continue means walking into a trap with Isabella beside me.
I close my eyes. Make the calculation.
We go. Adjust plan for four guards. Send updated facility intel.
His response:
Sending now. Be careful, brother.
London Heathrow blurs into Amsterdam Schiphol. I clear customs fast, collect the rental Luc arranged, and drive south toward Rotterdam with updated intelligence burning holes in my brain.
Four guards instead of one. Lazarev possibly on site. Someone in our chain feeding them information.
Isabella's flight lands while I'm scouting approach routes to the safe house. I watch her emerge through arrivals—hair severe and professional, moving with confidence that wasn't there in Prague.
Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine.
We maintain distance until we're alone in the rental car.
"Any problems?" she asks.
"Four guards now instead of one. Lazarev's on site. Someone leaked our timeline." I pull out of parking, merge onto the highway. "We're walking into a facility that knows we're coming."
She goes very still. "Abort?"
"The combined compounds ship out to their end-users in forty-eight hours. We miss this window, your research kills thousands."
Isabella processes that in silence. When she speaks, her voice is steady. "Then we don't miss the window."
No fear. No hesitation. Just operational commitment.
Watching her transformation does something dark and possessive in my gut.
The safe house is exactly where Luc's team said. An apartment on the second floor of the converted warehouse, anonymous enough to disappear. I clear the rooms fast while Isabella waits by the door.
"Four guards changes everything," she says once we're inside.
"Luc's sending updated facility intel. We adapt." I check windows, confirm sight lines. "You stay here while I scout. Lock the door. Don't answer for anyone except me or Luc."
Her jaw sets. "I'm part of this op."
"You're the only one who can identify compounds. Which means you stay secure until insertion." I let command drop into my voice. Not anger. Certainty. "This isn't negotiable."
She holds my gaze. Testing. Then yields. "Fine. But bring back detailed recon."
"Already planned." I cross to her, catch her chin. Thumb brushing her jaw. "I've been doing this since before you learned to pipette, chère. I'll be fine."
"You'd better be." She leans into the contact for a moment. Learning to yield when I push. "Go."
I leave before discipline fails.
Rotterdam's warehouse district after dark. Shipping containers casting shadows under sodium lights. I park four blocks out and move through the darkness on foot.
Black tactical clothing, rubber-soled boots, tools in a gym bag. Standard infiltration loadout.
The facility sits between two larger warehouses. Reinforced doors, cameras at corners, motion sensors on the roofline.
Luc's updated intel shows four guards now. Two inside on rotating patrol, one at a security station, one roving exterior perimeter. Shift change at midnight, but the overlap is longer now—twenty minutes instead of ten. Someone's tightening security.
I circle the perimeter twice. Loading dock empty. Personnel entrance with card reader. Service access behind locked gate.
But buildings need ventilation.
I find the fire escape on the western wall. Old enough to predate current security. Ladder to the roof near HVAC units. No cameras.
Except when I test the roof access, it doesn't give like it should.
New lock. Industrial grade. Installed recently.
They're closing vulnerabilities.
I work the lock anyway. Takes eight minutes—too long, too exposed—but it finally clicks. I ease the door open, pause to listen.
Voices below. Dutch. Two guards talking while they patrol.
I move into the ventilation shaft. Tight fit. Ductwork smells like chemicals and metal. I navigate by feel and memory, heading toward the main storage floor.
The shaft terminates in a grate overlooking storage. I position myself carefully, peer through.
Open floor divided into climate-controlled sections. Reinforced storage units along walls. Loading equipment parked near east wall.
And four guards as intel stated. Two patrolling in opposite patterns, one at a security station, one near the personnel entrance.
All armed. All alert.
This isn't standard warehouse security. This is a tactical response team.
Movement catches my eye. A door opens near the security station. A fifth person enters.
Male. Mid-forties. Expensive suit. Moving with authority that says he owns the space.
Lazarev.
I watch him talk to the head guard. Can't hear words, but body language is clear. He's giving orders. Tightening security further. The guard nods, pulls out a radio, starts barking commands.
Two more guards enter from the loading dock. That makes six now.
Six armed guards and Lazarev himself on site.
The vent shifts slightly under my weight. Metal creaking.
Everyone below freezes.
One guard looks up. Scans the ceiling. His eyes track across ductwork.
I hold absolutely still. Don't breathe. Don't move.
His gaze passes over my position. Pauses. Returns.
Fuck.
He points. Shouts something in Dutch. Other guards raise weapons.
I'm already moving. Reversing through ductwork fast, abandoning stealth for speed. Behind me, I hear them mobilizing. Doors slamming. Boots pounding.
I hit the roof, sprint for the fire escape. Voices below shouting. Flashlight beams cutting through darkness.
Down the ladder three rungs at a time. Drop the last eight feet. Roll. Come up running.
Shouts behind me. Someone's spotted me.
I cut through alleys between warehouses. Footsteps pursuing. Radio chatter coordinating pursuit.
Four blocks to the car. I make it in three minutes flat, engine roaring to life as flashlight beams converge on my position.
Tires screaming, I'm gone before they can organize vehicle pursuit.
But they saw me. They know someone was there. And Lazarev will tighten security even further.
I drive a surveillance detection route—random turns, highway loops, parking garage reversals—before heading back to the safe house. Takes ninety minutes to confirm I'm clean.
Isabella opens the door as I reach the landing. Takes one look at my face.
"What happened?"
I step inside, lock the door. "They made me. Six guards now, plus Lazarev on site. They know someone's coming."
She goes pale. "Abort?"
"Can't." I spread updated facility photos on the table. "Compounds ship out in forty-eight hours. We go tomorrow night or we lose them."
"Six guards, Remy. And Lazarev."
"I know."
"That's a tactical team, not warehouse security."
"I know." I meet her eyes. "Which is why we're changing our approach. No stealth infiltration. We go in hard during shift change. Neutralize guards fast. You identify compounds while I set charges. Luc's extraction team provides cover fire if we need emergency egress."
She stares at the photos. Processing the danger. The violence.
"People will die," she says quietly.
"Yes."
"Guards who might not know what they're protecting."
"Probably." I don't soften it. "But if we don't destroy those compounds, your research kills thousands. Children in metro cars. Office workers. Anyone in enclosed spaces when buyers deploy."
Isabella's hands shake slightly. She steadies them. When she looks up, her eyes are hard.
"Then we make sure no one deploys them." She pulls the blueprints closer. "Walk me through the new plan."
That's when the door explodes inward.
Three men. Tactical gear. Weapons raised.
I move on instinct. Grab Isabella, throw her behind the counter. Draw my gun from my ankle holster.
First man through takes two rounds center mass. Down.
Second man fires. Round punches through the couch where I was standing. I return fire from behind the kitchen island. He drops.
Third man has better cover. He's behind the doorframe, weapon trained on my position.
Standoff.