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“You’re either getting clever in your old age,” he mutters, “or entirely fucking reckless.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” He taps the monitor with a knuckle, eyes narrowed. “Because that woman just danced through a labyrinth of encrypted traffic like she was born to it, and we both know there’s sod all about that in her CV. Your instincts are sharp, mate—but instincts paired with a hard-on tend to cloud the obvious.”
I ignore him. The screen flares red—three intersecting pulses along the consulate corridor, staggered inside a ten-minute window.
“Pull the cameras. All of them.”
He’s already ahead of me. Logan slides a flash drive across the desk. “Three blocks off Rue Grimaldi. Two nights before Fortier made his entrance. I scrubbed the footage twice before I trusted it.”
I plug it in. Let the video spool.
A black SUV. Passenger door. A woman steps out—tall, gloved, cigarette pinched between manicured fingers. Her face is turned from the camera, but I don’t need it. I know that walk. That chilled elegance. The calculated arrogance in every step.
Juliette Morin.
Logan nods once. “Confirmed. Identity matched on second pass. Officially she’s clean—diplomatic attaché turned freelance logistics consultant. But we ran her vector through the Cerberus archives. She’s been skirting Vallois’ circles for years.”
“And Fortier met her here?”
“Six minutes later,” he replies. “Brief meeting, no physical exchange. But the timestamps line up exactly with the relay pings we caught last night. She’s not a handler. She’s the bloody gatekeeper.”
I lean back, jaw grinding. It lines up. Too clean. She’s not just running cover. She’s the access point—the one with hands on the valves flooding illicit shipments through diplomatic channels.
She’s due for a visit.
“Set up a meeting,” I say.
Logan raises an eyebrow. “With what name? You show up as Nick Ryeland, she’ll vanish before you finish saying bonjour.”
I stare at the freeze-frame of her on the screen. Impeccable posture. Designer coat. Eyes like polished knives.
“Not Ryeland,” I murmur. “Beaumont.”
Logan stills, arms folding slowly. “Back to that persona, then. Cracking open the monster vault, are we?”
“Juliette plays status like poker,” I say. “She’ll sniff out a Cerberus asset in a heartbeat. But a corrupt fixer with a penchant for control and no leash? She’ll take the bait.”
His eyes narrow further. “And Cherise?”
“She’s coming.”
A sharp breath. A scoff. “Of course she is. Because bringing your not-so-innocent tagalong into an op involving a woman who’s likely seen her before while you channel your inner psychopath? Positively inspired.”
“She’s not a tagalong.”
“No,” Logan says flatly. “She’s a bloody complication. That’s the difference between us, mate—you see an asset. I see the reason this whole thing goes tits-up.”
I look back at the screen. To the still image of Juliette. Let him doubt. I don’t have that luxury. Not anymore.
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I pull up the encrypted drive with Cerberus’ dormant aliases and input the retrieval string. Beaumont loads on the second pass—complete with offshore accounts, tailored intel, and a forged criminal record deep enough to make Monaco’s security services flinch.
Beaumont’s wardrobe is already here. The file was prepped for a fallback op six months ago, but I never deployed it. Now it’s our in.
I close the terminal and head upstairs.
Cherise is stretched out across the bed, but not asleep. One of her knees bent under her, head tilted, eyes focused. The lamp casts gold over her skin, making her look dangerous and delicate all at once.