Chapter 13
ISABELLA
Iwake to gray light filtering through industrial windows and Remy's arm heavy across my waist. The secondary safe house smells like concrete and old metal.
My body aches from yesterday's running gun battle through Rotterdam streets, but the ache grounds me.
It's proof I'm alive when I could easily be dead.
Remy's breathing is slow and even behind me. He's still asleep. I shift carefully, not wanting to wake him, but his arm tightens reflexively, pulling me back against his chest. Still asleep but responding to my movement with possession even in unconsciousness.
The reality settles over me like cold water.
In little more than a day, I walk into a warehouse with six armed guards and Lazarev waiting.
I identify chemical compounds while bullets potentially fly around me.
Then I trust Remy to destroy everything with demolition charges that could kill us if the chemistry goes wrong.
My research turned weapon. My responsibility to end it.
Remy stirs. His hand slides up my ribs, cups my breast through the thin shirt I borrowed last night. It's not sexual. Just touching. Confirming I'm here.
"Your heart's racing, chère," he murmurs against my neck.
"Can't help it."
"Try." His teeth graze my shoulder. Not hard enough to mark, but enough to remind me who's in control. "We've got work today. I need you focused, not spiraling."
He's right. I take a breath, push the fear down into the space where I've been learning to channel it. Fear into focus. The way he's been teaching me since Prague.
"Better," he says, reading the shift in my body. "Get dressed. We start prep in twenty minutes."
He releases me, rolls out of bed in one fluid motion.
He's completely naked and utterly unselfconscious about it.
I watch him pull on tactical pants and a black shirt, every movement efficient and controlled.
The body of a man who's spent years in combat situations.
Scars mapping a history of violence I'm only beginning to understand.
He catches me staring. One eyebrow lifts. "See something you want?"
"Always."
His mouth curves. Predatory and pleased. "Remember that later. Right now, get moving."
I find my clothes from yesterday—dark pants, plain shirt. Luc's team provided basics when they brought us here last night. Everything smells like industrial detergent and unfamiliar fabric softener, but it's clean.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Remy's in the main room with Luc. They're spreading equipment across a folding table. Tactical vests, respirators, weapons, and something else—blocks of what looks like gray clay wrapped in plastic. C4.
"How much?" I ask.
Both men look up. Remy's expression is assessing. Measuring my reaction to seeing explosives laid out like we're planning a demolition derby instead of destroying chemical weapons.
"Enough," he says. "Come here."
I cross to the table. Up close, the C4 looks innocuous. Just molded plastic explosive, harmless until combined with detonators and timers.
Like my compounds. Inert until combined.
The parallel isn't lost on me.
"Today, you practice compound identification under pressure," Remy says. "I need to know you can differentiate components fast. No hesitation. No second-guessing. You look, you identify, you confirm. Three seconds maximum per unit."
"Three seconds?" That's barely enough time to read labels, much less verify contents.
"You'll have a UV scanner and visual markers." He pulls a handheld device from the equipment pile and hands it to me.
I take the scanner, turn it over in my hands. Medical-grade UV equipment, the kind used for identifying biological contaminants. "Where did Luc source this?"
"Amsterdam medical supply," Luc says without looking up from the tactical vest he's checking. "Legitimate purchase under a shell account. Untraceable. Substitute compounds too. Close enough to train on without handling the real thing."
Remy spreads photos across the table. Interior shots of the facility storage units. "These are the temperature-controlled sections where compounds are most likely staged. You'll have limited time to verify which units hold legitimate cargo versus your research. Every second counts."
I study the photos. Rows of reinforced units, pharmaceutical labels in Dutch and German. Climate-controlled staging designed to move compounds without triggering customs alerts.
"How many units total?"
"Couldn't get an exact count during recon, but dozens in the target section." Remy taps one photo. "But Brenner told you three separate shipments. Three components. That narrows the field significantly."
Three components among dozens of units. Better odds than random searching, but still requiring fast identification under combat conditions.
"Practice starts now," Remy says. He nods to Luc, who pulls out his phone and taps something.
A timer appears on the screen. Counting down from three minutes.
"Go," Remy says.
I stare at him. "Go where?"
"Pick up the scanner. Check these sample vials." He points to a row of small containers on the table's far end. "Tell me which ones match your compound signatures. You have three minutes before I stop you."
My heart rate spikes. This isn't theoretical practice. This is a simulation of the real operation's pressure.
I grab the scanner, move to the vials. My hands want to shake. I steady them through sheer will and start scanning.
The first vial glows faint blue under UV. Wrong wavelength. Not activation compound.
The second vial shows nothing. Empty or filled with inert liquid.
The third vial glows pale yellow.
"Activation compound," I say. "Third from left."
"Keep going," Remy says. "You've used forty seconds."
I work faster. Scanning, identifying, moving to the next. Some vials I shake, checking for viscosity through the sealed containers.
The timer hits two minutes.
"Faster," Remy says. His voice is calm but carries absolute authority. "In the field, you won't have this much time. Guards could be shooting. Lazarev could be closing in. You need to work through that pressure."
I push harder. Scan, identify, move. Scan, identify, move.
Timer hits one minute.
"Done," I say, pointing to five vials. "Activation compound here and here. Binding agent in these two. Base catalyst in the last one."
Remy checks my identifications against whatever key he has. Nods once. "Four out of five correct. The second binding agent is actually inert decoy. Similar viscosity but wrong molecular structure."
"How would I know that without testing?"
"You wouldn't. Which is why you identify most likely candidates, and I start demolition on confirmed targets while you verify the rest." He resets the timer. "Again. Faster this time."
We run the drill several more times. Each iteration faster, each one adding complications. Luc starts making noise to simulate combat. Remy moves equipment around to force me to search. By the final run, I'm identifying compounds in under two minutes with near-perfect accuracy.
"Good," Remy says when I finish the last drill. "That's the speed I need during the raid. Can you maintain it under actual fire?"
I think about last night. Running through Rotterdam streets with bullets cracking past. Diving behind the extraction vehicle while Luc's team laid down suppressing fire. My hands steady, my breathing controlled, following Remy's orders without hesitation.
"Yes," I say.
He studies me for a long moment. Testing whether I mean it. Then nods. "Break. Fifteen minutes. Eat something."
I force myself to eat even though my stomach is tight. Fuel for the op. Can't afford to run on empty when the compounds need identifying.
Luc has protein bars and water bottles set out. While I eat, Remy works with the C4. He measures charges with precise efficiency, cutting blocks into specific weights. Each piece goes into a prepared container with detonators and wireless triggers.
"Shaped charges," he explains without looking up. "Designed to contain and incinerate without dispersing aerosols. The blast directs inward, creating temperatures high enough to break down molecular structures completely."
I watch him work. Hands steady. Movements controlled. This is what he does. This is what he's always done. Destroy things with surgical precision.
"What if the chemistry creates toxic byproducts?" I ask.
"That's why you'll be wearing a respirator rated for chemical exposure." He finishes with one charge, sets it aside, starts on the next. "And why we extract immediately after detonation. We won't stay to confirm complete destruction. The heat alone will be sufficient."
"How do you know?"
"Because thermite burns at twenty-five hundred degrees Celsius. Your compounds break down at significantly lower temperatures." He meets my eyes. "I've done this before, chère. Trust the science."
I do trust it. I trust him. Which is terrifying and grounding all at once.
Luc's phone buzzes. He checks it, frowns. "Extraction team reports increased activity around the facility. Two additional vehicles arrived this morning. Could be reinforcements."
"How many?" Remy asks.
"Unknown. Vehicles were SUVs. Capacity for multiple personnel each."
Remy's jaw tightens. "So we could be looking at six guards plus reinforcements."
"Possibly. Or it could be shift relief. My contact can't confirm without getting closer."
"Don't risk it. We work with worst-case assumption." Remy returns to the explosives. "Could be twenty hostiles or more. We'll need more ammunition."
Luc nods. "I'll coordinate with the team."
They discuss tactical adjustments while I sit at the table, processing the numbers. Multiple armed hostiles. Plus Lazarev, who is apparently working with the Iron Choir and wants Remy dead.
The weight of it settles heavy across my shoulders. We're not running a surgical strike anymore. We're walking into a small war.