Chapter 16
REMY
The explosion lights up the Rotterdam night making it look like dawn came hours early.
From my position on a rooftop overlooking the safe house, I watch the charges do exactly what I designed them to do—turn that apartment into an inferno while leaving neighboring units intact.
Fire blooms through blown-out windows, angry orange against the darkening sky.
Smoke billows upward in thick columns. Even from two buildings away, I feel the heat shimmer rolling off the burning unit.
Perfect execution. Textbook detonation sequence. Minimal collateral damage.
Lazarev never saw it coming.
I stay low, watching emergency services flood the street below. Fire trucks, police vehicles, ambulances—all the chaos that follows when residential areas explode. Sirens wail. Neighbors evacuate. First responders establish perimeters and start fighting the blaze.
And I wait.
Confirming the kill means patience. Means staying in position until I see proof that Lazarev's vendetta died in that apartment along with him.
The comm stays silent in my ear. Radio discipline maintained.
Isabella and Luc are watching from the observation post several blocks away, seeing the same devastation on the phone feed before it went black, waiting for me to break silence, waiting to know I made it out.
She's waiting. The thought cuts deeper than it should.
Focus. Confirmation first.
Hours crawl past. Fire crews battle the blaze, bringing it under control in sections, clearing hot spots, making the structure safe enough for investigation. Emergency lights strobe red and blue against the night, casting the street in alternating colors.
I hold position. Just watch and wait with the patience that comes from operations where rushing gets you killed.
The apartment's structural integrity held. Directional blast destroyed everything inside the kill zone while leaving the building skeleton intact. Clean work. The kind of precision that comes from decades placing charges in worse conditions than a Rotterdam apartment.
Finally, they bring out the body bag.
I can't make out details from this distance—too much smoke, too many emergency lights washing out visibility. But I watch them carry it down, note the way two responders struggle slightly with the weight. An adult male, based on how they're handling it.
Below, two fire investigators stand near their truck, close enough that their voices carry up to my position when the wind shifts.
"Single fatality," one says in Dutch, consulting a tablet. "Found at blast center. No chance of survival with that kind of thermal exposure."
"Identification?"
"Won't know until the medical examiner processes remains. But based on position and trajectory analysis, victim was standing in the main room when the devices detonated."
Exactly where Lazarev would have been when the trap snapped shut.
Done. Years hunting me, years planning revenge, and he walked right into the same trap he'd have set himself. Yemen's finished. The vendetta's finished. Lazarev's ash and bone in a Rotterdam morgue.
I key the comm. "Nitro to Oversight. Target neutralized. Extraction in progress."
Luc's voice comes through immediately, calm and controlled. "Confirmed. Observation post is secure. Standing by."
Then Isabella, and her voice cracks slightly despite obvious attempts at control. "You complete bastard. You couldn't have called sooner?"
Her anger cuts through the relief. Good. Anger I can work with. "Needed visual confirmation before breaking radio silence. Standard protocol."
"I don't care about your protocols right now."
"I know." I'm already moving, crossing the rooftop toward the fire escape. "Extracting to your position. I should be with you in just a few minutes."
The route back is methodical. I move through shadows, avoiding main streets where police presence is thickest. My tactical gear gets stripped and stashed in a pre-positioned bag. Just another resident in civilian clothes walking through Rotterdam's residential neighborhoods.
The observation post is a fourth-floor walkup. I take the stairs fast, tension coiling tighter with each floor. When I open the door, Isabella flies across the room.
She doesn't say anything. Just wraps her arms around me and holds on like she's physically confirming I'm solid and breathing and here.
I pull her close, breathing her in. Fear-sweat and coffee and her. Mine. Her heart hammers against my chest, pulse still racing from the adrenaline crash.
"I'm here," I murmur against her temple. "I'm fine. It's over."
"Don't ever make me wait like that again." Her voice comes muffled against my shoulder. "Hours, Remy. Hours watching that apartment burn while the comm stayed silent."
"Needed confirmation." No apology. Protocol demanded radio silence. But I hated making her wait, hated putting that fear in her voice. "It's done now."
Luc watches from the desk where his laptop still displays security feeds from the blast site. "Clean execution. Lazarev never knew what hit him."
"That was the point." I step back from Isabella, shifting enough to see Luc over her head. "How long before police start asking questions about the vacant apartment we're currently occupying?"
"Owner's legitimately traveling. We're paid through the week. But I'd rather not be here when they start canvassing for witnesses." Luc's already closing down his equipment, wiping surfaces, eliminating any trace we were here. "Margot's arranged extraction. Private airfield, flight leaves soon."
Margot's been tracking us. Good. The Pascal family takes care of its own.
Isabella pulls back, hands framing my face as she studies me with a scientist's precision. Checking for injuries, analyzing my condition, making sure I'm actually unharmed.
"I'm fine," I repeat. "Not a scratch."
"You set yourself up as bait for a man who spent years planning to kill you."
"And the trap worked." I catch her wrists, thumbs pressing against the pulse points where her heartbeat still hammers too fast. Claiming the fear. Making it mine. "Lazarev's dead. The Iron Choir's Rotterdam operation is dismantled. Your research is destroyed. It's over, Isabella. All of it."
Relief, exhaustion, fear—all written across her face. Still coming down from the adrenaline spike. She leans her forehead against mine, breathing slowly, grounding herself in the physical reality that we both survived.
"We should move," Luc says quietly. "Leave this location, extract before police presence intensifies."
Right. Still operational until we're clear of Rotterdam entirely.
I step back, switching to tactical mode. The observation post gets sanitized quickly: equipment packed, surfaces wiped, any evidence of occupation eliminated. We leave the apartment looking like it’s been vacant for weeks.
Luc drives. I sit in back with Isabella, her hand locked in mine. She's still confirming I'm real, still processing that we made it out. The private airfield is outside Rotterdam, the kind of place that caters to corporate aviation and doesn't ask unnecessary questions.
The Gulfstream waiting on the tarmac belongs to Pascal Offshore, Luc's company, inherited from Papa and still generating revenue even though Luc rarely involves himself in day-to-day operations. The corporate jet gets used occasionally for business but mostly sits idle. Until today.
Private aviation means expedited customs processing rather than the chaos of commercial terminals, though we'll still face scrutiny when we land. Margot's arranged the logistics: flight plan filed, corporate travel documentation in order, everything appearing legitimate enough to pass inspection.
Once we're airborne, the tension finally starts bleeding out of my shoulders. Isabella's curled against my side, exhausted enough that she's dozing despite everything. Luc sits across from us, watching the darkness outside the window.
"You need to call Fitz," Luc says quietly. "Report mission completion."
Right. Official channels. Cerberus protocols that demand debriefing and mission documentation.
I pull out the encrypted phone, keying Fitz's direct line. It rings twice before he answers.
"Pascal. Sit rep."
"Mission complete. Iron Choir's Rotterdam facility destroyed, chemical stockpiles neutralized, primary target eliminated.
" My voice stays flat, professional. Just another successful operation in a career full of them.
"Isabella Durand is secure and extracted.
No civilian casualties. Clean execution. "
Silence on the other end, long enough that I wonder if the connection dropped. Then Fitz's voice comes through, careful and measured. "Lazarev?"
"Dead. Body recovered from blast site, confirmed by Rotterdam emergency services."
Another pause. "You're certain?"
"Positive identification pending formal autopsy, but yes. I'm certain." I watched them pull the body bag from rubble. Heard fire investigators confirm single fatality at blast center. Lazarev's not walking away from explosives detonated at point-blank range.
"Outstanding work, Pascal. This closes a significant operational liability." Fitz's approval comes through clearly. Rare enough that I register it. "Return to London for full debriefing. I'll expect you within the next few days."
This is the moment. The decision I made standing in that Rotterdam apartment while rigging charges to kill a man who's haunted me for years.
"I'm not coming back, Fitz."
The silence stretches longer this time. "Explain."
"I'm done. With Cerberus, with being someone's weapon, with living out of safe houses and burning my life down every few years to maintain operational security." Done. A decade with Cerberus, ended with a phone call. Can't take it back now. "I'm going home. New Orleans. For good."
"Pascal—"