Chapter 15 Tristan
FIFTEEN
TRISTAN
The door clicks shut behind me as I walk through my London hotel room for the last time.
I drop the duffel bag on the table by the window and unzip it. One by one, I lay everything out like surgical instruments.
Black dye. Clippers. Brown contact lenses. Disposable razor. Balaclava. A printout of a face that isn't mine.
Cat came through better than I expected.
Henri Trottier. French. Thirty-three. Ex-private military, demoted twice for "aggressive conduct" and "difficulty with authority." The perfect kind of bastard for Calder's outer ring.
Cleared last week by the same security company I traced back to Viavilda. Final vetting was approved yesterday, and his travel is already booked through a private channel Cat had to crack her way into. His pickup is scheduled three days from now.
No final destination listed on any of his travel documents, but I expected nothing less.
The Ferryman never writes down where he docks. But that's fine. I don't need an end point yet—just the door, and Henri is my door.
I pick up his photo, studying his face. Sharp nose. Dark hair. Brown eyes that have never held a real thought. A man built to take orders and throw punches when someone smarter tells him to.
Forgettable and replaceable.
The perfect target.
"Sorry, Henri. Wrong assignment," I murmur, tapping the photo against the mirror once like a mock blessing. "You won't be standing anywhere near my family."
It's almost a kindness that he dies doing the first meaningful thing in his life.
My reflection looks back like a stranger.
Hair grown too long after days underground. My eyes are ringed red from no sleep. Scruffy and uneven…a man coming apart in controlled increments.
Except it hasn't felt controlled or incremental.
I couldn't protect Keira. Not then and not now.
The old version of me walked away. Let ego and hurt turn into distance, and distance turn into the kind of silence that ruins lives.
That's all about to change, though.
I pick up the clippers and buzzing fills the bathroom.
For a moment I just stare at the mirror, watching the distance between who I was and who I'm about to become close into nothing.
The clippers touch my scalp and copper-brown strands slide down in dull, heavy clumps, piling in the sink like shed skin.
My hand tightens on the second pass. I erase the version of myself I've lived inside for years.
The man I built after her. The one who spent most nights pretending to sleep, most mornings wondering if she's still breathing.
Moving through time trying to forget the way her hands once felt on my skin.
I wasn't always this fucked up. For a while there I had moved on.
But everything changed the moment I opened that lockbox. The moment I knew finding them wasn't optional but inevitable.
Revenge took hold of me then and hasn't let go since.
Hair keeps falling until there's nothing left but a rough, close buzz.
It makes such a difference. I already look unrecognizable.
The box of black dye waits on the counter. I tear it open without a second thought, the smell of chemicals burning as I work it through what's left of my hair, massaging it into my scalp until every strand of brown is covered.
I set the timer on my phone and brace both palms against the counter.
The dreams have been getting worse.
They used to be just memories replaying in my head. The hunting lodge. Whiskey warming her mouth. The twinkle in her eyes. The way she'd say Hale like she was tucking it into her chest for safekeeping.
Now they've mutated into something vicious. They start as memory and end as torture my mind conjures in the dark just to fuck with me. Making me mad with need one night, then reminding me how easily she stabbed me in the back the next.
Sometimes I wake up hard, gasping for air, her name stuck in my throat like a curse I can't spit out.
Night after night she lives there, burrowing deeper into my head.
It's driving me insane.
I wash my hands because I need something to do besides put my fist through the mirror. Black dye runs down my arms in dark ribbons, and when the water finally clears, someone else looks back at me.
Someone built for the things I'm about to do.
Short black hair. Harsher, more hollowed angles. The same light eyes, though—but not for much longer.
Keira would notice my eyes in a heartbeat. Good thing Henri has brown ones, and they make contacts so accessible these days.
I clean the edges of my beard next, trimming it close. Henri wears a pretty thick scruff and mine will match in a few days. It'll be enough time for Keira's memory to blur and for Calder's men to see only what I want them to see.
She may not remember you the same way you remember her.
Some wounded part of me hates the idea of her looking through me like I'm no one. But the colder part realizes how useful that will be.
If she doesn't recognize me, she'll behave like herself. And that way I'll get to stand closer, learning every detail about her and where she's living.
Stepping out of the bathroom, the laptop glows on the desk. The red notebook lies open on the bed where I left it, that half-filled page reminding me of the dream from this morning.
A soft vibration buzzes against my thigh. Half a second later, the laptop emits a matching chime.
Paired signals means a secure chain, and that could only be a new message from Cat or Aaron.
I cross the room, watching the encrypted window spit out all the information I'll need.
// VIAVILDA SHADOW-ACCESS GRANTED
// CROSS-REF: FERRYMAN SECURITY
STATUS: MATCH FOUND
The text flickers for a few seconds before stabilizing. Then a new message appears in blue.
Pickup confirmed. Private strip outside Lyon. Coordinates attached.
Transport: Jet → KEF → unknown site.
Compound coordinates classified. Still digging.
So they're somewhere in Iceland. They're expecting Henri Trottier, but he won't be making it anywhere close to there.
Well, Henri will show up…just not the real one.
I have less than three days to get rid of my loose end.
Then the fun really begins.
I close the laptop and step into the bathroom, reaching for the contact case.
I tilt my head back and slide the brown contacts in one at a time. My vision blurs, then adjusts. The man I used to know is no longer staring back at me.
I spend the next several minutes packing my bag, making sure everything's there. The balaclava sits on top, black like the rest of my clothes. I run my fingers over the fabric, oddly comforted knowing I can hide behind the mask and let the worst parts of myself take control.
Three days.
That's all the space left between now and the moment Calder's world opens just enough for me to slip inside. He thinks he's tightening his grip, locking things down, building his walls higher.
What he's really done is invite a better monster into his house.
Henri's building in Lyon is exactly what Cat's files described. I make mental notes of everything I can—the way his front door sticks, the one light flickering on the second floor. His schedule, his habits…the confidence of a careless man who thinks he's safe.
And I mean, if it weren't for me, he probably would be.
He smokes on the stoop every hour but only half a cigarette. Never finishes the rest. Drinks his coffee too fast. Talks on the phone like he enjoys being heard.
I watch him from across the street, from reflections in windows, from corners of rooms he never notices.
By late afternoon, I've got him completely figured out.
And by nighttime, I'm more than ready to get rid of him.
There's no guilt. No second-guessing. There never fucking was.
I'd kill a thousand men like Henri if it meant getting to them.
It's time.
Back in the alley across from his building, I pull the balaclava over my head. The disguise feels right. My breathing slows and the world sharpens into focus.
This is the part of me that doesn't hesitate. The part that enjoys what's about to happen.
Henri's door has a cheap lock. It gives in under ten seconds. I slip inside and ease it shut behind me, moving like a shadow.
Henri sits on the couch, beer balanced on his knee, the television washing his face in bright light.
For a moment, I just watch him exist. Take note of his expressions and the way he breathes.
This is the body Calder chose to put between me and my family. The hands meant to escort her. The mouth meant to say her name.
That was never going to happen.
I hate Keira for what she did. For the lies. For the silence. For hiding my son and carving me out of his life like I was disposable. The hatred sits deep and hot and doesn't go away.
But it doesn't change the truth.
She's still mine.
Mine to hunt.
Mine to ruin.
Mine to save.
Mine to take back piece by piece until there's nothing left of the asshole who thought he could keep her.
I'm so close now I can taste it.
The floorboard creaks beneath my weight and Henri hears it. He turns just enough to register the shape of me, but I'm already behind him.
His neck snaps with a sharp crack, barely disturbing the room as his body goes completely limp. The television keeps talking as I let him slump forward onto the couch, head lolling to the side like he just dozed off.
I pull out my phone and snap a photo of his face. Then I grab him by the collar and drag him toward the bathroom, his dead weight scraping across the floor.
The bathtub will do.
And in less than twenty-four hours, I'm walking onto that tarmac in Lyon wearing his name, his face, his life.