Chapter 14
REMY
The time for the raid comes too fast.
Luc's extraction team arrives at the safe house in two vehicles.
Former Dutch special forces, all of them.
I recognize the type immediately. The way they move, the way they clear the entry, the way their eyes track threats before processing anything else: these men have seen combat.
They've made the hard calls. They've survived operations that killed better operators and learned to live with that math.
The team leader is a man called Van der Berg. Mid-forties, gray at the temples, scar running from his left eye to his jaw. He shakes my hand with a grip that tests rather than greets, measuring me, assessing whether I'm worth the risk his team is taking.
"Pascal," he says. "Luc speaks highly of your demolition work."
"Luc exaggerates."
"Luc doesn't exaggerate about operations." Van der Berg's gaze shifts to Isabella, assessing her like equipment he's deciding whether to trust. "This is the chemist?"
"Dr. Durand," I say. The formality is deliberate, a line in the sand. "She identifies the compounds. We destroy them. Your team handles security and extraction."
Van der Berg nods slowly. "If shooting starts, she follows our orders. No arguments, no hesitation. My team doesn't die covering civilians who freeze under fire."
Isabella meets his eyes without flinching. "I follow orders."
"We'll see." He spreads tactical maps across the table. "Based on your recon: six guards total, plus Lazarev on site. Two roving exterior, four interior rotation, split between patrols and security station. Shift change occurs at midnight, but overlap runs longer than standard. We use that window."
Six guards plus Lazarev. The numbers I brought back from my near-disastrous recon.
"Reinforcements?" I ask.
"Two SUVs parked at the facility. Could be shift relief, could be rapid response." Van der Berg taps the map. "We plan for worst case. My team stages here, loading dock east side. We create distraction if needed, provide covering fire during extraction, block pursuit vehicles."
Luc leans over the map. "Entry point?"
Van der Berg traces the route with his finger. "North wall emergency exit. Your demolitions expert bypasses the card reader, we're inside the storage section in under a minute."
"Can you do it?" Van der Berg looks at me.
"Yes."
Isabella's studying the photos, calculating. "Compound identification will take minutes if the units are properly labeled and staged together."
"And demolition?" Van der Berg's watching me, assessing timelines.
I run through the sequence mentally. "Charges are pre-configured. Once Isabella confirms targets, placement takes under five minutes. Detonation sequence runs on wireless trigger with a built-in delay after we're clear."
Van der Berg processes the timeline. "Tight.
But workable." He studies the facility photos Luc provided from my recon.
Interior shots I captured before getting made.
"Storage section here, climate-controlled units along the east wall.
Your targets are most likely in this section.
Security station is here, camera feeds, alarm panel. We neutralize that first."
We go through extraction protocols, communication signals, emergency rally points. Van der Berg's team operates with military precision. No wasted words, no unnecessary questions, just cold assessment of how to execute an assault that could kill us all.
By the time we finish, Isabella excuses herself and heads to the bathroom. The moment she's gone, Van der Berg leans forward.
"You trust her under fire?"
"Yes."
"What's her tactical background?" Van der Berg's tone is assessing, professional. "She doesn't move like an operative."
"Because she's not. She's a chemist." I hold his eyes, let him see exactly how far I'll go to protect what's mine.
"But she ran through Rotterdam streets last night with Lazarev's men hunting her.
She didn't slow down, didn't panic, followed every order I gave without hesitation.
She'll do the same tonight, or I'll pull her out myself. "
Van der Berg reads the threat underneath, weighs it, then nods slowly. "Your operation. Your call. But if she compromises my team, we leave her behind."
"Touch her and you won't make it to the extraction vehicle." Not a threat, a promise. "She's my responsibility. She fucks up, I handle it. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
Something shifts in Van der Berg's posture. Recognition.
"Clear enough."
"Make sure your team's equally clear."
The team disperses to final equipment checks. Luc pulls me aside, voice dropping to the register he uses when delivering bad news.
"Van der Berg's people are solid," he says. "But they're mercenaries. Guns for hire. They'll extract if things go sideways, with or without us, and they won't lose sleep over it."
I've worked with enough contractors to know the math. I've already factored this in.
"And Lazarev's presence changes everything. If he recognizes you, this becomes personal. He'll burn resources the Iron Choir wouldn't waste just to watch you die." Luc's jaw sets, the muscle there ticking. "He's been waiting years for this. He won't let you walk away."
I stop. Look at him directly. "How do you know about Lazarev?"
Something shifts in Luc's expression—acknowledgment that he's said more than he should have without explanation. "You think I didn't keep tabs on you? All those years?"
"We haven't spoken in years."
"Doesn't mean I stopped giving a shit." Luc's voice drops lower, harder.
"Yemen made international news, Remy. A joint operation that killed twenty-three civilians, an investigation that destroyed careers.
Your name came up in the after-action reports I tracked down through old contacts.
And Lazarev's name came up right next to yours—the contractor who provided faulty intelligence and blamed you for following orders. "
I process that. Luc watching from a distance. Following my operations. Knowing about the worst moment of my career without ever reaching out.
"Why didn't you contact me?"
"Because you were building a life away from the family. Away from New Orleans. Away from all of it." His eyes meet mine. "Figured you'd reach out when you were ready. Took you long enough."
Fair enough.
"Lazarev's been off grid for—"
"I saw him in Prague," I cut in. "He was there. At the warehouse fire."
Luc nods, processing the update. "Then he's active again.
And if he surfaced in Prague, tracked you there, he's been following your operations more closely than anyone realized.
" His expression darkens. "Word in contractor circles was he'd gone to ground, but intel's always behind the curve.
He's unhinged, obsessive, and he's been tracking you for years.
This operation with Isabella? Perfect opportunity for him to settle the score. "
"Then you understand why I can't walk away from this."
"I understand why you won't." Luc's eyes go flat, emotionless—the expression of a man who's made hard calls and lived with the consequences. "But you know we might not all make it out. And if it comes down to a choice between Isabella and the mission—"
"Won't happen."
"But if it does," Luc presses, "you need to be ready to make the call. The hard one. The kind that keeps you up at night."
I let him see I've already made every calculation, weighed every possible outcome. "I've made harder calls than this, brother. I'll do what needs doing."
"Make sure you remember that when she's bleeding and the op's going to shit.
" Luc's expression doesn't change, but there's weight behind the words.
The weight of missions where he's made those calls, where he's left people behind to complete objectives.
"I've seen good men hesitate at the wrong moment.
I've watched them die because they couldn't pull the trigger when it mattered. "
"I'm not them."
"No. You're not." He steps back. "Get your gear ready. We move in two hours."
Isabella emerges from the bathroom. I catch her hand, pull her into the bedroom, close the door, lock it.
"How are you holding up?" I ask.
"Scared. Focused. Ready." The same answer she gave earlier. But her hands are steady, her breathing controlled. Fear channeled into operational readiness the way I've been teaching her.
"Good." I cup her face, force her eyes to mine.
"When we're inside that facility, you do exactly what we practiced.
Identify the compounds fast, confirm verbally, then step back while I place charges.
Van der Berg's team handles security. You don't engage hostiles, you don't make tactical decisions, you follow orders without question. Clear?"
"Clear."
"And if something goes wrong, if we get separated, you go to the north wall emergency exit and wait for extraction. Don't try to find me, don't try to help, don't do anything except get out alive."
Her expression hardens. "I'm not leaving you."
"You will if I order it." I let my hand slide to her throat, thumb pressing against her pulse. Not threatening, claiming. "This isn't negotiable, Isabella. You follow orders or you stay here. Choose."
She stares back, testing, trying to find the line she can't cross. Then she yields. "I'll follow orders."
"Say it properly."
"I'll follow your orders, Sir."
"Good girl." I kiss her, hard and possessive, claiming her one more time before we walk into a facility that might kill us both.
When I pull back, her eyes are dark and wanting.
"After Rotterdam, we have the conversation about what happens between us.
Until then, you're mine. You do what I say, when I say it, without hesitation. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Get your gear on. We leave in ninety minutes."