Chapter 16 #2
"This isn't negotiable." I keep my voice level, respectful but final. "I've given Cerberus over a decade. Completed every mission assigned, handled every situation that needed handling. But I'm choosing to walk away now, while I still can."
Fitz doesn't respond immediately. When he does, his tone shifts. Less commanding officer, more something that might be understanding. "This is about the chemist."
"This is about me choosing a life worth living instead of just surviving until the next op kills me." Isabella stirs against my side, not fully awake but registering the conversation. "She's part of that choice, yes. But it's bigger than one person."
Another pause. "You've earned this, Pascal. More than earned it." His voice carries understanding rather than warning. "But I need to ask - what about the Iron Choir? If they retaliate, if someone decides Isabella Durand's research is valuable enough to pursue despite Rotterdam's destruction?"
"Then I'll handle it." My hand tightens on Isabella's where it rests against my thigh. Mine to protect. "With or without Cerberus backing."
"You'll have the backing." Fitz's response comes immediately, firm. "Just because you're choosing a different life doesn't mean I'm cutting you loose, Pascal. You need resources, you need backup, you call. No questions asked."
Fitz exhales slowly. "I want you to know something."
I wait, sensing this matters.
"The door stays open. Always." His voice is firm, certain.
"You just need someone who understands what you've sacrificed and what you've survived, you call me.
Off the books, no questions asked. You're not just walking away from an agency, Remy.
You're family. That doesn't end because you choose to live your life. "
Something tightens in my chest. I wasn't expecting that. "Fitz—"
"I mean it. And if you ever decide civilian life isn't for you, or if you want to consult on operations, the door's open for that too.
Cerberus will always have a place for you, in whatever capacity you choose.
" He pauses. "But I hope you build something worth keeping.
You've destroyed enough for one lifetime. Time to create something that matters."
"Thank you, sir." The gratitude is deeper than I can express. "For everything."
"Take care of yourself, Pascal. And that brilliant chemist of yours." A hint of amusement enters his tone. "She's good for you. Don't let her get away."
"Not planning on it."
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a moment, phone still in hand, processing what just happened. A decade with Cerberus, ended with a phone call over the Atlantic. No ceremony, no formal discharge, just a conversation acknowledging that this chapter is closed.
"So it's done?" Luc asks quietly. "You're officially out?"
"Officially out." No more Cerberus, no more ops, no more living out of safe houses. "Just New Orleans and figuring out what comes next."
"And a chemist who's probably going to make your life interesting in entirely new ways."
I glance down at Isabella, who's definitely awake now based on the way her fingers tighten around mine. "That's the idea."
She shifts, sitting up enough to look at me directly. "You really told Fitz you're done? Just like that?"
"Just like that." I brush hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I meant what I said in Rotterdam. You're what matters. Building something instead of destroying everything. Choosing a life worth having."
"And what exactly does that life look like?" Her voice carries genuine curiosity mixed with something that might be hope. "Because I assume you're not planning to retire to a desk job and a suburban house with a white picket fence."
"Not exactly." I glance at Luc, who's watching this conversation with predator focus. Waiting to see if I bite. "But maybe something that uses our skills without requiring us to disappear every time an operation goes sideways."
Luc leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I've been thinking about going independent. Building something outside official constraints: private security, tactical consulting, intelligence work for clients who need discretion and results."
"Black ops without the government oversight," I say, processing the idea. "Interesting."
"More than interesting. Lucrative. There's a market for elite operatives who can handle situations traditional security firms won't touch.
" Luc's been planning this. Waiting for me to be ready.
Patient predator. "Corporate espionage, executive protection in hostile territories, asset recovery, witness security.
All the work Cerberus does, but we choose our clients and keep the profits. "
Isabella sits up fully now, scientific mind obviously processing variables. "That's dangerous. Without agency backing, you're exposed if operations go wrong."
"True," Luc acknowledges. "But we'd also have freedom to refuse assignments that don't align with our principles. No more orders to eliminate targets because they're politically inconvenient. No more operations where success gets buried and failure gets operatives burned."
The appeal is obvious. Everything I'm good at, everything I've spent years perfecting, applied to situations where I actually control the parameters. Building something instead of just being a weapon someone else aims and fires.
"You'd need infrastructure," I point out. "Secure communications, logistics support, equipment acquisition, financial systems that don't trigger regulatory oversight."
"I've been cultivating resources for years." Luc's smile is sharp, dangerous. "Waiting for the right moment and the right partner. Someone with tactical expertise that complements mine. Someone I trust absolutely."
He means me. Luc's been planning this, waiting for me to be ready to leave Cerberus and build something together. A partnership between brothers who both know what it means to get their hands dirty.
"You'd really want me as a partner?" The question comes out harder than I intend. "After everything that happened in Rotterdam?"
"Because of everything that happened in Rotterdam.
" Luc's voice goes cold, absolute. "You executed a perfect trap under impossible conditions, eliminated a target that's haunted you for years, and extracted Isabella without casualties.
That's exactly the kind of precision and control I need in a partner. "
Isabella shifts against me. "And what about me? Do I factor into this hypothetical private security venture?"
"You're not part of the operations," I say immediately. Non-negotiable. "That's my boundary. You consult on chemical threats if you choose, but you're not going into the field."
"I can make my own choices about—"
"I know you can." I cut her off, voice dropping into command register. "And I'm telling you that my participation in anything Luc's planning requires you staying safe. That's my line, Isabella. I won't do this work if it puts you in danger."
She studies my expression for a long moment, then nods slowly. "I can accept that. As long as consulting is actually valued and not just placating the chemist."
"Your expertise on chemical weapons and research applications would be invaluable," Luc says. "Threat assessment, client consultation, analysis of potential targets. All from a secure location where your knowledge gets applied without field exposure."
"And I could teach." Isabella's processing possibilities now, scientific mind working through the logistics. "Tulane has an excellent chemistry department. I could consult for you part-time while rebuilding my academic career."
The image forms clearly. Isabella at Tulane, doing the research she loves without Iron Choir hunting her.
Consulting for whatever venture Luc's building, applying her knowledge to keep people safe.
And me, using years of tactical expertise to build something instead of just destroying targets on someone else's orders.
It could work. It could actually work.
"Let's table the details until we're back in New Orleans," I say. "Figure out what this actually looks like when we're not exhausted and running on adrenaline."
Luc nods, leaning back in his seat. "Agreed. But think about it, Remy. Real autonomy, real control, building something that's ours."
The pilot's voice crackles through the intercom. "Beginning descent into New Orleans. Local time is late evening. Weather is clear, temperature mild."
Home. We're actually going home.
I look out the window as the Gulfstream descends through darkness. City lights spread below, familiar constellations of streets and landmarks I've known my entire life. The curve of the Mississippi, the grid of the French Quarter, the sprawl of neighborhoods stretching toward Lake Pontchartrain.
New Orleans. The city I left at eighteen, running from family expectations and my own darkness. The place I've avoided for decades because coming back meant confronting everything I walked away from.
And now I'm choosing to return. Not running, not hiding, not on temporary leave between operations. Coming home for real, with Isabella beside me and the future spreading out like that city below: unpredictable, dangerous, and mine to shape.
The landing is smooth. We taxi to the private terminal where Margot's arranged everything: expedited customs processing, vehicles waiting, minimal complications for corporate travel.
When we descend the stairs, humid Louisiana air hits like a wall.
It smells like home: river water and night-blooming jasmine, the particular combination of moisture and heat that doesn't exist anywhere else.
Isabella breathes it in, and I wonder what she's thinking.
If this place can become home for her too, or if she's just following me because the alternative is worse.
A black SUV waits on the tarmac, and Margot steps out of the driver's seat.