Chapter Fourteen

CAMPBELL

 

My nightmare ends with music blasting in my ears.

Blindly reaching for my phone, I tap Pause on the screen, blinking as my eyes adjust to the faint morning light. My alarm was set for seven, but the time is minutes after nine. Even with the latest Megan Thee Stallion pouring through my headphones, I couldn’t stay awake, not after almost forty-eight hours with fractured sleep and what I suspect is a mild concussion.

Maybe I should have switched to SoaD.

A glance at Victor’s tracker displaces all fatigue. His car is far from home, sitting in the warehouse district on the distant end of the Seine, skirting Paris’s city limits. Strange. It puts him more than an hour away from the apartment, though, which leaves room to break in properly this time. I’ll disrupt his little peep show, then prep the space for a kill. His little chemistry set has plenty of accidental applications.

I also missed two texts. The first is from Alexandra around three a.m., confirming that she’d moved Natalie to a new location, although for operational security’s sake, she doesn’t say where. That’s fine; I don’t need to know the details as long as I can contact them both by phone.

The second is from Justine: Flatterer. Stay safe. I love you. Despite bone-deep exhaustion, it’s impossible not to smile. From the timestamp, she must have gotten up early—either that, or she’s getting as little sleep as I am. If we had been in the room together, I probably wouldn’t have woken up late.

Guilt and anger rise at once, trying to wrangle me into a chokehold. I can’t rely on the woman I love that way. I’ve put Justine in enough danger as is.

Heading downstairs as fast as I can is prudent, but without a shower and a change of clothes, I won’t be human enough to get anything done. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the alley, keeping a sharp eye out for any additional cameras Victor might have installed. Thankfully, he can’t do anything about the master code for his door without ripping out the whole system, so that point of entry is clear.

The problem is, he positioned that laptop with a straight view through the living room and out to the front. His entire apartment is boxed in brick walls with ventilation forty years out of date, so I can’t climb in a window to get through to the back.

But that age works against him too. Modern signals—Wi-Fi, Bluetooth—get weaker the more layers they pass through. To stream an entire camera feed to whatever app set off Victor’s earlier alarm, even the best tech in a laptop is stretched to its limit. I just need something to interrupt the connection between the recording and his phone.

Which is where my little wire from the surveillance kit comes in handy. I pair it to my phone with a couple of taps and start adjusting the sensitivity. When a burst of static nearly blows the speaker, I have exactly what I need. With shield in hand, I open the door with care and step over his laser trick.

Damn.

The place has been ransacked and emptied clean. Well, almost. Victor’s line of monitors is more smashed glass than functional now, but the laptop attached to it is gone, as is almost everything else in the apartment save a pair of folding tables. I shut off the wire and pocket it. All that work is for nothing if he took his camera with him.

With one hand near my gun, I cautiously move through the empty space, but turning the corner confirms my worst suspicions: his bomb supplies are gone, too, down to the last coil of wire.

He wouldn’t have destroyed the monitors if he planned on coming back, but what use is the bomb at some random warehouse on the Seine? It takes a few scrolls through my email to drag out the expense reports from Samuel. A related address lurks at the very bottom, where Victor claimed recompense for personal storage.

That doesn’t get him Natalie, though, so what is—

Something else is on the desk. I’d overlooked the flat black rectangle amidst the frenzy of glass, but a tablet is positioned right in the middle, untouched by a single jagged piece. It’s so purposeful a display, instinct tells me to search for any wires or connections, on the off-chance Victor rigged the device to blow. Overloading a lithium battery can cause it to burst into flames, but without any other incendiary component, the threat is minimal.

So I step forward and tap the screen. My blood turns to ice.

The background image is the chateau in Montfort-l’Amaury. I’d recognize Ulysse’s fine handiwork in the garden anywhere, but the text cast in bold white across the picture removes any doubt I might have had: THIS IS MY HUNTING GROUND, AMERICAN.

He saw through me in the alley. When—how?

I hold the One on my phone to call Justine. Ulysse has a bunker-level safehouse on the far property, so the two of them can shelter in place until I catch Victor.

This is Justine Fortin. If you’re calling about business with the gallery, please leave a message at—

“Pick up,” I demand as if it will make a difference. “Justine.”

It goes to voicemail a second time.

Ulysse’s number is next. He only has a landline inside the house, so I know I’m less likely to get ahold of him, but with each passing ring, alarm decays into dread. There’s no answering machine to take a message, so I hang up and switch to the tracking app instead, pulling up the record from two a.m. on.

Around six, Victor’s car took off along the Seine, edging the speed limit until he reached a line of hotels. He stopped at one for twenty minutes, then zipped to the marina, lingering there another half an hour before hooking onto the N12, toward Montfort. An hour and a half ago, he reached the house. After fifteen minutes there, he returned to the warehouse, where his car has been ever since.

Did Victor kill her? Has he taken her?

Staring at the broken monitors in front of me, I force myself to recall what was on each one. His view onto the city streets could have caught the private car I sent Justine home in—her passenger seat was on the back right. If Victor saw the plate, he could have called the company and played a concerned customer, making sure his guest got home safely.

I would know. I’ve done it too many times to count.

The only other person I can call is Alexandra. When her line fails to connect, it takes everything in me not to smash my phone against the tablet and destroy them both. Then my phone buzzes twice—it’s her.

“Alexandra?”

“The fucking connection in this basement,” she snarls, sounding out of breath. “Victor has her, Campbell.”

“I know—” Wait. “What? Where are you?”

“The bottom level of the damn hotel where Natalie was supposed to be safe. A bomb threat was called in to her room this morning.” Static crackles across the line, then clears again. “I sent her downstairs to hide with that joke of a security firm they hired so I could handle the cops and keep them from connecting the dots. She told me Marchand has connections with the police. They kept me pinned for two hours.”

He does, but that doesn’t explain what’s happened. “So there was no bomb?”

“No, but after I got rid of Préfet de Police and went to the basement, I found three unconscious bodyguards and Natalie’s phone. That was five minutes ago, so tell me what the hell is going on.”

I can give her the worst-case scenario. “Victor tracked Natalie, took her, and left her at a warehouse he has up the Seine. Then he went to Montfort to find Justine.”

“Are you serious?” Alexandra pauses. “Campbell. Where are you right now?”

“I’m in his apartment, looking at a picture of the house I left Justine in, with an unduly dramatic threat attached.” Which means I’m wasting time. “I’m going to l’Amaury.”

“For what reason? If he’s by the Seine—”

“Because I need to know that he didn’t kill her there to spite me,” I snap. “I have to see, Alexandra. I have to…”

“Stop.” The word has the force of an order, one I haven’t heard in years. “She’s not dead until you see a body. You don’t think that way. Send me the address for the warehouse. I’ll track him there while you check Ulysse’s place. Understand?”

What do I do if she’s gone? Killing Victor won’t be enough. Nothing will be.

“Campbell?”

If he hurt Justine, I’ll tear him apart. Fuck the contract. I don’t care about getting caught as long as he suffers after what I promised her—

“Campbell!”

“I’m here.” Enough of me to answer, at least. “I’m heading out.”

“Stay on the line with me,” Alexandra insists. “We have enough going on without you…”

I’m out the door and through the alley. “Without me what?”

Silence stretches across the line as I sprint into the lobby, ignoring the shout from the man at the check-in desk. The damn room is paid for already. I’m halfway up the last flight of stairs before she answers.

“Losing control.”

“Do I sound out of control?” I ask, tapping my keycard against the lock.

My laptop and emergency kit are the priority—everything else can be replaced. They both go in one bag and I’m down the stairs again, keeping the phone to my ear while wrestling the rental keys out of my pocket.

“You don’t rage out, Campbell. You shut down,” Alexandra says, “and if you forget why you’re doing what you do, you pull the trigger without a care in the world.”

“That was a long time ago,” I insist. “Because right now, rage is pretty much the only thing I can feel.”

“Then what’s your first priority? The target, Natalie, or Justine?”

I stop with the keys in the engine, squeezing my eyes shut. “Don’t ask me that.”

“I’m asking because I need an answer from you before we step into that warehouse together.”

The car roars to life, habit winning over reflex. Montfort is a long drive, and I doubt I can endure Alexandra interrogating me for the next forty-five minutes. Except I don’t have the answer to her question.

If I don’t prioritize Victor, he could kill Justine and Natalie, if he hasn’t already. If I save Natalie first, there’s no point unless Victor dies and she gets away clean. If Justine is dead, there might not be enough of me left to keep anyone alive.

Why would I bother, really?

“You already know, Xandra.”

“Say it for me.”

“It’s Justine,” I snarl. “For once, I might be able to protect someone I care about, so don’t give me a lecture on making the choice.”

“I’m not. I needed you to be honest because the truth is, I’m looking out for Natalie first. She’s my principal. Better that we don’t get in each other’s way.”

That’s what I’ve always respected about Alexandra. When she gives her oath, she means it. She protects instead of culling the weak. She defends whoever she’s sworn to no matter the cost; the mercenary life couldn’t cut that away. At the end of the day, I can’t change her any more than she can change me.

“I’m hanging up. We can both drive faster off the phone.”

Alexandra sighs. “Fine. Text me when you know what’s happened.”

I end the call and lay into the gas, blazing past a sign marking the speed limit. The Paris police aren’t keen on playing traffic cop most days, and the second I’m on the backroads, none of them will be watching anyway. Every hairpin turn helps me focus, drawing my mind away from the inevitable.

The luxury of a best-case scenario is long gone. Victor has no sensible reason to kidnap Natalie and then stop in front of the chateau for twenty minutes, only to turn right around and go to the marina again. The only question is whether or not Justine is still alive, and if the latter is true, how long I have left before it’s no longer the case.

Two points of comfort remain. First, ten in the morning is an atrocious time to dispose of a body in the Seine, much less a pair of them. Second, it takes far less than twenty minutes to kill someone. If he lingered, there has to be a reason.

I slow down thirty seconds from the house, listening for any signs of other cars—if anyone alerted the authorities between Victor’s entry and now, I could have yet another problem on my hands.

The driveway is empty, but the front door is also wide open. I set the brake, leave the engine running, and duck inside with my weapon drawn. Dried blood is spattered up the stairwell, leaving a trail up to buckshot-ridden stone, and I ascend step by step with a close eye on the corner—visibility going up is always at a disadvantage.

“Justine?” I dare to call out.

No answer, save a faint and ragged breath. Ulysse is at the top of the steps and collapsed against the wall, shotgun an inch away from limp fingers. Both eyes are closed, his chest rising nearly too slow to see.

“Fuck.” Holstering my pistol, I drop down beside him. A trail of blood is congealed to rust along the inside of one ear. “Ulysse! Wake up.”

Brown eyes slowly open, and he manages a weak smile. “Campbell.”

“What happened?” Checking him for a gunshot wound turns up nothing, although the crack in the wall behind Ulysse gives me a fair guess—Victor smashed his head against it. “Was Justine with you?”

“He took her,” Ulysse grits out between his teeth. “She fought him to the last.”

A shaking hand gestures toward another splash of blood. Her palette knife is abandoned beside it, bent in half and stained red to the hilt.

“Shot him with his own gun too. Right in the shoulder,” he adds with a wheezy chuckle. “I will be fine. Help me up.”

“You’re bleeding out of your skull,” I note, offering both hands so he can stand up. “No earplugs?”

“Not on such short notice.” Ulysse touches his ear and winces. “Eh, what use do I have for hearing anyway? Listening to you prattle on?”

His sense of humor hasn’t shattered, I see. “I have to find her. Do you need an ambulance?”

“No!” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Go. I know what will happen if you lose her, Campbell.”

Justine is still alive. I have to believe that. Faith is no familiar friend, but the alternative is surrendering to the monster that knows my name the best.

Ulysse looks as if he’s about to shove me down the stairs if I don’t get moving, so I leave him with a promise to return and clean things up. After so many years, the last thing he deserves is having to scrub blood off his own staircase.

I text Alexandra: Victor has Justine. Hurt Ulysse, but he’s fine. On my way.

Her reply comes twenty minutes later, right as Paris appears on the horizon again.

Found the warehouse. Waiting for you outside. CCTV’s dead. Vic must have killed it.

To cover his tracks. Lucky us.

Hold on, Justine. Please hold on.