And yet…the story isn’t over.
AND YET…THE STORY ISN’T OVER.
Alan Martin had done a hundred dead drops in his career. A thousand, maybe. Each one the same: Scout the location, identify the exits, make the exchange, disappear.
Paris was no different.
The park was small, tucked between apartment buildings with their wrought-iron balconies and window boxes spilling geraniums. A bronze horseman rose from a stone pedestal at the center—some forgotten general, his glory now diminished by pigeon droppings.
Pansies wilted at the statue’s base. A worn bench faced the street, positioned perfectly for watching the café across the way.
Alan stood in the dappled shade of a chestnut tree, cataloging.
Two exits from the park—east toward the boulevard, west into a narrow alley.
The café had outdoor seating under cheerful umbrellas, an interior visible through glass that showcased stainless-steel coffee roasters.
Tile floors. Maybe twenty patrons at this hour.
Abu would sit on the bench. Alan would walk past, leave the newspaper. Simple.
He let his gaze sweep the café one more time—
And stopped.
A woman sat at a table in the back, tucked under an umbrella in what seemed like a deliberate attempt at privacy. Dark hair. Easy laugh. She was talking to a man—handsome, , the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers.
But Alan wasn’t looking at him.
He was watching her. At the way she held her coffee cup. At the tilt of her head when she smiled.
He knew her.
The recognition came slowly, then all at once. The Inauguration. The kitchen. A woman with a cast-iron pan and fire in her eyes, standing over him while one of Hamilton Jones’ men ground his face into the tile.
“I’m done negotiating,” she’d said.
RJ. York’s woman.
Alan’s blood went cold.
If she’s here—
York. York was in Paris.
The man who’d survived the car crash. Who’d caught him at the Inaugural Ball. Who would never—never—stop hunting him.
Alan scanned the café, the street, the windows of the apartments overhead. Was York watching right now? Was this a trap? Had they somehow known he’d be here, at this park, at this hour?
No. Impossible. The route was clean. The Bratva had assured him—
But York had a way of showing up where he wasn’t supposed to be. A way of finding Alan no matter how far he ran.
Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe she was here for something else. A vacation. Family business. Something that had nothing to do with him.
He wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe he could make the drop, disappear into the Paris crowds, and never cross paths with York Newgate again.
But he’d stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.
Across the street, the man with RJ gestured toward the park. Toward Alan. Some kind of joke, maybe—the way his hand swept dramatically, the grin on his face.
RJ’s head turned.
Her eyes swept the park, the bench, the statue with its pigeon-stained general—
And landed on him.
For one heartbeat, they stared at each other. Alan in the shadows of the chestnut tree, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the scar that traced his forehead. RJ at her umbrella table, coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips.
He watched her face change. Watched the easy smile falter, the color drain, the coffee cup tremble as she set it down.
She knew.
Alan turned. Walked toward the alley at exactly the right speed—not hurried, not casual. The pace of a man who had somewhere to be, nothing more.
Around the corner. Through a courtyard where laundry hung on lines overhead. Out onto a different street, losing himself in the flow of pedestrians.
His heart was pounding. His hands itched to shake.
He didn’t let them.
Two hours later, he came back.
Different approach. Different sight lines. The café had turned over—new customers under the umbrellas, no sign of RJ or her companion.
She’d probably run back to her hotel. Told York what she saw. He was probably tearing the city apart right now, looking for Alan.
Let him look. The drop had to happen. The timeline couldn’t slip.
Abu Massuf sat on the worn bench, a newspaper open in his lap. Mid-forties, with a face you wouldn’t forget. He didn’t look up as Alan approached.
Alan walked past. Set his folded newspaper on the bench—casual, natural, like he was done carrying it.
Kept walking.
Didn’t look back.
Behind him, Abu would collect the newspaper. Inside: President White’s Germany itinerary. EMP specifications. A contact in Munich. Everything needed for the next phase.
The mission was in motion.
And somewhere in this city, York Newgate was hunting him.
Alan walked until he found a quiet square with a fountain and pigeons. Sat on a bench in the afternoon sun. Let himself breathe.
He pulled the photograph from his pocket, smoothing the creased edges with his thumb.
Timea, sitting at a café not unlike the one across from the park. Sunlight catching her hair. The lines at the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there before, that he’d never seen form.
And Fia. His daughter. Eleven, maybe twelve years old now. Dark hair escaping her braids. A smile that was pure Timea.
But her eyes. Those green eyes, looking up at whoever held the camera.
He thought about RJ at the café. The way her face had gone pale when she recognized him. The way her hands had trembled.
She would have told York. York would come for him. He always did.
Part of him—a small, tired part that remembered what it felt like to be a good man—wanted to run. Disappear. Slip the noose and find some quiet corner of the world where none of this could touch him.
But that wasn’t an option anymore. The Bratva had made sure of that.
Complete the mission.
He looked at the photograph one more time. Memorized Timea’s smile. Imagined Fia’s laugh. The life that was waiting for him on the other side of this.
Then he tucked it back in his pocket, stood, and walked into the Paris afternoon.
The pigeons scattered as he walked past the fountain. Above, a church bell tolled the hour.
Somewhere in the world, a little girl was waiting for a father she’d never met.
He was going to reach her.
No matter who he had to destroy along the way.
Thank you for reading SOUTH!
Did you love Dakota and Jayden's story?
The hunt concludes in WEST, where everything comes full circle. When the conspiracy finally reaches Key West, the entire Jones Inc team will converge for the final showdown. But the truth about who's really behind it all will shock everyone—and change everything.
Don't miss WEST - The explosive finale!
She ditched her security detail. Worst decision ever.
Britta White—code name "Starlight," the President's daughter—escaped to Key West for one weekend of freedom. No bodyguards. No protocols. Just three days to be normal.
Then terrorists turn her friend's wedding into a war zone.
And Alan Martin finally makes his move.
The mastermind the Jones Inc team has hunted across three continents wants the President. And Britta—unprotected, vulnerable—is the perfect bait.
Now the most protected woman in America is completely exposed. And the only person who can keep her alive is the cocky ex-Marine in the Hawaiian shirt—the last man she should trust, and the only one she needs.
West Young walked away from a life of rules and regulations. But when bullets fly and Martin's conspiracy closes in, leaving Britta isn't an option.
Forced to run together, they ignite a chemistry that shatters every rule.
She's untouchable—everything he walked away from. He's unpredictable—everything her world fears. But with Martin orchestrating the deadliest trap yet, survival means trusting each other.
The hunt ends in Key West. Alan Martin's story concludes. And two people will risk everything for a love that shouldn't exist.
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Keep reading for a sneak peek…
WEST | THE HUNT FOR ALAN MARTIN #4