Page 25

T he next morning, I stood outside Maxime's door, trying to find the right words, the right approach. How did you tell someone that the center of their universe was gone? That their carefully ordered world had collapsed into rubble and rebar and blood?

Three times I'd raised my hand to knock, and three times I'd lowered it again, the weight of responsibility unsettling me in ways I wasn't accustomed to. I was comfortable with violence, with hunting, with extracting information through pain. But this delicate dance of grief and acknowledgment was unfamiliar territory.

Leo had offered to come with me. His gentle presence would have smoothed the jagged edges of this conversation, would have provided a buffer against the raw emotion waiting on the other side of that door. But this was my responsibility. My burden to carry. Algerone had entrusted me with his final words, with the access codes to his empire. The least I could do was deliver both with the dignity they deserved.

I finally knocked, the sound too loud in the silent corridor. No response. I tried again, concern threading through my irritation at the delay.

"Maxime," I called, loud enough to penetrate the door but not enough to alert the entire wing. "It's Xavier. We need to talk."

Still nothing. I was about to try a third time when the door swung open so suddenly I almost stumbled forward.

Maxime stood before me, but not the perfectly composed assistant I'd come to expect. This Maxime was disheveled, his usual impeccable appearance in ruins. His shirt was wrinkled, top buttons undone, and his eyes were bloodshot from what I could only assume had been a night of sleepless grief. An open bottle of bourbon sat on the table behind him, and the strong smell of alcohol hung in the air.

"Monsieur Laskin," he greeted me, voice hoarse but still clinging to the formality that defined him. "To what do I owe this... pleasure?"

The last word was acid-etched, bitterness transforming the mundane greeting into something almost hostile. His accent was thicker this morning, the careful modulation that usually disguised the Québécois cadence slipping in his emotional state.

"Are you drunk?" I asked bluntly.

Maxime gave a laugh that sounded more like breaking glass. "Not nearly enough." He stepped aside, gesturing with exaggerated formality for me to enter. "Union Horse Reserve. Straight bourbon whiskey from Kansas City." He gestured to the bottle. "I always keep a bottle for the hard days. To remind him of where he came from."

"May I come in?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral. "There are things we need to discuss. About last night. About Algerone."

The name seemed to physically impact him, his body flinching as if I'd struck him. A muscle in his jaw worked, but he stepped aside, allowing me entry with a gesture that managed to be both gracious and aggressive simultaneously.

The suite beyond was spacious, tastefully decorated in the same understated luxury that defined the Sentinel. But signs of disturbance were everywhere. A crystal decanter lying on its side, amber liquid staining the carpet beneath. A laptop was open on the desk, its screen shattered as if something had been thrown at it. Books pulled from shelves, papers scattered.

In the center of this controlled chaos, a single framed photograph lay on the coffee table. From my position at the door, I couldn't see who was in it, but I could guess. Maxime saw me looking and moved quickly to turn it face down, the gesture oddly protective.

"What is it you wish to discuss?" he asked, not offering me a seat, not pretending this was a social call. The remnants of his professional mask were still in place, but fractures showed in every tense line of his posture. "I am quite busy coordinating the interim leadership structure of Lucky Losers in Monsieur Etremont's absence."

Absence. Not death. Not loss. Absence. As if Algerone had simply stepped out temporarily.

"That's part of what I wanted to discuss," I said, deciding to start with the business aspect. Easier territory, fewer emotional landmines. "Algerone gave me full access codes to Lucky Losers before... before I left him."

Maxime's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "The master access codes? He gave them to you directly?"

"Yes." I reached into my pocket and withdrew the tactical pad containing the information. "RoyalFlush1947Ace. Full access to everything. Resources, personnel, intelligence. All of it."

Maxime stared at the device in my hand as if it might suddenly sprout fangs. "And you've come to what? Take command? Inform me of my termination? What exactly is your purpose here, Monsieur Laskin?"

The edge in his voice was unmistakable now, the veneer of professionalism wearing dangerously thin. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension.

"To tell you I have no intention of using these codes without your input," I replied, setting the pad down on the nearest table. "Reid suggested, and I agreed, that your experience and knowledge of the organization is invaluable. I'm not here to replace you, Maxime. I'm here to collaborate."

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by renewed suspicion. "Why would you do that? You've made your feelings about Monsieur Etremont quite clear over the years. Why would you suddenly care about his organization? About his..." he seemed to struggle for the right word before settling on, "legacy?"

The raw emotion behind the question caught me off guard. This wasn't just Algerone's assistant inquiring about business continuity. This was something deeper, something personal.

"Because finding Phoenix is more important than old grudges," I said honestly. "And because Algerone saved my life. I owe him that much."

Maxime made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, turning away to pace toward the windows. "Saved your life," he repeated, the words bitter on his tongue. "Of course he did. Always the hero for his precious children, isn't he? Never mind who else might need him. Never mind who else might be left behind."

The venom in his voice was startling, especially from someone who'd always maintained such rigid control. I watched as he pressed his palms flat against the windowsill, head bowed as if under an immense weight.

"It should have been me there," he said, so quietly I almost missed it. "I should have been the one at his side. Not you."

The pieces fell into place with sudden clarity. The depth of Maxime's grief wasn't just that of a loyal employee losing a respected employer. This was personal. Intimate. The devastation of someone who had lost someone dear.

"You loved him," I said, the words falling between us like stones.

Maxime's back stiffened, but he didn't turn around. "Thirty-two years," he said, voice cracking despite his obvious effort to control it. "Thirty-two years I stood beside him. Through everything. The expansion of his empire. The search for you and your siblings. The constant dance with authorities and rivals. Thirty-two years of unwavering loyalty."

He turned then, eyes bright with unshed tears and something darker, something that looked dangerously like hatred. "And what did I get in return? A pat on the head. A 'good job, Maxime.' The occasional dinner or private conversation where I could pretend, just for a moment, that I was more than just his glorified secretary."

The bitterness in his voice was palpable, filling the room like smoke. I remained silent, recognizing that anything I said would be inadequate against the tide of his grief.

"Did you know your father was born in a trailer park outside Kansas City?" Maxime asked suddenly, moving back to the bottle and pouring another drink. "His father was a small-time fence for stolen goods. His mother cleaned motel rooms. The great Algerone Caisse-Etremont spent his childhood wondering if they'd have electricity that month."

He didn't wait for my response, continuing as if unspooling a story he'd kept tightly wound for decades. "He got his first taste of real money running numbers for a local bookmaker when he was fourteen. By seventeen, he'd figured out how to skim just enough to start his own small loan operation without getting caught. By twenty, he owned three pawn shops and a bar."

Maxime's eyes took on a faraway look, seeing a past I'd never known, a version of Algerone I couldn't reconcile with the immaculate, refined man I'd come to know.

"I met him when he was twenty-three. I was fresh out of business school, arrogant and ambitious. He offered me three times what any legitimate company would pay, just to keep his books organized." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "I thought I was slumming it, working for this American with his rough edges and ambitious plans. Three months later, I would have followed him into hell without a second thought."

He paused, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "There was a job in Singapore. Early two thousands. Everything went wrong. Our contact was compromised, the merchandise was seized, and two of our people never made it out." His voice dropped, becoming almost tender. "When we got back to the hotel, he was drunk. More than I'd ever seen him. Distraught over losing those men."

Maxime's expression softened with the memory, his usual sharp edges blurring. "I held his head in my lap all night. Caressed his hair while he broke down. He looked up at me with those eyes—those fucking eyes—and we almost..." He shook his head, the moment clearly as vivid now as it had been decades ago. "We were a breath away from crossing that line. I could feel it. He could feel it."

"What happened?" I asked, drawn into the story despite myself.

"I stopped it," Maxime replied simply. "I knew Algerone wouldn't be at his best if he were distracted by something as mundane as love. His potential was limitless, but only if nothing held him back. Not even me." His laugh was hollow. "Especially not me."

"Do you know what it's like?" he demanded, stalking closer, anger radiating from him in almost visible waves. "To love someone who will never see you that way? To give everything, every moment, every thought, every ounce of devotion, knowing it will never be enough? That you will never be enough?"

I thought of Leo, of the years he'd spent silently loving me while believing I could never return his feelings in the way he wanted. Of the careful distance he'd maintained, never pushing, never demanding, always grateful for whatever scraps of attention I was willing to give. The comparison was uncomfortable, a mirror I wasn't ready to look into too deeply.

Maxime took another drink, his composure cracking further. "I suppose you should know the truth. It's my fault you and your siblings grew up without Algerone in your lives."

“What are you talking about?"

"Your mother, Imogen," he said, voice tight with old resentment. "She was an aspiring actress when she met Algerone at that charity function in Los Angeles. He was completely captivated from the first moment he saw her." Maxime's lip curled with disdain. "I could see right through her. The way she laughed too loudly at his jokes. How her eyes calculated his worth with every glance at his watch, his cufflinks, his shoes. She wasn't the first gold-digger to target him, but she was certainly the most effective."

"You kept us from him," I said, the realization crystallizing with painful clarity.

"I protected him," Maxime corrected, his jaw tight. "When she disappeared, I thought we'd seen the last of her. Then she returned nine months later with triplets in tow, demanding money." He shook his head. "I handled it quietly. Substantial payments in exchange for her discretion."

"You mean Algerone never knew about us?" The question felt hollow in my chest. Years of resentment toward my biological father suddenly redirected.

"If I'd told him, he would have married her immediately," Maxime replied, contempt dripping from every word. "Can you imagine? Algerone Caisse-Etremont tied to a B-list actress with delusions of grandeur? She would have destroyed everything we'd built."

"So you lied to him. For years."

"I did what was necessary," Maxime snapped, refilling his glass with unsteady hands. "Your mother complicated matters by developing paranoia. She began giving interviews about government conspiracies, claiming powerful people were monitoring her. Most dismissed it as the ravings of a fading starlet, but it risked drawing unwanted attention. I attempted to reason with her. Suggested that if she continued, certain government entities might take an interest in silencing her themselves. I meant it as a warning. She interpreted it as a threat."

"And that's when she contacted Annie," I concluded, pieces falling into place.

"Your mother hid you three with that vigilante woman," Maxime confirmed. "A clever move, I'll admit. When she died shortly afterward, I assumed you were gone as well. I told myself it was for the best."

"She died because you frightened her into paranoia," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "Because you manipulated the situation to keep Algerone for yourself."

Maxime didn't deny it. His eyes gleamed with something that looked almost like satisfaction at my growing anger. "I did what I had to do. Your mother was a distraction. You would have been a distraction. Algerone needed to focus on building his empire."

Each word was carefully chosen, deliberately provocative. I could feel him baiting me, pushing me toward violence.

"You stole us from him," I said, hands clenching into fists at my sides. "You robbed him of his children. Robbed us of a father."

"Yes," Maxime agreed, no hint of remorse in his voice. "And I'd do it again. Anything to ensure Algerone's success." He stepped closer, deliberately invading my space. "You want to hit me, don't you? Go ahead. I can see it in your eyes."

My control snapped. I moved with the speed that had made me such an effective hunter, grabbing Maxime by his shirt and slamming him against the nearest wall. The impact knocked a framed photo to the floor, glass shattering across the hardwood.

"You destroyed three lives because you were too cowardly to tell him how you felt," I snarled, face inches from his. "You let our mother die! Let us grow up thinking we'd been abandoned. All so you could keep Algerone to yourself!"

Maxime didn't struggle against my grip. His expression was almost serene, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. "What are you going to do, Xavier? Kill me? Go ahead. It's what I deserve. Without him, I have nothing left to live for, anyway."

The naked misery in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't just grief. It was despair so profound it had crossed into a death wish. He wanted me to hurt him. Wanted punishment for decades of manipulations and lies. For the loss of the one person who had given his life meaning.

I released him abruptly, stepping back. "I'm not going to give you the easy way out."

Confusion flickered across his face. "What?"

"You don't get to escape your guilt that easily," I said, my voice cold. "You're going to help me find Phoenix. Help me make him pay for what he's done. And then you're going to live with what you've done for the rest of your miserable life."

"He should have been more careful," Maxime continued, grief shifting back to anger as he paced. "He should have anticipated the trap. He's survived assassinations, coups, and betrayals from his inner circle. And he falls for a simple explosive device? It's... it's unacceptable. It's incomprehensible."

The desperation in his voice was almost painful to hear, the bargaining stage of grief in full force. If Algerone had just been more careful, if he had just followed protocol, if he had just listened to Maxime's constant warnings about security, he would still be here. The litany of "if onlys" that always followed unexpected loss.

"He made a choice," I said quietly. "In the moment. To push me clear of the blast."

Maxime rounded on me, eyes flashing. "And that's supposed to comfort me? That he chose to die for you? The son who has rejected him at every turn? Who has thrown his efforts at reconciliation back in his face for years? What about those of us who actually valued him? Who needed him?"

The accusation hit harder because there was truth in it, truth I wasn't ready to confront. I had rejected Algerone consistently, had maintained my distance even as he'd tried to bridge the gap between us. And yet, in that final moment, he'd chosen to save me without hesitation.

"He wanted you to be happy," I said, the words feeling inadequate even as I spoke them.

Maxime froze, his expression shifting from anger to confusion. "What?"

"His last words," I explained, meeting his gaze steadily. "Before I left. He said, 'Tell Maxime to be happy.' That's it. That's all he said."

For a moment, Maxime simply stared at me, disbelief warring with something like hunger in his expression. Then, to my alarm, he began to laugh. Not the warm laughter of genuine amusement, but something broken and jagged that seemed to tear its way out of his throat.

"Be happy," he repeated, the laughter dying as suddenly as it had begun. "Be happy without him. As if that were possible. As if he hadn't become the axis around which my entire existence revolved."

He moved to the bar cart that stood against one wall, pouring himself a generous measure of bourbon with hands that trembled ever so slightly.

Maxime studied me over the rim of his glass, something calculating replacing the naked grief in his eyes. "Once we've finished with Phoenix, then what? What happens to Lucky Losers then? Do you take the reins permanently? Dismantle it? Sell it off in pieces?"

It was a fair question, one I hadn't fully considered in the chaos of the past twelve hours. What did I want with Algerone's empire once our immediate threat was neutralized?

"I don't know," I admitted honestly. "But I'm open to discussion. To finding a solution that honors what Algerone built."

Maxime's eyebrows rose slightly, genuine surprise breaking through his grief-hardened expression. "That's... unexpectedly reasonable of you."

He set his glass down, straightening his shoulders in a visible effort to regain his composure. "Very well. I will assist you in utilizing Lucky Losers' resources to locate and neutralize Phoenix. After that, we can discuss the future of the organization."

His professionalism was reasserting itself, the familiar mask sliding back into place despite the redness rimming his eyes, the slight tremor still visible in his hands. It seemed the conversation was drawing to a close when he suddenly spoke again, his voice quieter than before.

"Was he in pain? At the end?"

The question caught me off guard. It was the first truly personal inquiry, devoid of the anger and bitterness that had characterized our exchange thus far. Just a human being wanting to know if someone they loved had suffered.

"No," I lied, the mercy coming more easily than I expected. The reality of being pinned by rebar, slowly bleeding out while waiting for enemy forces to find him, was not something Maxime needed to carry. Sometimes lies were kinder than truth.

Maxime nodded once, accepting the comfort offered without further question. Perhaps he knew I was lying. Perhaps he preferred the fiction to reality. Either way, he didn't press.

"I suppose we should begin immediately," he said, the professional assistant once more. "I have full access to all operational databases. We can start by—"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. I tensed instinctively, hand moving toward the weapon concealed at my waist.

"Yes?" Maxime called, his own posture reflecting a similar readiness.

The door opened to reveal one of the Sentinel's security staff, his expression tense. "Mr. Laskin, Mr. St. Germain," he said, nodding to us both. "There's an urgent video call coming through on the secure line in the main conference room. For you specifically, Mr. Laskin."

My blood went cold. "Who is it?"

"He wouldn't identify himself, sir. Just said you'd want to take this call. That it concerned your father."

Maxime and I exchanged glances, the same realization dawning on both of us simultaneously. "Phoenix," I said, already moving toward the door.

"I'm coming with you," Maxime declared, the shakiness from earlier completely gone now, replaced by cold determination.

We followed the security officer through the Sentinel's corridors, moving with the quick efficiency of those accustomed to crisis. By the time we reached the main conference room, Leo, Xander, and Xion were already there, alerted by the same staff member who'd found me.

"What's happening?" Leo asked, crossing immediately to my side. The concern in his eyes was evident, his body unconsciously positioning itself slightly in front of mine in a protective stance that would have been touching if the situation weren't so dire.

"We're about to find out," I replied, giving his arm a quick squeeze of reassurance before moving to the head of the conference table.

The massive screen that dominated the far wall was already active, displaying the Sentinel's security logo while waiting for the connection to be established. I nodded to the technician manning the controls, and the screen flickered before resolving into an image that made everyone in the room tense.

I knew him instantly from Leo's description—lean build, intelligent eyes behind stylish glasses, an expensive hoodie that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. Felix Burns didn't look like a monster, didn't look like the kind of man who would burn homes and destroy lives. He looked like any other tech executive, another Silicon Valley transplant with too much money and too little sleep.

But his eyes gave him away. Cold. Calculating. With an intensity that Leo had said reminded him of me in the worst possible way. The focused, obsessive gaze of someone who had built their entire identity around a single purpose.

"Felix Burns," I greeted him, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest.

"Xavier Laskin," he replied, his tone conversational, as if we were meeting at a business conference rather than after months of calculated destruction. "I've been looking forward to speaking with you directly. After all, we have so much in common."

"We have nothing in common," I countered, studying his face for any hint of weakness, any vulnerability I could exploit. "What do you want?"

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Direct. I appreciate that. Very well, I'll be equally direct. I want to meet. In person. Just you and me."

A sound of disbelief escaped Xander beside me. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"I assure you, I'm quite serious," Felix continued, his gaze never wavering from mine despite the interruption. "I believe we have matters to discuss that would be better handled face to face."

"Why would I agree to that?" I asked, hands flat on the conference table to hide their trembling—not from fear, but from the effort it took to restrain the violent impulses surging through me. "What possible reason could I have to walk into what is obviously a trap?"

Felix leaned back slightly, adjusting his glasses with a gesture that seemed deliberately casual. "Because I have something you want." He paused, eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction. "Or rather, someone."

The screen split, the right side switching to a different feed that sent a shock wave through the room. Algerone Caisse-Etremont lay on what appeared to be a hospital bed, though the setting was clearly not a legitimate medical facility. His normally immaculate appearance was gone, replaced by bloodied bandages and the hollow-eyed exhaustion of someone in significant pain but fighting to maintain consciousness.

Maxime lunged forward, slamming his fists onto the conference table with enough force to make everyone flinch. He roared something in Québécois French. I didn’t have to speak the language to know it was an insult. "You sadistic little bastard! I will personally tear your spine out through your throat!" His voice, usually measured and professional, transformed into something feral, unrecognizable. "If you harm one more hair on his head, I will disembowel you with my bare hands and make you watch as I feed your entrails to dogs!"

The sudden explosion of violence from the normally composed assistant stunned everyone into momentary silence. Xion moved quickly, grabbing Maxime's arm as he looked ready to physically attack the screen.

"Max, breathe," Xion said firmly.

"What the hell's gotten into him?" Xander asked, cocking their head.

"As you can see," Felix continued, his voice deliberately light, seemingly unfazed by Maxime's outburst, "your father survived our little encounter last night. Barely. My security team found him unconscious, but alive. Rather fortunate timing, don't you think?"

"If you touch him again—" Maxime snarled, still struggling against Xion's restraining grip, but Felix cut him off with a dismissive wave.

"I have no interest in harming him further. In fact, I've provided medical care, as you can see. The extent of his injuries required immediate intervention." Felix's expression hardened. "But his continued survival depends entirely on Xavier agreeing to my terms."

"Which are?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady despite the conflicting emotions warring within me. Relief that Algerone was alive battled with fury at Phoenix's manipulation and cold calculation about how to turn this situation to our advantage.

"You. Alone. At the location I specify. No weapons, no backup, no communication devices." Felix's requirements were exactly what I'd expected—exactly what I would demand in his position. "A conversation between two men who understand the true meaning of vengeance."

"That's suicide," Leo protested, gripping my arm. "You can't seriously be considering this."

I covered his hand with mine, my mind already racing through possibilities, angles, strategies. "Why should I trust that you'll release Algerone if I comply? What guarantee do I have that this isn't just an elaborate setup to eliminate both of us?"

Felix seemed to consider this, head tilting slightly. "A fair question. As a show of good faith, I'll allow you to bring one person to the exchange point. Someone to take custody of Algerone once our business is concluded. But they remain outside until I give the signal. Any attempt at heroics, any deviation from my instructions, and I promise you, Xavier, your father's suffering will be legendary."

"Me!" Maxime's voice cut through the room, brooking no argument. He'd stopped struggling against Xion's grip, his rage now crystallized into cold determination. "You're taking me to that meeting, Xavier."

"Max—" Xander started, but Maxime silenced them with a look.

"This is not a debate." His tone had returned to its usual precision, but with an undercurrent of steel I'd rarely heard before. "I'm going, and anyone who tries to stop me had better have their fucking affairs in order."

The room fell silent after Maxime's declaration, his words hanging in the air like gunpowder waiting for a spark. I kept my expression carefully blank. Felix Burns had just changed the entire game. Algerone was alive. Captured. Being used as leverage against me.

"I need time to consider your offer," I told Felix.

Felix's smile was cold, utterly devoid of genuine amusement. "You have one hour. I'll send coordinates then."

The screen went black, the connection severed from Felix's end. The abrupt termination left me staring at my own reflection in the dark screen, face tight with barely controlled rage.

"Fuck," Xander breathed into the silence. "This is bad. Really fucking bad."

"It's an obvious trap," Xion added, finally releasing Maxime's arm now that the immediate threat of the older man attacking the screen had passed. "He has no intention of letting either of you walk away."

Maxime straightened his rumpled shirt. "I don't care. If there's even the slightest chance of extracting Algerone, I'm taking it."

Leo moved to stand beside me, his concern radiating in waves I could practically touch. He'd remained silent during the exchange with Felix, but I could read the fear in the tension of his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the conference table.

"Leo," I said, turning to him. "Contact War. I need a medical assessment of Algerone's condition based on what we just saw. Every detail, every visible injury, medication, equipment. Then pull together whatever surveillance we have of the compound from last night. I want to know exactly what happened after we left."

The relief in his eyes at being given a concrete task was immediate. "On it."

"Xion, contact Reid. Tell him to assemble his team for extraction planning. Xander, coordinate with security. I want full perimeter scans, satellite coverage of any location Phoenix might choose for this meeting."

The room erupted into organized chaos as everyone moved to fulfill their assignments. Only Maxime remained still, watching me with an expression that mingled suspicion, hope, and raw desperation.

"You're actually considering this?" he asked, voice quiet enough that only those of us closest could hear.

I met his gaze. "I'm considering all options."

"If you attempt to cut me out of this—"

"I won't," I interrupted, my tone leaving no room for debate. "But make no mistake, Maxime. If we do this, we do it my way. Which means you follow my lead, without question. Is that clear?"

Something complex passed between us, an unspoken negotiation laden with shared history and mutual distrust. Finally, he nodded once, a sharp, precise movement. "Understood. Your lead."

Leo's fingers brushed against mine, the slight contact drawing my attention. "I need to talk to you, X. Alone.”