The Paris Deception

The Vatican Knights, Volume 33

Rick Jones

Published by Rick Jones, 2025.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE PARIS DECEPTION

First edition. May 9, 2025.

Copyright © 2025 Rick Jones.

Written by Rick Jones.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The Paris Deception

By

Rick Jones

2025 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.

This is a property of EmpirePRESS & EmpireENTERTAINMENT, LLC

The Vatican Knights is a TRADEMARK property.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: rick@rickjonz.com

Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at: rickjonz.com.

ALSO, by Rick Jones:

Vatican Knights Series

The Vatican Knights

Shepherd One

The Iscariot Agenda

Pandora's Ark

The Bridge of Bones

Crosses to Bear

The Lost Cathedral

Dark Advent

Cabal

The Golgotha Pursuit

Targeted Killing

Sinners and Saints

The Barbed Crown (ORIGIN novel)

The Devil’s Magician

The Nocturnal Saints

The Brimstone Diaries

Juggernaut

Original Sins (a prequel)

In Between God and Devil

The Sinai Directive

The Barabbas Connection

The Eye of Moses

The Crimson Dagger

The Goliath Chamber

The Vladorian Keep

The Baal Manifesto

Archangel

The Venetian Code

The Necrology Report

The Herod Conspiracy

The Devil’s Protégé

The Black Monk

The Paris Deception

The Magdalene Scrolls (Pending)

The Eden Series

The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

The Sacred Vault (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

City Within the Clouds (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

City Beneath the Ice (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

The Hunter Series

Night of the Hunter

The Black Key

Theater of Operation

The Nowhere Man Series (The Kimball Hayden Chronicles)

Nomad’s Fury

The Midnight Auction

The Genteel Man Series

The Son’s of Perdition

Operation Night Blade

Aphrodite’s Heart

The Proteus Factor

Stand Alone Novels

the Menagerie

Jurassic Run

Mausoleum 2069

The Man Who Cast Two Shadows

with RICK CHESLER

First Strike

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Paris, France

Two Weeks Ago

The early morning chill settled over Paris, the city’s usual hum muted beneath a layer of frost. On the rooftop of an aging apartment building overlooking the Boulevard Saint-Germain, a man lay prone against the cold gravel. Dressed in a black tactical outfit, his face hidden behind a balaclava, he blended seamlessly into the shadowed corners of the rooftop. A black wool cap sat snug on his scalp, his breath visible in brief puffs that dissipated quickly in the crisp air.

The sniper had been here for hours, unmoving, save for the occasional shift to ease the stiffness from his joints. He’d studied his target’s habits, charting the same route the man had taken each day for the past four days. Samir Haddad, a Hezbollah representative in the Lebanese Parliament, was in Paris under the guise of peace negotiations—talks aimed at brokering a fragile understanding between Israel, the Palestinians, and Lebanon. But Haddad was a creature of routine, and that would be his undoing.

Every morning, without fail, Haddad’s motorcade rolled out from the same hotel five miles from the Quai d’Orsay—the seat of the French Ministry for Europe and Foreign Affairs. The Quai d’Orsay, nestled in the 7th arrondissement on the left bank of the Seine, was a common venue for diplomatic meetings and negotiations. Today’s meeting was no different, and Haddad would be in the third car, just as he had been every day prior.

The sniper shifted slightly, adjusting the bipod of his rifle against the rooftop’s uneven surface. The rifle—a custom-built, bolt-action precision weapon—had been modified specifically for this mission. He ran his gloved hand over the matte black barrel, checking for any condensation that might affect the shot. The suppressor was secure, and the magazine seated properly. Easing the bolt back, he inspected the chambered round—a high-explosive armor-piercing incendiary (HEAPI) round designed to detonate on impact. It would tear through metal and flesh alike, leaving nothing but fire and chaos in its wake. Satisfied, he slid the bolt forward with a soft click. All he needed now was an open shot.

Just one . . .

. . . Clean . . .

. . . Shot . . .

His focus shifted to the optic — a high-end Meprolight variable scope with a custom reticle, perfectly zeroed for the distance to the boulevard below. He adjusted the parallax, fine-tuning the clarity until the street came into sharp focus. Cars moved like clockwork beneath him, their engines barely audible in the cityscape.

He checked the wind with a small, handheld anemometer clipped to his gear. The breeze was minimal, a barely noticeable drift from the Seine that wouldn’t affect the bullet’s path. Satisfied, he returned his eye to the scope with his finger resting against the trigger guard.

The motorcade would arrive soon, and the sniper’s heartbeat remained steady, his breathing slow and controlled—a testament to the fact that he was a seasoned killer. This was the moment he’d prepared for, the culmination of days spent in the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

Today, Haddad wouldn’t reach the Quai d’Orsay.

He checked his watch. The motorcade was minutes away.

Sliding back behind the scope, he adjusted the fine-tuned controls, ensuring the reticle was crisp, the glass clear. He scanned the street below, letting the crosshairs settle on random pedestrians—an older man clutching a briefcase, a young woman balancing a coffee in one hand and a phone in the other. He tracked them for a few heartbeats, getting a feel for the scope’s range, noting how the wind pushed faint ripples through the leaves lining the avenue.

Then he saw them.

Five black sedans, identical in make and model, approached from the far end of the boulevard. They moved steadily, not too fast to draw attention, not too slow to seem cautious. The assassin’s pulse remained unchanged as he watched the vehicles navigate the morning traffic, slipping seamlessly through the flow of cars. No sirens, no lights—just another motorcade blending into the Parisian streets.

The third car. Always the third.

He shifted his aim, letting the crosshairs hover over the driver’s head. A slight adjustment brought the scope’s focus to the roof of the sedan, marking the point where Samir Haddad likely sat. It didn’t need to be exact. The HEAPI round would handle the margins.

The cars were well within range now, gliding beneath the sniper’s perch with mechanical precision. The assassin exhaled slowly, steadying his grip. His finger settled on the trigger, applying gentle, gradual pressure. The crosshairs locked onto the precise spot where metal met glass.

“For Jerusalem,” he murmured.

The shot cracked through the air, sharp and concise, the echo lost in the city’s ambient noise. A heartbeat later, the third sedan erupted into a ball of fire, the explosion ripping through the morning calm. The blast lifted the vehicle off the ground, twisting it mid-air before it slammed back onto the asphalt, flames engulfing the shattered frame. Glass and debris scattered across the street, the concussion rolling through the nearby buildings, rattling windows and setting off alarms.

The assassin didn’t linger. He pulled back from the scope, setting the rifle aside without a glance. The weapon had served its purpose. Crawling away from the roof’s edge, he stayed low, avoiding any silhouette against the skyline. Below, the street descended into chaos—screams piercing the air as civilians scattered, running from the blast site.

The remaining sedans skidded to a halt. Doors flew open, and men in dark suits poured out, their movements sharp and uncertain. Bearded, with tense expressions, they shouted to one another in rapid bursts, unsure whether to seek cover or approach the flaming wreckage. Their confusion was brief, but the assassin was already on the move.

He slipped through the rooftop door, his footsteps silent against the worn concrete stairwell. The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving the rooftop and the growing pandemonium far behind.

By the time sirens began to wail in the distance, the assassin had already melted into the shadows of the city, leaving no trace of his presence.

CHAPTER ONE

The Pontiff’s Chamber, The Apostolic Palace

Vatican City

Present Day

Vatican City was cloaked in its usual hush, the ancient stones of the Apostolic Palace carrying the weight of centuries. The corridors, adorned with frescoes and gilded moldings, whispered of power and faith.

Echoes of footsteps—a steady rhythm on marble floors—broke the silence as Isaiah followed closely behind two Swiss Guards. Their uniforms were a vibrant contrast to the muted tones of the hall: bold blue, red, and yellow stripes stretched across tailored Renaissance tunics. Their polished halberds, a fusion of spear and axe, gleamed under the soft light filtering through arched windows.

Isaiah’s appearance, however, was an anomaly in this blend of pageantry and solemnity. His upper half mirrored the clerical austerity expected within these walls—a black cleric’s shirt, its white Roman Catholic collar snug at his throat, lending him the look of quiet piety. But below the waist, tradition gave way to practicality. Military cargo pants tucked into polished combat boots betrayed his dual role as both soldier and servant of the Holy See. Perched atop his head was his powder blue beret, the insignia of the Vatican Knights stitched proudly at its center: two heraldic lions supporting a shield with a gleaming Silver Pattee marking the heart of the emblem.

Though his stride was firm, Isaiah’s thoughts wrestled with unease. Days had passed since the revelation began to eat away at his conscience—that the tomb of Kimball Hayden was empty. It wasn’t just the lie told by the pontiff that troubled him, but the act he’d committed in his search for truth. He could still feel the cold marble under his fingertips, the strain in his muscles as he slid aside the heavy lid beneath the Basilica, revealing nothing but the hollow where Kimball’s body should have rested.

He remembered Shari Cohen’s call from the United States, her voice taut as she relayed reports of Kimball’s possible sighting in Texas. The information had driven Isaiah to the crypt, spurred by a need for clarity, not rumors. Now, the empty tomb left him grappling with questions that no chain of command could answer. And so, he had requested an audience with the pontiff, framing it as a matter of spiritual necessity. But in truth, it was the weight of knowing he had defied the very tenet of blind faith—accepting what is told without question, a cornerstone of the Vatican Knights—that propelled him toward this meeting.

As the Swiss Guards led him through a myriad of hallways and up a sweeping staircase, each step echoing off vaulted ceilings, the cool air was tinged with the faint scent of incense and old stone. Isaiah’s gaze flicked over the walls as they passed, taking in centuries of artwork and relics, symbols of the Church’s enduring presence and its often-complicated history.

They halted at a set of grand double doors at the end of a long corridor. Carved from dark walnut and inlaid with subtle gold accents, the doors stood tall and immovable, like sentinels themselves. One guard stepped forward, tapping the butt of his halberd on the floor twice, the sound sharp in the stillness.

Isaiah waited, his mind turning over the same questions that had plagued him since the moment he’d uncovered the empty tomb. The Vatican had told him Kimball was dead. But now, faced with evidence to the contrary, Isaiah couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story that had been kept from him and his team.

The Swiss Guard to Isaiah’s left stepped forward and rapped twice on the polished walnut doors, the sound echoing briefly down the corridor before fading into the stillness of the Apostolic Palace. Opening the door, a soft murmur followed as the guard leaned in and spoke quietly through the slight opening. Moments later, the guard pulled the door wide, revealing the interior of the pontiff’s private chamber, stepped aside, and gestured Isaiah forward with a slight tilt of his head.

Isaiah moved past the guard, the cool air shifting as he crossed the threshold into the chamber. As the door clicked shut behind him, Isaiah removed his powder blue beret and clutched it in his hand as a sign of respect and took in the space before him.

The pontiff’s chamber was grand in its simplicity. The high ceiling was adorned with intricate frescoes, depicting scenes from the life of Saint Peter, while golden light filtered through tall, arched windows draped with deep crimson velvet. At the far end of the room sat an ornate desk carved from dark oak, its surface polished to a soft sheen. Behind it, Pope Innocent IX sat with quiet authority, his white cassock pristine, the gold trim catching the light in subtle glints. Before the desk, two high-backed wing chairs upholstered in burgundy leather stood with their curved arms inviting yet firm.

Isaiah approached, his boots silent against the rich Persian rug that stretched across the stone floor. When the pontiff raised a hand, his fingers adorned with the Anulus Piscatoris—the Fisherman’s Ring, symbol of Saint Peter’s authority and the papal office—Isaiah knelt slightly, bringing the ring to his lips in reverence before straightening at the pontiff’s gentle nod.

“Please, Isaiah,” Pope Innocent IX said, his voice warm and steady, “sit with me.”

Isaiah eased into one of the wingback chairs, his beret resting in his lap. The room felt heavier now, though not from its grandeur, but from the weight of the truth he carried, a confession he had to make.

The pontiff studied him quietly with a gaze that was both calm and perceptive. His face, framed by silver-white hair, bore the lines of years spent in contemplation and leadership, but his eyes held a depth of compassion that made Isaiah’s tension feel almost foolish.

“I can see, Isaiah, a heaviness in your heart,” the pontiff observed, folding his hands gently atop the desk. “Does it have something to do with your role within the Vatican Knights?”

Isaiah shook his head, his eyes dropping to the beret he now twisted between his fingers. "No, Your Holiness. I’m afraid it’s something else. Something I’m not proud of . . . but at the same time it was something I believe needed transparency.” His voice felt foreign in his throat, roughened by the days of internal struggle. “I committed an act against the Church. One I believed was necessary, though it may have been . . . egregious."

The pontiff’s expression softened, though his brow creased just enough to show concern, not judgment. “You know you can speak freely here, Isaiah. The truth is never a thing to be feared, even when it unsettles us.”

Isaiah’s words hovered on the tip of his tongue but releasing them felt like stepping off a precipice. He drew a slow breath, searching for the right way to begin.

“I believe that the Church . . . and you . . . may have purposely withheld the truth,” he finally admitted. “And in my search for it, I may have crossed a line.”

The pontiff remained silent, allowing Isaiah’s admission to settle between them. Then, with a slight incline of his head, he asked softly, “What truth are we talking about here?”

Isaiah hesitated, his knuckles whitening as he wrung the beret, the fabric twisting under the pressure. The words were there but speaking them felt like peeling back a veil he wasn’t sure he wanted to disturb.

Finally, Isaiah met the pontiff’s gaze, his jaw tightening as he prepared to confess. And then, “I unsealed Kimball Hayden’s tomb.”

The room remained still; the only sound was the faint rustle of the curtains as a breeze drifted through the high windows. It was here, during this interval, that Isaiah faced the uncertainty of what would follow—not from fear of reprisal, but from the unknown. The truth had been spoken, and now he waited for the weight of its consequences.

“And why would you do that, Isaiah? Why disturb a man’s tomb?”

“I received word that Kimball was seen . . . alive . . . in the United States.”

“And the source if I may ask?”

“You know the source.”

Pope Innocent IX nodded. “Shari Cohen, perhaps? Or from those she’s involved with?”

Isaiah remained silent, offering nothing.

The pontiff’s expression was unreadable as he absorbed Isaiah’s confession. Then a measured breath passed through his lips as he spoke. “There are many ways for a man to die, Isaiah,” he said, his voice steady yet gentle. “The physical form is only one aspect of our existence. A man can perish in spirit, in purpose, even in faith. And sometimes, the world moves forward as if he has departed, though his essence remains.”

Isaiah studied him, searching for a definitive answer beneath the pontiff’s careful wording. “That tomb,” he said, “was meant to hold the remains of a Vatican Knight who gave his life in service to the Church. And yet, I found it empty.”

The pontiff nodded, as if Isaiah’s words carried no surprise. “Empty to the eye—yes. But does emptiness confirm absence? Or is it simply another form of presence—one beyond what we perceive?”

Isaiah expected hesitation, perhaps even denial, but not this intricate weaving of meaning. “With all respect, Your Holiness, that sounds like philosophy, not truth.”

The pope offered a knowing smile. “Philosophy and truth often walk hand in hand, even if we struggle to see their union.” He leaned forward slightly. “Tell me, Isaiah—what does a tomb represent to you?”

Isaiah’s jaw set. “A resting place. A final keep for those who have passed.”

The pontiff inclined his head. “And yet, a tomb is also a vessel. It holds what cannot be seen but can be felt. A name carved into stone, a place of remembrance . . . These are not just for the dead, but for the living who carry their memory.” He folded his hands before him. “An empty tomb does not mean that one is not there. Just as a soul cannot be seen but still resides within us all.”

Isaiah exhaled slowly, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. The Vatican Knights had been deceived. Whether by omission or intent, they had been led to believe Kimball Hayden had fallen. And now, with each carefully chosen word, the pontiff was confirming nothing while implying everything.

His voice remained even as he asked, “Is Kimball Hayden alive?”

A brief silence stretched between them. Then the pontiff’s smile returned, faint but steady. “All remain alive in our hearts, Isaiah.”

Isaiah held his gaze, waiting for something more—an admission, a slip, anything. But there was nothing beyond that soft expression of paternal wisdom. The truth, if it existed here, would not be spoken plainly.

He nodded once, understanding not just the answer, but the boundary that had been drawn. Whatever had happened to Kimball Hayden, the Vatican was not ready to say.

And with that, Isaiah remained quiet, knowing he would get no further.

The pontiff regarded Isaiah with quiet understanding, his expression carrying neither judgment nor reproach. A moment passed before he spoke.

“I’m sorry if the answer you seek is not the one you expected,” he said, his voice measured and calm. “But an answer it is. And perhaps one that calls for your own reflection, should you seek something different.”

Isaiah held his tongue, recognizing the finality in the pontiff’s words. Whatever truth remained, it would not be given freely.

The pope continued, “If you have not spoken of what you found, I ask that you keep it to yourself. There is no need to stir the waters where none should wade.”

Isaiah gave a slight nod. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Good.” The pontiff folded his hands together. “Then let it remain so. There is nothing more to pursue. No tomb to unseal, no past to uncover. What was, has passed. And what remains, remains as it should.” His tone softened. “I trust that you will refrain from further actions in regard to Kimball Hayden, his tomb, or anything else.”

Isaiah absorbed the words, the directive clear beneath their grace. This was not merely guidance—it was an expectation, one that carried the weight of the Church behind it.

“All is forgiven,” the pontiff added gently.

With that, Isaiah rose from his chair. He inclined his head in a bow, then turned without another word, moving toward the door. The chamber was silent as he stepped out, the soft click of the door closing behind him the only sound that followed his departure.

Pope Innocent IX remained still with his gaze fixed on the door for a long moment. His thoughts drifted to another time and to another conversation—one held in secrecy and sealed by understanding.

He had given Kimball Hayden his word.

A man could die in many ways, Kimball had told him. And for him, the death that mattered most had already come to pass. The Vatican Knights required men of faith, men who walked the path with unwavering conviction. But Kimball had seen himself as something else entirely—a man who was spiritually broken and unable to reach the Light.

To Kimball, severing all ties with the Church was the only path forward.

The pontiff had respected that. He had honored it in the only way he could—by laying Kimball to rest in a way that did not mark his physical death, but his spiritual one. The tomb beneath the Basilica had never been meant to deceive, only to symbolize the passing of a man who could no longer stand among the Vatican Knights.

Then his eyes drifted to the documents on his desk, and, with a quiet breath, he turned his focus back to his work, the moment passing into memory.

* * *

The door closed softly behind Isaiah, sealing the chamber and the conversation within. The Swiss Guards flanking the entrance remained motionless, their focus fixed straight ahead, offering no acknowledgment of his departure, their stillness fitting.

Isaiah placed his beret on his head, adjusting it with a precise tug, then started down the corridor. His boots moved soundlessly over the polished floor, the Vatican surrounding him—a world of duty, faith, and secrecy woven into its very walls.

He had entered the chamber seeking clarity, but the answers he received had only deepened his uncertainty. The pontiff had spoken in layered meanings, offering wisdom without resolution. There were truths in what had been said—Isaiah knew that—but they were wrapped in semantics, elusive in their design.

Was Kimball alive?

He still didn’t know.

The frustration stirred within him, a rare feeling for a man who prided himself on patience. He had trusted that the pontiff would provide guidance, yet all he had received were words open to interpretation. If the Vatican had buried Kimball, it had been in a way that did not mark his death, only his absence. And that distinction gnawed at him.

As Isaiah turned a corner, a corridor stretched ahead, empty and silent.

And wondered.

Had the pontiff expected his obedience without question? Would it be a sin to deny the will of the Church and to disobey a direct order cloaked in gentleness? Or was it a sin to abandon the search when doubt still pressed so heavily against him?

The Basilica loomed ahead, its vast interior illuminated by soft, golden light. He slowed his pace, knowing that once he stepped beyond its doors, his choice would become irrevocable. The Vatican Knights were bound by faith, by duty. But this was something else.

Isaiah had not found the truth.

Not yet.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

CHAPTER TWO

Notre Dame Cathedral

Paris, France

The vast interior of Notre Dame Cathedral stretched before the lone priest as he moved across the stone floor, his footsteps muted by centuries of devotion embedded in the very structure. The glow of candlelight flickered against towering columns, casting soft shadows along the vaulted ceiling. Stained-glass windows, though dulled by the evening light, still told their silent stories in vivid hues of blue, red, and gold. The scent of burning wax and aged wood filled the air, mingling with the faint chill that always clung to the cathedral’s columns.

He walked with quiet purpose toward the confessional, a wooden structure worn smooth by time and countless whispered admissions. a quiet act of devotion before assuming his role. Then he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The silence was expected. It was a waiting silence that stretched between the known and the unknown. But it didn’t last.

The door on the other side of the confessional opened and then closed as someone entered.

The priest slid open the small wooden partition between them, revealing only the shadowed outline of a man beyond the lattice. He waited for the penitent to speak, but there was nothing—only the presence of someone who had come yet hesitated.

In French, the priest asked, “Do you wish to confess your sins?”

A pause. Then a low and measured voice asked, “In English. Do you speak English?”

“I do,” the priest replied.

Another pause. Then, finally, the man spoke again.

“I’m not sure why I’m here,” he admitted. “The Light that comes so easily to others seems to be beyond my reach. No matter how hard I try, I can’t grasp it.”

The priest considered the words, weighing them carefully before responding. “The Light is not something to be seized,” he said. “It is something to accept. All of God’s children are within its reach. All you must do is open your heart to Him.”

A quiet breath came through the partition, though whether it was a sigh or something else was unclear. “That’s not how it works for me,” the man said. “It’s hard to feel repentant when you know some of your actions are beyond forgiveness. When you know that no God would deem you salvageable.”

The priest folded his hands in his lap. “It is not for us to decide who is beyond salvation,” he said. “Only God may judge the weight of a man’s sins.”

The man on the other side of the screen remained silent, but the priest could sense that he was still there, still listening, still struggling with whatever had brought him to this place.

The man in the confessional exhaled slowly, as though bracing himself before speaking further. His voice, when it came, was steady but edged with something that felt like exhaustion. “I once sought redemption through the Church,” he said. “I gave everything I had. I was willing to lay down my life in service to it. And yet, in the moments I was closest to death, when I thought the Light would finally take me, it never did.”

The priest remained silent, listening.

“I’ve had glimpses,” the man continued. “Flashes of something beyond this world—warmth, peace, what I thought was the Illumination itself. But each time, just as I reached for it, it was torn away. And what replaced it was nothing but Darkness. Absolute and consuming.”

The weight of the words settled between them, thick as the hush of the cathedral beyond.

The priest folded his hands. “The Light is not a trick,” he said gently. “It does not appear as a tease, only to be stolen away. It is shown as a guide, a path forward.”

The man on the other side clicked his tongue. “A path I’ll never walk,” he said. “I understand now. The Light isn’t for me. I’ve seen what awaits, and it isn’t salvation.”

The priest’s brow furrowed. “You speak as though the choice has already been made for you,” he said. “As though you have no say in your own redemption.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“That isn’t true,” the priest said. “We all have the ability to seek forgiveness. No sin is beyond the mercy of God.”

The man hesitated. The silence stretched, his breath faint through the partition. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, the edge softened just slightly. “I want to believe that,” he admitted. “But I don’t know if I can.”

The priest nodded, though he knew the man couldn’t see the gesture. He could sense the struggle in the pause, the weight of whatever had brought this man here tonight.

“You haven’t given up yet,” the priest said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

Another silence. Then, the faintest shift, as though the man was searching for the right words but uncertain if they should be spoken at all.

The confessional remained still, the hush of the cathedral pressing in from beyond the wooden partition. The priest waited, sensing the man’s hesitation before he finally spoke.

“I have killed,” the confessor admitted, his voice devoid of emotion. “Men, women, children. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.”

The words settled profoundly between them, thick as the incense that still faintly clung to the air from the last Mass. The priest’s breath was slow, controlled, his fingers pressing lightly together as he listened.

“I put it behind me, for the most part,” the man continued. “Or maybe I convinced myself I did. But not long ago, in East Berlin, I killed again. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. The man was filth who preyed on others, who caused suffering without a second thought. Ending his life felt good . . . It felt right.”

The priest remained silent.

“I knew what he was. Knew the things he had done. The people he had hurt, the lives he had destroyed. And I knew no prison would ever hold him, no justice system would ever truly punish him. But I could.” The confessor exhaled slowly. “And now that he’s gone there are no more victims. No more suffering. And I do not regret it.”

The priest closed his eyes briefly, the confession pressing on him in ways he had not anticipated.

“You’re silent, Father,” the man said. “Does the truth of my past leave you without words?”

The priest did not respond.

“Tell me,” the confessor continued, “do you still believe that God can forgive a man like me? A man who once murdered without remorse. A man who took lives in the name of what he believed to be for the good of the whole.”

The priest opened his mouth, then closed it again.

A sigh passed through the partition, quiet but weighted. “I want the Light,” the confessor admitted. “For a moment, I had it—something close to peace. It settled in me, just for a while. It didn’t take root, but it was there. And it was wonderful.”

The priest waited, knowing more would come.

“But it never stays,” the confessor continued. “Darkness always takes over. It’s where I’ve lived for so long that I don’t fight it anymore. It’s familiar. Normal.”

The priest spoke for the first time since the confession had taken a darker turn. “The Light does not abandon those who seek it.”

“That’s never been my experience.”

“It is not the Light that leaves, but the man who turns away from it,” the priest countered.

“You believe that?”

“With all my being.”

A pause. “Then explain this to me, Father. If a man reaches for the Light and is met with nothing but darkness, what does that mean?”

“It means the man must never give up and reach further.”

The confessor exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh, but something close. “It sounds like you have an answer for everything. I guess it’s a good trait to have in your line of work.”

“Only because the questions have been asked before. As much as you want to believe that you are, you’re not unique.”

There was silence before the confessor spoke again, his voice quieter now. “I thought coming here would help. That speaking to you might offer some clarity . . . But it hasn’t.”

“What did you expect to find?” the priest asked.

“Hope,” the confessor admitted. “I wanted to believe there was something left to cling to. But I see now that there isn’t.”

The priest leaned slightly forward, pressing his hands together. “Hope is never lost to those who seek it.”

“You say that as though it’s absolute.”

“It is.”

Another pause. “Then tell me, Father—what’s worse than a man without hope?”

The priest considered his answer. “A man who chooses to remain without it.”

Silence settled between them, stretching longer than before. The priest listened carefully for any sound, any movement, but there was nothing.

He frowned. “Are you still there?”

No response.

He repeated the question, his voice steady.

Still, there was no answer.

Rising, the priest stepped out of his side of the confessional and moved toward the other booth, pulling the curtain aside.

The seat was empty.

His eyes swept over the cathedral. Visitors wandered through the nave, admiring the architecture, lighting candles, lost in their own quiet moments. But there was no sign of the man who had spoken to him, no figure that stood out among the crowd.

For a moment longer, the priest looked at the faces before he turned back to the confessional.

The booth where the confessor once sat remained open, waiting for the next soul in need.

CHAPTER THREE

A Secure Facility within the DGSI headquarters

Paris, France

The secured briefing room within the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure headquarters was a testament to modern technology and precision. Walls of reinforced glass and steel enclosed the space, soundproofed to ensure absolute confidentiality. A long, matte-black conference table stretched through the center, surrounded by ergonomic chairs occupied by twelve individuals—six from the Brigade Criminelle and six from the DGSI. Their uniforms and suits reflected the distinction between investigative law enforcement and intelligence operatives, each bringing a unique expertise to the case at hand.

Recessed lighting in the ceiling provided even illumination, casting a sanitized glow over the scene. Along the walls, workstations equipped with multiple monitors displayed scrolling data, encrypted communications, and forensic reports. A massive screen at the head of the room dominated the space with its high-definition display shifting between images relevant to the investigation.

The first set of images showed Samir Haddad, a high-profile foreign political principal from Beirut, captured in various states—some from official events, others candid shots taken in transit. His presence in Paris had been brief, his agenda tightly controlled, yet his movements had not gone unnoticed. The next image displayed the aftermath of his assassination: a twisted wreck of steel and shattered glass, all that remained of his armored vehicle after it had been struck with a high-explosive armor-piercing incendiary (HEAPI) round. The sheer devastation of the blast was evident in the warped metal, scorched pavement, and the debris field extending several meters beyond the impact zone.

Additional images followed—forensic close-ups of the Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle, an unmistakable instrument of precision and lethality. Found abandoned on a rooftop overlooking the boulevard, the weapon bore the hallmarks of professional use. The focus sharpened on the high-end Meprolight variable scope, its custom reticle designed for absolute accuracy. The sniper’s position had been carefully chosen, an elevated vantage point with an unobstructed line of sight to the motorcade’s route.

A final sequence of photographs displayed the shooter’s perspective. From the rooftop, the boulevard stretched below in geometric clarity, traffic lanes neatly divided, pedestrian walkways lining the edges. The timing had been exact, the margin for error nearly nonexistent. The assassin had fired a single round that pierced the vehicle’s defenses, igniting the interior in a controlled detonation.

No evidence had been left behind beyond the weapon itself. No footprints, no fibers, no DNA—just the mechanical certainty of a method executed without hesitation. The individuals in the room studied the screen in silence, each analyzing the data, considering angles, weighing possibilities. This was no ordinary assassination. This was something else entirely.

Commissaire Vivienne Girard stood near the large monitor, her gaze fixed on the displayed images and briefed the assembled team on Samir Haddad’s background.

“Samir Haddad,” she started, “was a prominent figure within Hezbollah. He was born and raised in Dahieh, a suburb of Beirut that has now become a Hezbollah stronghold. From a young age, Haddad was immersed in the organization’s ideology.”

The screen displayed a map highlighting Dahieh's location within Beirut, followed by photographs of Haddad at various stages of his life.

“In his early twenties,” Girard continued, "Haddad joined Hezbollah’s military wing and quickly rose through the ranks, demonstrating a keen strategic mind and unwavering commitment to the cause. His involvement in several operations against Israeli forces in southern Lebanon earned him recognition within the organization.”

Images of conflict zones and military engagements flashed on the screen, illustrating the tumultuous period during which Haddad made his ascent.

“Despite allegations of involvement in terrorist activities,” Girard noted, “Haddad maintained a significant political presence. He was elected to the Lebanese parliament as a member of the March 8 Alliance, a coalition that includes Hezbollah and other pro-Syrian parties. This alliance has been influential in Lebanese politics since its formation in 2005.”

A diagram of the March 8 Alliance’s structure appeared, highlighting its key member parties.

“Officially,” Girard said, “Samir Haddad was in Paris to negotiate terms of peace between Israel, the Palestinians, and Lebanon. However, given his background and affiliations, his presence here was a subject of concern for our security services.”

She paused, allowing the team to absorb the information, the room silent.

“Understanding Haddad’s history and trying to discover his connections is crucial,” Girard finally went on. “This assassination is not just a criminal act but a geopolitical event with far-reaching implications given his presence here in Paris.”

The team members recognized the complexity of the task ahead, where the intersection of international politics, terrorism, and local security concerns would require meticulous analysis and collaboration between their respective agencies.

Commissaire Vivienne Girard turned from the monitor with her expression composed as she addressed the room. “With that context established, I’ll now turn this over to Commissaire Charles Bouchard of the Brigade Criminelle.”

Bouchard gave a polite nod and a light smile as he stepped forward, positioning himself by the monitor. “Merci, Commissaire Girard,” he said before shifting his attention to the team. His eyes swept across the faces in the room, ensuring he had their full attention before proceeding.

He tapped a key on the console, bringing up an image of the weapon found on the rooftop. The high-definition display showed the Barrett M82A1 in sharp detail, its massive frame unmistakable. “This,” Bouchard began, “is the rifle discovered at the sniper’s vantage point overlooking the boulevard. The Barrett M82A1, an American-made, semi-automatic, anti-materiel rifle. A weapon designed for long-range precision and capable of firing .50 caliber rounds.”

He advanced the images, bringing up a close-up of the attached optic. “However, the most interesting feature of this rifle is not American-made. The scope is a Meprolight, manufactured in Israel. Specifically, a high-end variable scope with a custom reticle—one typically reserved for elite Israeli military and intelligence units.”

A collective thought passed through everyone in the group. It wasn’t every day they saw a weapon with such a distinct signature.

Bouchard allowed the reaction to settle before continuing. “The serial numbers on the scope,” he stated, “trace back to a shipment originally purchased by the Israeli Defense Forces. However, records indicate that this particular unit, along with several others, went missing. Who took possession of them afterward remains unknown.”

He changed the display once more, this time showing an analysis of the rifle’s ammunition. “This is where things become even more interesting. The round used to assassinate Haddad was a HEAPI round—high-explosive armor-piercing incendiary. These are designed to detonate on impact, ensuring maximum damage. This type of ammunition is not standard issue for Israeli forces. In fact, no rifles in the Israeli arsenal are designed to fire HEAPI rounds. Yet, the weapon used in this attack was specifically configured for them.”

He let the fact settle over the room before delivering his conclusion. “The combination of an Israeli-manufactured scope on an American sniper rifle, loaded with a highly specialized round, suggests a very particular skill set. Someone went to great lengths to modify this weapon. And while the evidence suggests an Israeli operative may have carried out this assassination, the Israelis are emphatic in their denial of any involvement.” Bouchard turned to face the group fully. “Which leaves us with the question—if not them, then who?”

A brief silence followed Bouchard’s statement before Jacques Delacroix from the Brigade Criminelle leaned forward, arms crossed. “It doesn’t sit right with me,” he said. “A professional hit like this, yet they leave the weapon behind. A Barrett M82A1 isn’t exactly disposable. An experienced shooter could break it down in minutes and disappear with it.”

François Dubois nodded in agreement. “Unless they didn’t have a few minutes.”

Bouchard turned toward Dubois. “That’s the most logical explanation. The assassin may have intended to remove the weapon but was forced to abandon it. Either their exfiltration window was closing, or they were compromised in some way.”

Chloé Dupont studied the images on the screen, her expression thoughtful. “Still, leaving a rifle like that behind—it practically invites scrutiny. Almost as if someone wanted us to believe it was the Israelis.”

A beat passed before Mathieu Marchand of the DGSI spoke up. “That’s assuming Israel wasn’t behind this.” He gestured to the Meprolight scope. “This is their hardware. And Haddad’s death, at least on the surface, benefits them. He was publicly pushing for diplomacy, but no one truly believed he was here in good faith.”

Pierre Lemoine frowned. “If we entertain the idea that Israel wanted Haddad dead, what’s their motivation? A peace deal could, in theory, serve their interests, at least in stabilizing the region.”

Nicolas Lefebvre scoffed. “That’s the theory, but the reality is different. If Israel saw Haddad as an Iranian proxy, any agreement he brokered could have weakened their long-term position. A Hezbollah-affiliated politician gaining influence through ‘peace’—that could be more dangerous than open conflict.”

Margaux Fontaine leaned back in her chair, exhaling. “Then there’s the optics. If the Israelis did this, they wouldn’t be sloppy. They’d make sure there was no evidence, no trail.”

Louis Chevalier added, “And yet, here we are, staring at an Israeli-manufactured scope on an American rifle. Either they got careless, which I doubt, or someone wants us to think they’re responsible.”

Antoine Durand crossed his arms. “So, we have two possibilities—either the Israelis took the shot and don’t care that we know, or someone staged this to implicate them.”

Benoît Gagnon leaned forward. “And if it’s the latter, we need to start asking who benefits from making Israel look guilty.”

Bouchard glanced at the screen, then back at the room. “That’s what we need to find out.”

The discussion quieted.

Bouchard adjusted his stance, his gaze sweeping the room as he spoke. “In four days, a summit was set to take place at the Quai d’Orsay. Now, with Haddad dead, Hezbollah is hesitating. If they pull out, the entire negotiation collapses.”

The room remained silent, the weight of the situation beginning to set in.

“Our window is small. We have just a few days to identify the assassin, determine the motive, and ensure the factions feel secure enough to come back to the table.” He glanced toward the screen, where the destroyed remains of Haddad’s vehicle still filled the display. “It’s not just the Middle East watching. Governments worldwide have an interest in stabilizing the region.”

Bouchard tapped a key on the control panel, shifting the images to a new set of faces—officials from different nations. “A high-ranking diplomat from the U.S. State Department, a representative from France’s Minister for Europe and Foreign Affairs, a member from Germany’s Federal Minister for Foreign Affairs. Even the Vatican is sending its Secretary of State.”

Chloé Dupont raised an eyebrow. “The Vatican?”

“A symbolic move,” Bouchard said. “A figure whose presence alone could influence Hezbollah and Lebanon, showing that powerful entities are invested in a resolution.” He folded his arms. “But none of it matters if we don’t control the threat. The summit must proceed without the risk of another attack.”

Vivienne Girard, standing near the monitor, nodded. “Other agencies are reinforcing security measures, but our focus remains the assassin. We need to pool our resources and act as a single unit. The Brigade Criminelle and the DGSI must work together if we have any hope of success.”

There were no objections. The assembled officers understood the stakes.

“Keep me updated,” Bouchard finished. “Work your leads. Find out who benefits from Haddad’s death.” And then, “Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as the team disbanded, splitting off toward their respective offices. The room emptied quickly, leaving only Bouchard and Girard standing near the screen.

He exhaled. “Do you think the Israelis were involved?”

Girard studied the rifle displayed before answering. “Maybe. The scope points to them. The political climate makes it plausible.” She turned to face him. “But the weapon itself—it could be a red herring. Someone wanted us to see this and jump to conclusions.”

Bouchard considered that. “Then we’re looking at someone who understands how to manipulate perception.”

Girard nodded. “Which means they won’t be easy to find.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Khalid Al-Ghazi moved through the narrow corridor, his footsteps steady on the cold concrete. The bulbs overhead cast weak pools of light, creating more shadow than illumination. The walls, rough and unadorned, bore the dampness of a place buried deep beneath the surface.

The air was thick with something untouched by the outside world, something stale. He had grown used to such spaces—hidden tunnels, bunkers, places where plans were whispered in hushed voices and decisions were made with finality. Here, underground, there was no day or night. Only purpose.

He had known hatred for as long as he could remember. It had settled into him before he understood its full meaning, before he could grasp the reasons whispered by those around him. The Gaza Strip had been his home, a place shaped by war and loss. His family had vanished in pieces—some to airstrikes, some to raids, others simply swallowed by the endless fight.

His brothers had all been soldiers, their names fading from memory outside the circles of men who had fought beside them. And most of those men were gone, too. The world had moved on, leaving behind the ghosts of the fallen. But Khalid remained.

As he moved through the hallways, his mind clear and his focus sharp, a cold resolution hardened within him as he accepted the bitter truth that the summit between the peoples of the Middle East could not happen, that peace could never exist.

His rage was not scattered or reckless. It was a tool, refined by time and experience. There was only one path forward, and he would follow it to the end.

At the end of the corridor Khalid stepped into the chamber—the air damp and cool against his skin. Overhead, pipes ran in tangled lines, some coated in rust, others sweating condensation that dripped onto the concrete floor. The faint sound of water echoed somewhere in the distance, the slow, rhythmic drops counting the seconds in a place where time had little meaning.

The room ahead was brighter as standing work lights cast harsh white beams over the space. Shadows stretched long against the floor, broken by thick cables snaking toward outlets fixed to the walls. The light flickered slightly, the underground wiring strained by the setup.

At the center of the room sat a sturdy table, the surface cluttered with equipment. Two laptops were open, their screens bright with the moving images of news broadcasts. Fahad Al-Saad sat perched on a stool in front of them, with his back straight, and his focus on the scrolling reports.

Nearby, Waleed Abbas and Momar Ali worked in silence, their hands moving over an array of rifles laid out in careful order. They checked chambers, adjusted sights, and tested the mechanical parts with practiced efficiency. Alongside them, bricks of Semtex sat in neat rows, each paired with corresponding detonation cords and timers. The setup was incomplete, the explosives inert for now, but the intent was clear.

Khalid crossed the space, his footsteps quiet against the concrete. Fahad remained focused on the screens, barely acknowledging his approach while tapping at the keyboard to shift between feeds. On one screen, Al-Jazeera streamed updates, the anchor’s voice steady, Arabic script scrolling beneath. The other displayed BFM TV, France’s leading news broadcaster, its coverage punctuated with bold headlines and the rapid cadence of French commentary.

Khalid watched as images of Samir Haddad’s wrecked vehicle filled the screen, the twisted remains of metal frozen in sharp high-definition. Footage of investigators combing through the aftermath played in the corner, while analysts debated the implications. The narrative had not changed—no true suspect named, no proof revealed—but the undercurrent of speculation remained the same.

He finally spoke. “Anything new?”

Fahad shook his head, eyes not leaving the screens. “No.” He reached for a bottle of water, took a brief sip, then placed it back on the table. “The negotiations are still on hold, but not dead. There’s hesitation, not abandonment.”

Khalid’s gaze stayed on the monitors, following the scrolling translations at the bottom of the screen. The conversation shifted between experts, their tones measured but firm. Israel denied involvement, as expected. Others argued that the assassination had too many unanswered questions to draw conclusions.

Fahad exhaled through his nose. Then in a clipped tone, he said, “Your killing of Haddad may have been for nothing.”

Khalid said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the news.

The news anchor’s voice carried through the dimly lit chamber, a measured cadence flowing from the laptops’ speakers. On-screen, footage shifted between shots of official buildings in Paris and Berlin, followed by a live feed from Vatican City. The scrolling Arabic translation beneath the French and English broadcasts confirmed what was already anticipated—France and Germany were sending their highest-ranking diplomats, and the Vatican was sending its Secretary of State.

“…an added voice to promote peace,” the anchor said, her tone even, almost rehearsed. “In a world that has been on a spiritual decline for years.”

Fahad exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned against the table. “The Vatican,” he said, voice flat with disbelief. “A grand gesture, but nothing more. Do they truly believe that their act will create a Palestinian State?”

Khalid remained focused on the screen, his jaw tight. “They think words will fix what has been broken for generations.” His gaze flicked toward the broadcast showing a panel of analysts discussing Hezbollah’s next move. He watched as one of them, an older French political strategist, gestured toward a map of the Middle East, pointing out Hezbollah strongholds.

“Haddad’s assassination forces Hezbollah to reconsider its own position,” the analyst stated. “While they have historically supported Hamas, Israel’s direct strikes against them in Lebanon serve as a reminder of what could come. If they overstep, if they take the wrong action, they risk being next on the IDF’s list.”

Khalid let out a breath, his hands resting on the edge of the table. “Hezbollah supports Hamas,” he said, voice steady, “but they do not speak for Hamas. They do not dictate our fight, nor do they own the Palestinian people.”

Fahad nodded, crossing his arms as he turned toward Khalid. “They support Hamas because it benefits them, not us. Their war with Israel is different. Their concerns are different. But now, with Israel pressing them harder, they hesitate.”

Khalid scoffed. “Because they fear they will share Gaza’s fate.”

Fahad tapped a finger against the table. “If Israel wanted to, they could turn South Lebanon into rubble just as they have in Gaza. Hezbollah knows this. That’s why they tread carefully now.”

Khalid’s stare remained fixed on the scrolling translations. The rhetoric from Hezbollah officials was cautious, lacking the usual bravado. They condemned Haddad’s assassination, but their threats were measured, uncertain.

“They hesitate,” Khalid said, his voice quiet but firm. “And we cannot afford hesitation.”

Fahad studied him for a moment before nodding. “No,” he said, then pausing. “We cannot.”

The voices from the monitors droned on, the analysts speculating, governments posturing. But in the cold chamber beneath the city, Khalid’s resolve remained unchanged.

Khalid stepped away from the glow of the laptop screens, the news cycle continuing without him. The voices of the broadcasters faded into the background as he approached the table lined with firearms and explosives. Waleed Abbas and Momar Ali remained focused on their task, their hands working over the weapons with practiced efficiency, checking chambers, bolts, and triggers. The acrid scent of gun oil and metal hung in the damp air.

He reached for an AR-15-style rifle, its frame solid in his grip. Lifting it to eye level, he aligned the iron sights, adjusting for a target that existed only in his mind. The far concrete wall was bare, but he aimed as if an enemy stood there. His finger moved to the trigger, and he pulled. A dry, mechanical click echoed through the space. Satisfied, he lowered the rifle and returned it to the table.

Next, his hand found a Semtex brick. The material was cool to the touch, its form compact yet powerful. He turned it over, studying it as if he could see the destruction it would bring. Explosives had shaped much of his world, leaving scars on landscapes and lives alike. Yet, despite Haddad’s assassination, the summit still stood.

The Americans would frame this as proof that peace could not be dictated by violence, persuading the Europeans and the Vatican to hold firm. Hezbollah’s political arm, the March 8 Alliance, would be reminded that the world’s gaze was now fixed on them, that their position was fragile. The death of one man had not been enough to shatter the negotiations.

Khalid exhaled sharply. That could not stand. No one spoke for Hamas but Hamas itself. No one dictated the Palestinian fight but those who bled for it.

His grip on the Semtex brick tightened before he brought it down hard against the table. The sound was sharp, sudden. Waleed and Momar stopped, their heads snapping toward him. They saw the tension in his jaw, the restraint in his posture. Neither spoke.

The room was silent except for Khalid’s quiet words.

“For Jerusalem.”

Then he turned and walked away, his figure swallowed by the dimly lit corridors. The others watched until the darkness took him completely.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rooftop Bar at Hôtel Dame des Arts

Paris, France

Evening

The rooftop bar of Hôtel Dame des Arts was a quiet oasis above the hum of Paris. The city stretched in all directions, golden lights tracing the veins of its streets. The Eiffel Tower stood in the distance, its beacon cutting through the night sky. Below, the Seine reflected the shimmer of bridges and passing boats, its waters moving lazily through the city’s heart.

Kimball Hayden sat alone at a table near the edge, where the view was unobstructed. Before him, seven shot glasses stood in a perfect line, filled to the rim with amber liquid. He had ordered them without hesitation, as he always did. The bartender had given him a glance, the kind that weighed curiosity against professionalism, but had said nothing as he set them down.

The drinks remained untouched.

It had been nearly two years since his last drink, a promise he had forced himself to keep. When he was a Vatican Knight, alcohol had become both a refuge and a problem. The Society of Seven—the powerful council within the Vatican—had grown tired of his reliance on it, but he had never cared about their approval. His only concern was the mission, and he never failed. That alone had earned him favor with the pontiff, even when others had voiced their disapproval.

But drinking had dulled more than just the pain. It had blurred the edges of his mind, slowed the sharpness he needed to survive. Eventually, he understood that the relief it gave was only temporary, that it solved nothing. So, he stopped.

Sobriety had not been easy.

Every now and then, he tested himself. Seven shots. Always seven. He stared at them now, studying the way the light refracted through the liquid, the scent of whiskey drifting faintly in the cool air. The itch was there, buried deep, whispering to him that one sip would not undo everything. That he could have control.

But he knew better.

The city moved on without him, laughter and conversation floating from other tables. He sat still, unmoving, eyes locked on the drinks before him. The test continued.

The whiskey glasses stood before him, the liquid catching the glow of the rooftop lights. Kimball Hayden had faced war, death, and the worst of mankind, but this was different. This was a battle of the mind, the slow erosion of will against the steady, relentless pull of something he had sworn to leave behind.

His fingers twitched against the edge of the table as the scent of whiskey reached him again, rich and warm, promising comfort in ways nothing else could. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as if something bitter had lodged itself there. He had given this up, fought through the withdrawal, the sleepless nights, the gnawing urge that never fully went away. He had done it for the Vatican, for the life he had built among the Vatican Knights. He had done it to appear stable in the eyes of the woman he had loved.

But all of that was gone.

The Vatican Knights had been his family, men who understood him in ways no one else could. He had bled beside them, fought in the shadows for causes the world would never know. Now they were ghosts, as distant as the life he once lived. And Shari Cohen, she had been the only light in the darkness, the one person who had made him believe in something beyond war and duty. But she, too, was gone.

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sinking under the weight of it all. His reflection wavered in the glossy surface of the bar, a man stripped down to nothing but memories and regrets. Was this all that was left of him? A man sitting alone, staring at seven untouched glasses, trying to convince himself he still had control?

He closed his eyes.

Pain stirred in his chest, a raw ache he had not allowed himself to feel in a long time. He had drowned it before, buried it under missions and purpose. But now there was nothing left to distract him, no war to fight, no higher cause to serve. Just the quiet truth pressing down on him—he was alone.

And in that silence, the whiskey called.

The city stretched out before him, glowing under the Parisian night, but Kimball Hayden saw none of it. The skyline, the Seine, the distant shimmer of the Eiffel Tower—it was all lost on him, a backdrop to his own quiet collapse.

His fingers moved without thought, tracing the rim of the first shot glass. The whiskey inside caught the light, rich and golden, waiting. He had resisted for so long, turning his back on this crutch, but what did it matter now? The church, the Vatican Knights, Shari—all gone. The things that had once anchored him had slipped away, leaving him adrift, a man with no mission, no future.

He lifted the glass, feeling the coolness of it against his fingers. He measured the liquid, watching how it swirled before bringing it to his lips. The scent was familiar, a whisper of the past and of nights spent chasing away memories that refused to fade, the man hesitating as something inside him resisted.

Then he drank.

The burn was instant, sharp as it hit the back of his throat, then warm as it settled deep. He exhaled through his nose, eyes half-lidded as he placed the empty glass on the table, rim side down. The first was always the hardest.

His hand moved to the next.

Another lift, another swallow. The warmth spread, dulling the sharp edges inside him. Glass down. Another picked up. Another gone.

One by one, he worked his way through the row, each shot disappearing with the same steady motion. No hesitation now. No second thoughts. Only the quiet acceptance that this was where he was, where he had ended up.

When the last glass was empty, he leaned back slightly, staring at the seven upside-down rims on the table.

Then, without hesitation, he signaled the bartender without looking up.

Seven more.

* * *

The night air was cool against Kimball’s flushed skin as he stumbled down the street, his vision swimming. The city lights blurred, the buildings tilting at odd angles as he tried to focus on something—anything—to orient himself. His hotel was somewhere nearby. Or maybe it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Each step felt unsteady, his boots scuffing against the pavement. He swayed, trying to maintain a straight path, but his body had other ideas, sending him veering toward the curb before he caught himself.

Then came the voices.

Laughter, low and mocking. A few figures stood at the mouth of an alley up ahead, their attention shifting to him as he approached. The street was quiet, too late for the usual foot traffic, leaving him alone with the group.

One of them stepped forward. "Hey, mon ami," the man called in French, his grin sharp. “Tu as du fric sur toi?” You have some money for us?

Kimball blinked, trying to focus on the speaker’s face. Young, cocky. There were four of them, maybe five—it was hard to tell with everything tilting.

“Yeah,” Kimball muttered. “Piss off.”

The group chuckled. One of them clapped his hands together, amused.

Another spoke up. “You don’t speak French, American?”

Kimball swayed but stayed on his feet. ‘I said . . . piss off.”

He heard their laughter before he felt the first shove. Not hard, just enough to push him off balance. He staggered, catching himself, but then came another from behind, sending him forward into waiting hands. They played their game, shoving him back and forth, a puppet on strings.

Kimball tried to plant his feet, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His fists clenched at his sides, but the alcohol dulled his reactions. His arms felt slow, his muscles sluggish.

The hooligans jeered, their voices blending into a chorus of mocking taunts.

Then Kimball shouted, voice thick with liquor. “I kill people!” He threw his arms out to the side, nearly losing his balance. “It’s what I do! It’s what I’m good at!”

The words only made them laugh harder.

Then they closed in.

A fist struck his ribs. Another caught his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His knees buckled, and before he could stop himself, he hit the ground.

Boots followed.

They kicked and stomped, their laughter mixing with the dull thuds of impact. Kimball curled into himself, shielding his head, his body absorbing each hit.

He had no choice but to take it.

* * *

Kimball fumbled with the keycard, his swollen fingers struggling to slide it into the slot. On the third try, the lock clicked, and he shoved the door open, stumbling inside. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. The glow of Paris spilled through the sheer curtains, casting long shadows across the floor.

His world rocked beneath him, the alcohol dulling his senses, the pain from his beating sluggish but beginning to settle in. His breath came in slow, uneven pulls. His shirt was torn, the fabric rough against scraped skin. His pants hung awkwardly where the pocket had been ripped, his wallet now in the hands of some street thug.

He took a step forward and nearly lost his footing, his knee buckling. He caught himself against the back of a chair, steadying his swaying frame. His stomach rolled, the night’s whiskey burning at the back of his throat.

The bed.

He needed to reach it before his legs gave out.

He pushed forward in a lurching motion, misjudged the distance, and had to throw himself the last few steps. His body hit the mattress hard, his face turned ceilingward, and he stayed like that, letting the cool air from the open balcony door brush over him.

Then his fingers drifted up to his face, to swollen flesh, and to a cut just above his brow and another on his cheek; the blood was sticky, his fingertips catching in the drying mess, and in the dim light, the smears on his hand shone like tar. He let his arm drop beside him, too drained to care, as a stench curled up from his body, taking him a moment to register it—urine.

At some point, between the street and the hotel, he had lost control. His pants were damp, the fabric cooling against his skin, the smell sharp.

Kimball closed his eyes as shame, slow and suffocating, crept in.

He turned onto his side, pulling his knees up. The room spun, but he stayed curled, folding in on himself into a fetal position. His breathing hitched and his chest tightened as he bit down on the inside of his cheek, but it didn’t stop the tremor in his throat.

Then, in the dark, Kimball Hayden, a man who had once been a warrior, a killer, a force feared by many, broke down.

In the shadows where he belonged and felt most comfortable, he sobbed.

CHAPTER SIX

The Pontiff’s Chamber, The Apostolic Palace

Vatican City

The Apostolic Palace was quiet in the late evening as the pope sat in his high-backed chair with his hands resting on the polished wooden desk before him. Across from him, Cardinal Angulo stood with quiet patience, his expression composed, waiting for the Holy Father to speak.

“I have received word from the French Ministry for Europe and Foreign Affairs that the summit in Paris is going to continue as scheduled despite the recent assassination of Hezbollah’s dignitary,” the pope said in his usually calm voice. “This summit may be the most crucial in decades since war has become routine, and peace nothing more than a mere afterthought.”

Cardinal Angulo nodded. “The political factions will maneuver for their own interests. Already, many see this as another attempt at diplomacy doomed to fail before it begins.”

The pope sighed, his eyes momentarily shadowed with something close to sorrow. “And that, Good Cardinal, is precisely why we must be there. This summit must be a call to conscience—not something that’s reduced to another political charade, or a game of leverage or strategy. We both know that the Vatican’s presence will carry weight, but you know as well as I do that many in that room will listen with polite faces while calculating their next move. Nevertheless, the voice of the Church must be heard regardless. And you must make them understand that this is not about borders or power. It is about the soul of mankind. No god, no faith, no divine teaching would ever condone the killing of another man. That message must be made clear.”

Cardinal Angulo folded his hands before him. “The Hezbollah delegates will be wary and will see this as another attempt to subdue them, to make them compromise while Israel remains unmoving in their posture.”

“Remind them that true strength lies in seeking a different path,” the pontiff said. "Violence is easy. Hatred is simple. But to seek understanding, to set aside anger in favor of something greater—that is the true test of faith.”

Cardinal Angulo hesitated, then said, “Hamas will not be present, but their influence will be felt. And with Haddad’s assassination, the summit is already unsteady. There are whispers that factions on both sides see this as an opportunity to escalate rather than negotiate.”

The pope's face was lined with thought. "And that is why you must press upon them the urgency of this moment. If this summit fails, it may be years before another attempt is made. How many lives will be lost in the meantime? How many families shattered?” He leaned forward. “You must remind them that peace is not a gift handed down by world leaders—it is a choice. One they must be brave enough to make. Be that voice of reason.”

“There are many, I’m afraid, who believe peace is an illusion,” said Cardinal Angulo. “That hatred is too deeply rooted and too ingrained in history.”

The pope nodded, agreeing. “There will always be those who cling to war. But the faithful must never lose hope. That is why the Vatican stands apart from politics. We do not negotiate treaties. We do not enforce borders. We speak to the soul, to the conscience of mankind. And that is why you must be there—to be the bridge and the voice that binds instead of divides.”

The cardinal studied the pope’s face, seeing the determination in his gaze. “And if they refuse to listen?”

“Then we will speak anyway,” the pope said simply. “Our duty at the summit is not to persuade, Good Cardinal, but to remind those of what they already know but have forgotten—that we are all children of the same Creator . . . And that peace is not a surrender, but an act of courage.”

Cardinal Angulo remained quiet for a moment. Then he inclined his head. “I’ll carry your hope to Paris, Your Holiness, and do my best to ensure that your concerns are heard. But don’t keep your expectation of a positive outcome too high. We can only provide guidance, not dictate it.”

The pope gave a small, knowing nod. “It’s true that we have no real political sway since the Vatican does not command armies or dictate policy. But our presence at the summit is a message in itself—a reminder that the world is watching, and that morality has not been lost in the shadow of conflict.”

Cardinal Angulo listened without interruption, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Our attendance is not a formality,” the pope continued. “It is a response to growing unrest, to suffering that reaches beyond borders and into the very fabric of faith itself. The Vatican may not be a political power, but we have an interest in the outcome of this summit because our mission is bound to the well-being of humanity.”

“You believe the Church’s involvement will awaken something in them, yes?”

“I believe it may serve as a wake-up call,” the pope said. “They may dismiss us as nothing more than a moral voice, but morality is exactly what is missing from these discussions. They gather in Paris not just to negotiate terms, but to measure their power against one another. That cannot be the foundation for peace.”

Cardinal Angulo’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “And yet, that is the reality of diplomacy. Power dictates negotiations. We are stepping into a room filled with men who serve their nations first. Their interests will always come before any moral argument we present.”

“Perhaps,” the pontiff admitted, “but you must remind them that peace is not the absence of war—it is the presence of understanding. Without it, any agreement they reach will be fragile, temporary at best. The tensions that exist are not only political but deeply rooted in faith. And when faith becomes a weapon rather than a guide, the result is always destruction.”

The cardinal gave a slow nod. “Religious strife has fueled centuries of conflict. I find it difficult to believe that a meeting or two at a table is going to change age-old prejudices.”

“It won’t,” said Pope Innocent. “Which is why you must bring light where darkness prevails. These men must be reminded that they do not only hold the fate of nations in their hands, but also the hearts of their people. If they let anger and vengeance dictate their decisions, they will only lead their followers into greater despair. Plant the seed in their minds, and hopefully reason will germinate from it. That’s all you can do—nothing more, nothing less.”

The room fell silent for a moment as the pontiff realized that the world did not change through words alone. But words had the power to remind, to convict, and to stir something long buried beneath politics and warfare.

Pope Innocent folded his hands before him, his expression firm. “There is one more matter to discuss before you depart,” he said. “Given the assassination of Samir Haddad and the tensions surrounding the summit, I am assigning a detail of Vatican Knights to accompany you for protection. Isaiah will lead the team. Tomorrow, you’ll depart together aboard Shepherd One. All arrangements have been made. The measure does not mean that your life is in jeopardy, Good Cardinal. But neither can we ignore the reality of the situation, either. The world is a tinderbox, and this summit is an open flame. Your presence there is not simply a mission of faith but one of caution. I have no choice but to acknowledge the risk and act accordingly.”

The cardinal had attended summits before, had stood in rooms filled with world leaders navigating fragile truces, but this time felt different. The stakes were higher, the shadows heavier. And then, “I understand, Your Holiness.”

Rising from his chair, he smoothed the front of his cassock. “Then I will leave you to your evening, Your Holiness, and prepare for departure.”

Pope Innocent studied him a moment longer before speaking again. “Be the sleeping giant in that room, Good Cardinal. Be the one who reminds them of the true cost of their choices and that the world is watching and waiting for someone to rise above the noise.” Then the pontiff’s voice lowered, his tone measured. “Edmund Burke once said, ‘All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.'” A pause. Then, with quiet conviction, he added, “We shall be good men.”

Angulo inclined his head, absorbing the words. Then, with a final bow, he turned and walked toward the chamber doors. The heavy wood parted, then closed behind him.

Silence reigned.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Paris, France

Khalid and Fahad sat in the subterranean room, silent except for the low hum of heating lamps. The concrete walls held the chill of the underground, the air thick with a stale scent that neither man seemed to notice. For weeks, this place had been their domain, a space of cold efficiency where distractions held no place.

Before them, the laptop screens flickered with news broadcasts from across the world. One screen showed Al-Jazeera and BFM TV, their divided frames streaming reports in Arabic and French. The other displayed BBC and CNN, each with scrolling headlines and news anchors delivering updates in clipped, rehearsed tones.

At the bottom of each screen, Arabic translations crawled continuously, ensuring nothing was lost in language. Yet neither man needed the subtitles. They had trained themselves to absorb every word, every shift in tone, every subtle implication behind diplomatic phrases and political posturing.

Fahad, seated with his arms crossed, looked as though exhaustion had settled into his bones. His eyes, however, remained sharp, scanning the reports without blinking much. Sleep had been scarce, but it did not matter.

Khalid sat beside him with his posture upright and his attention rapt. Unlike Fahad, there was no fatigue in his face, no dullness in his gaze. His energy seemed untouched by the long nights and the constant influx of information.

If anything, he seemed fueled by it.

Khalid’s eyes locked onto the BBC screen as an image of Samir Haddad appeared, a black-and-white still of the man taken from a previous interview. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice cut through the quiet. “Turn it up,” he said.

Fahad tapped a few keys on the laptop, unmuting the feed. The room filled with the crisp, composed voice of the British news anchor, her tone measured and professional.

“In the wake of Samir Haddad’s assassination, sources have confirmed that the scheduled peace summit will proceed as planned. Despite heightened tensions and security concerns, representatives from Hezbollah, Israel, France, and Germany have reaffirmed their commitment to the negotiation table.”

On-screen, the image of Haddad shifted to footage of security personnel sweeping a conference hall, their movements quick and methodical. The anchor continued, her voice unwavering.

“While the loss of Samir Haddad has sent shockwaves through the region, Hezbollah leadership has moved swiftly to fill the void, appointing a new delegate whose identity has not yet been disclosed. According to officials, security measures have been significantly reinforced to prevent further disruptions to the summit.”

"In light of these developments, French officials have announced that the summit will now take place at the Palais de l'Élysée, the official residence of the President of France. The decision comes as part of heightened security measures, given the Palais’ long-standing role in hosting high-level diplomatic discussions and its fortified infrastructure designed to accommodate sensitive international negotiations.

The screen changed to archival footage of past diplomatic meetings at the Palais, showing various heads of state and Vatican officials engaged in discussions.

“The Vatican’s participation in the summit further underscores the growing global concern over escalating tensions. France and the Holy See have always maintained strong diplomatic relations, with Vatican representatives frequently attending discussions at the Palais on issues of humanitarian and religious significance. The Vatican’s role in this summit is expected to focus on mediation, emphasizing humanitarian concerns over political maneuvering. Their presence reflects broader concerns that ongoing violence could spread beyond the region, necessitating urgent dialogue and reconciliation.”

Khalid leaned forward slightly, his eyes intent.

The broadcast transitioned to a live shot of St. Peter’s Basilica, its golden lights glowing against the evening sky. The anchor’s voice remained steady, but there was a hint of emphasis in her next statement.

“In a significant development, the Vatican has confirmed that Cardinal Angulo, the Cardinal Secretary of State and second most powerful figure in the Holy See, will personally attend the summit to assist in brokering peace. While the Vatican has historically maintained a diplomatic role in global conflicts, his presence at the negotiations signals the Holy See’s deep concern over the situation’s rapid escalation and its commitment to dialogue over discord.

“In other developments—”

Having heard enough, Khalid gave a sharp nod toward the laptop, and Fahad, understanding the cue, muted the broadcast.

Fahad kept his gaze on the muted screen, the shifting images casting a dull glow over the room. Khalid remained still for a moment, his fingers tapping against the table in slow succession. Then, with a quiet exhale, he spoke.

“Hezbollah is making a show of this,” he said, his voice flat. “They act as if they speak for Palestine, but they are not the Palestinian people. They are frightened curs, barking only after Gaza has been reduced to rubble. Their place at that table is not about justice or the future of Palestine—it is about Hezbollah’s survival, about keeping their Iranian benefactors satisfied.”

Fahad rubbed a tired hand over his face but said nothing. Khalid continued, his tone sharpening.

“They will sit there and pretend to champion a Palestinian state, but their voice is weak. It is a gesture, nothing more. A way to save face while ensuring their own interests are met. And now,” he gestured toward the screen, “the Vatican sends an envoy. For what? To offer words? To validate what the world already knows—that the fires of war are spreading?”

Fahad glanced at Khalid, his brows drawing together. He knew better than to interrupt when Khalid was working through his thoughts.

Khalid exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Their religion has its fine points, but it is not Islam. Their presence will not change the course of these negotiations. They are there because the Vatican sees the world unraveling and wants to appear as though it still has influence.”

Silence settled between them as the dim glow of the laptop screens flickered against the concrete walls. Then, after a pause, Khalid spoke again, his voice quieter but no less firm.

“The negotiations cannot, and will not, continue.”

Fahad turned his head fully now, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

Khalid pushed his chair back and stood, his movements smooth and purposeful. “Not until all Palestinian voices are heard. Not just those who have the approval of foreign hands.”

He said nothing more as he stepped away from the table, his figure dissolving into the dim recesses of the underground chamber. The sound of his footsteps faded, swallowed by the shadows.

Fahad remained seated, staring at the darkened space where Khalid had disappeared. The room was silent once more, save for the quiet hum of the heating lamps.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Paris, France

Kimball woke with a dull ache behind his eyes, the kind that made thinking feel like wading through mud. He forced himself upright, his body feeling stiff and his limbs reluctant to move.

Pushing himself up, he walked toward the bathroom with his movements sluggish. As he stepped inside, the fluorescent glow from the overhead light flickered on, causing him to squint against the sudden and bitter brightness.

Then, staring at the mirror, he saw what he already knew—that his face was a mess. Faint bruises darkened his cheek and jaw, a small cut near his temple had dried into a thin scab, and another along his lip still looked raw. He touched his face lightly, feeling the dull sting beneath his fingertips. Nothing serious, but enough to remind him of the night before.

Then he stepped back, looking down. His shirt was wrinkled and stained with blood. And at the sight of the dark stain on his pants, his face twisted in disgust, his stomach tightening as the stale ammonia smell clung to the fabric and reached his nostrils. Upon realization of what he had done, shame crept in, but it was a dull sort of shame, as if his ability to care had been chipped away over time.

His gaze drifted lower to his pocket. The tear was obvious, the fabric shredded where his wallet had been. He patted it anyway, thinking it would somehow change what he already knew, that it was gone.

Shaking his head, he turned the shower on. Steam rose quickly, curling against the glass. He stripped down and stepped into the scalding water, letting it burn against his skin without adjusting the temperature.

The grime washed away easily enough, but the feeling beneath it remained. The part of him that felt unclean wasn’t on his skin—it was deeper, somewhere unreachable. He scrubbed anyway, dragging his hands over his face, through his hair, over his arms, as if repetition could somehow strip away something more than dirt.

When the water finally ran cold, he turned it off.

Stepping out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and rubbed another through his hair as he walked back into the main room. The air was heavy with the stale scent of the previous night as he moved toward the balcony door, stopping just short of stepping outside.

Beyond the glass, Paris stretched out before him. The smog hung low, dulling the skyline, turning the morning into a haze of muted grays. It was fitting, he thought, the way the city looked the way he felt—clouded and suffocated by something unseen but ever-present.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to where he had been before, to what he had known. There had been light once. A kind that had nothing to do with the sun, nothing to do with warmth in a tangible sense. He had glimpsed something beyond this world, something vast and absolute. And then it was taken away.

Had it been shown to him only to remind him of what he would never have? Had it been a cruel glimpse into something unattainable?

Or had it been a message, a lesson he had failed to understand?

We all live by the sum of our choices.

His own had led him here, to this moment, to this room, to this haze—both outside and within.

He let out a breath, turning away from the glass.

Dropping onto the edge of the bed, he reached for the remote and flicked on the TV. The screen came to life, the BBC logo appearing before cutting to a newsroom. A polished anchor with a crisp British accent spoke evenly over footage of security teams patrolling a conference hall.

“. . . the summit between Israeli officials, a Hezbollah dignitary, and representatives from France and Germany will proceed despite the assassination of Samir Haddad. Security has been reinforced in response to recent tensions, and sources confirm that the Vatican is sending an envoy to assist in mediation efforts.”

Kimball stared at the screen without really watching. The words meant little to him. Politics, negotiations, high-stakes meetings between men who saw the world as a board where power shifted hands like pieces in a game.

Since whatever was playing out had nothing to do with him, he shut the TV off.

But, in time, Kimball would come to learn that this would have everything to do with him.

CHAPTER NINE

Paris, France

There are five columns to an act of terrorism. Each represents a distinct phase, a necessary step in the execution of a coordinated attack. These columns—Intelligence Gathering and Surveillance, Recruitment and Funding, Planning and Logistics, Operational Support, and Execution—form the framework through which an idea transforms into action. Without any one of these, an operation weakens, its success left to chance rather than control. Khalid had ensured that nothing was left to chance.

Intelligence Gathering and Surveillance was the foundation. Before any action could be taken, information had to be collected—on the target, the security measures in place, and the habits of those involved. Samir Haddad had been watched for weeks after it was announced that he would attend the summit. His schedule had been logged, his routines noted. Every detail mattered: where he slept, what routes he took, how often he changed his itinerary. Khalid had his men record the patterns, noting when Haddad’s security was strongest and, more importantly, when it was weakest. His meetings, his contacts, the people who mattered in his circle—all of it was mapped. The goal was not only to understand Haddad’s movements but to predict them.

Recruitment and Funding followed. Operations require resources—money, weapons, safe houses, and most importantly, people willing to act. Khalid had worked for years building a network that could be activated when the moment arrived. Recruits were selected carefully, not only for their skills but for their commitment. Funding came through channels that had been tested over time—donors who thought they were contributing to a cause, businesses that served as fronts, transactions routed through seemingly legitimate means. Every dollar had a purpose. Every recruit had a role.

With resources secured, Planning and Logistics took shape. The method of attack had to be determined. Would it be a bombing? An ambush? An assassination from a distance? Each carried risks, each had advantages. Khalid knew that a public execution would send the strongest message, one that could not be ignored. The location was chosen based on the surveillance reports—where Haddad would be vulnerable, where the escape routes were clear, where interference would be minimal. Weapons had to be secured, transport arranged, identities concealed. If the plan failed, there would be no second chance.

Operational Support ensured that when the time came, everything functioned as expected. False documents were prepared, safe houses arranged for those who would disappear afterward. Communications had to be secured with no traceable calls and no electronic records. The men who would carry out the task needed to be in place, ready to move at the exact moment they were needed. A single misstep at this stage could unravel everything. Khalid ensured that every individual knew only what was necessary, each playing their part without seeing the full picture.

Then came the Execution of the Attack. The moment when planning ceased, and action took over. When the order was given, there was no hesitation. Haddad was taken out swiftly, publicly. His death was meant to send a message—one that would be heard far beyond the streets where he fell. It was not just an elimination; it was a statement, a shift in the balance of power. Khalid had orchestrated each step leading to this moment, ensuring that when it happened, there would be no mistakes.

Nothing is planned overnight.

Khalid sat alone in the dimly lit concrete room, shadows pooling in the corners as the faint glow of the laptop screens flickered against the walls. His eyes stared forward, unfocused, locked on nothing in particular. The muted broadcasts cycled through updates on the upcoming summit—the same summit that should have unraveled the moment Samir Haddad was eliminated. Yet the negotiations pressed on, the world undisturbed, as if his death had been nothing more than a brief interruption—just another news item buried between market reports and sports highlights.

He clenched his jaw, his gaze locked on the shifting images on the screen, the soft flicker of headlines casting fleeting reflections in his dark eyes. He had followed the five columns with precision. Surveillance had been airtight, tracking Haddad’s movements down to the minute. Funding had flowed without interruption, every dollar accounted for. Logistics had been flawless—the weapon planted, the escape routes secured, the timing executed without a hitch. Operational support had ensured a clean withdrawal, and the final act had unfolded exactly as planned. And yet, the result was nothing.

He had left the weapon behind as a deliberate misdirection, a red herring designed to implicate Israel and to turn the Arab world against them in unison. The symbolism had been perfect—a strike meant to shift the tides of perception, to reinforce the narrative that Israel was a force of destruction, an enemy embedded in the heart of their lands. He had envisioned streets erupting in protest, voices raised in anger, leaders forced to reconsider their alliances under the weight of public outcry. But there had been no uprising. No surge of fury strong enough to fracture the negotiations. Instead, Hezbollah had simply replaced Haddad, brushing aside his assassination as if he were just another casualty in a long, unending conflict.

Khalid exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to remain still. This was not how it was supposed to unfold. The reaction had been too controlled, the outrage muted. The summit should have been dismantled, leaders forced to retreat into their own corners, alliances shattered beyond repair. But instead, the world had absorbed the act and continued on.

His fingers drummed against his thigh, his mind already recalibrating. If one strike had not been enough, then another would follow. The five columns were not a single-use strategy; they were a cycle, a structure that could be climbed again and again until the objective was met. The message had not been loud enough, so he would make it deafening. The planning would begin again, the networks activated, the necessary pieces moved into place.

This time, it would not be a warning. It would be a final and lasting statement.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

CHAPTER TEN

A Secure Facility within the DGSI headquarters

Paris, France

The secured briefing room deep within DGSI headquarters was quiet, the atmosphere taut. Commissaire Charles Bouchard of the Brigade Criminelle sat at the head of the table, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled officers. Opposite him, Commissaire Vivienne Girard of the DGSI leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, absorbing the discussion. The overhead lights cast a stark glow over the group, illuminating case files, intelligence reports, and the ever-present digital map of the Middle East on the screen at the far end of the room.

Louis Chevalier tapped a pen against his folder before speaking. “Israel remains emphatic in its denial of involvement in Haddad’s assassination. They’ve provided documentation showing that the weapon in question went missing from their arsenal over a year ago. That alone doesn’t exonerate them, of course. Documents can be fabricated. People can be bought.” He glanced toward Mathieu Marchand, who nodded in agreement.

“True,” Marchand said, adjusting his tie. “But we have to consider what’s at stake. Israel gains nothing from this. If they’re caught, they risk fracturing what little stability they have in the region. They can’t afford to alienate Egypt, Jordan, the UAE, or the Saudis—not when their security depends on even the thinnest diplomatic ties.”

Nicolas Lefebvre shifted in his chair. “And yet, everything points in Israel’s direction. We can’t ignore that.”

Pierre Lemoine exhaled sharply. “It’s not that simple. The more likely scenario? The weapon was stolen. Maybe it was funneled into the black market, maybe not. What matters is the intent behind its use. If this was an attempt to pin the assassination on Israel, it’s a calculated move, one designed to ignite protests across the Arab world.”

. “And yet,” Benoît Gagnon said, leaning forward, “the response hasn’t been as severe as one might expect. Yes, there have been rallies, but nothing widespread. Nothing that would shake Israel’s standing to the core. That tells us something.”

Chloé Dupont arched a brow. “That people are afraid?”

“Or,” Gagnon countered, “that the message wasn’t strong enough. Haddad was high-ranking within Hezbollah’s political wing, but his assassination alone wasn’t enough to trigger mass upheaval. The memory of Gaza still looms large. No one wants to be next.”

Jacques Delacroix, who had remained silent until now, glanced at Bouchard. “So where does that leave us?”

Bouchard steepled his fingers. “With more questions than answers. We’re looking at an operation that was meant to shift blame, but whoever orchestrated it miscalculated the response. That means they’re not finished.”

Girard nodded. “Then we need to stay ahead of them.”

Bouchard exhaled sharply with his hands resting on the table as he addressed the room. “The Brigade Criminelle is working every angle to secure video footage—perimeter shots, surveillance feeds, anything that might give us a lead. We have officers combing through hours of footage, but so far, nothing useful.” His gaze moved across the assembled faces. “That doesn’t mean we stop looking. We have to assume that whoever orchestrated this is planning to strike again, and soon. Time is not on our side, people.”

Girard leaned forward, nodding. “We’ve also been monitoring known communication channels, particularly chat rooms and encrypted forums. There’s been the usual noise—anti-Semitic rhetoric, political posturing, but nothing concrete. No direct claims of responsibility. No indications of another attack.” She let a pause settle over the room. “That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

Dubois tapped his pen against his notepad. “If it was politically motivated—and let’s be honest, we all think it was—then the timing is what matters. The summit is still scheduled. That gives them a few days to plan something bigger.”

Girard nodded. “Which is why we don’t stop. We operate as if they will strike again. Until we know who was behind Haddad’s assassination, I expect every resource we have to be used. There’s no margin for error.”

Bouchard nodded. “We need to identify the network responsible, whether state-backed, independent, or something in between. If this was designed to destabilize the summit, we have to consider the broader implications. France cannot afford to be the stage for another act of violence.”

After the session ended, the teams stood and exited, heading back to their respective assignments. When the room finally emptied, Commissaires Bouchard and Girard remained, neither speaking as they stared at each other from across the table.

Their thoughts were the same—a few more days without a lead was far too much time for an enemy to prepare.

And far too little for them to stop it.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Vatican Intelligence

Beneath the Basilica, Vatican City

Beneath the Basilica, the Vatican Intelligence command center thrived in quiet efficiency. The vast subterranean chamber stretched outward with its walls lined with consoles and screens that cast a cold glow over the polished floors. Rows of analysts sat at their stations, all Jesuits, with their fingers moving across keyboards while streams of data poured in from every corner of the globe.

On the upper tier, overlooking the entire operation, stood Fathers Essex and Auciello, co-directors of the agency. From their vantage point, they could see the vast array of Plexiglas monitors displaying a world in turmoil. Some screens focused on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the feed shifting between footage of protests, missile strikes, and diplomatic gatherings. Others displayed the civil wars in Syria and Yemen, their unending cycles of devastation unfolding in real time. Other displays spotlighted both Iraq’s fragile state, marked by bursts of unrest, and the instability in Kurdish regions.

West of the Middle East, Africa's crises filled several screens: Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, South Sudan, Ethiopia, Mozambique, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo all showed scenes of conflict, shifting alliances, and humanitarian disasters.

At the far end, the war between Russia and Ukraine played out in stark detail. Satellite imagery captured troop movements, while intelligence briefings scrolled in real time across the screens. The world was alight with war and hostility, its fractures deepening by the hour as the Doomsday Clock crept closer to midnight.

Fathers Essex and Auciello stood in silence, watching the world in endless conflict.

The radar screen displayed a slow-moving blip as Shepherd One, the Vatican's diplomatic aircraft, descended into Charles de Gaulle Airport with the command center tracking Cardinal Secretary of State Angulo and the Vatican Knights.

Fathers Essex and Auciello continued to scan the data feeds as the screens below flickered with information—air traffic reports, security alerts, geopolitical updates. Though the world outside moved with a chaotic rhythm, order was maintained inside these walls.

“It almost seems like Shepherd One is threading through the flames of global hostility just to reach the summit,” Father Essex commented.

Father Auciello folded his arms, and, metaphorically speaking, said, “Unfortunately, there are more fires than we have screens.”

Neither man reacted beyond the exchange of words, as their training required objectivity, but the weight of reality was unavoidable. They had spent years monitoring conflicts, studying patterns, analyzing outcomes. They had seen ceasefires collapse, peace talks fail, and carefully brokered agreements unravel under the pressure of old grievances and new ambitions.

Then Father Essex exhaled. “We’re not going to make it, are we?”

Without a trace of doubt or hesitation, Father Auciello said, “No . . . As much faith as any man can hold, there comes a point when we have to see things as they are. I believe that we have gone beyond the point of no return.”

Neither spoke further.

The screens before them confirmed in real time what they already knew.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Charles de Gaulle Airport

Paris, France

Shepherd One descended through the overcast Paris sky, its landing gear deploying as it neared Charles de Gaulle Airport. The aircraft, an Alitalia Airlines charter, bore no markings to distinguish it from any other in the fleet. Yet for the duration of this journey, its designation carried significance. Whenever a Vatican dignitary was on board—whether the Pope himself or, in this case, the Cardinal Secretary of State—it was known as Shepherd One, a call sign recognized in aviation circles as a symbol of high diplomatic presence.

Inside the cockpit, the pilots communicated with air traffic control, confirming their approach. After a smooth, two-hour flight uninterrupted by turbulence or delays, Cardinal Angulo, the second most powerful figure in the Vatican, was moments away from setting foot in a city bracing itself for further uncertainty.

Through the cabin windows, the vast sprawl of Charles de Gaulle came into view. Runways stretched in multiple directions, aircraft taxiing to and from terminals, their lights cutting through the haze. Ground crews stood by as the plane made its final descent, engines adjusting in pitch as flaps extended to slow its approach.

The interior of the aircraft remained quiet, the Vatican Knights sitting with the composure of men accustomed to such missions. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Solomon, and Moses—military call signs rather than given names—monitored their surroundings with professional detachment. They had been briefed on the heightened tensions and informed that, while France was obviously not an active conflict zone, the assassination of Samir Haddad had placed everyone on edge.

As the wheels met the tarmac with a controlled impact, the engines reversed thrust to bring the plane to a steady roll. As Shepherd One taxied toward its designated position, an escort detail would be waiting near the terminal, with the French authorities ensuring a discreet but efficient reception, understanding the necessity of both security and swift transport.

When the aircraft slowed to a stop, the jet bridge extended. Within moments, Cardinal Angulo disembarked and stepped onto Parisian soil, not as a mere traveler, but as the Vatican’s highest envoy in a time of political fragility.

The moment Cardinal Angulo stepped onto the tarmac, a flurry of camera shutters filled the air. Journalists and television crews from around the world had gathered behind a cordoned-off area, their lenses trained on the Vatican’s top diplomat as he descended the aircraft stairs. Bright camera flashes punctuated the gray Parisian sky, reporters speaking into microphones as their networks broadcast the arrival live.

The French president stood at the forefront of the reception party, flanked by senior government officials and members of the clergy. As Cardinal Angulo approached, the president extended his hand in greeting, his expression warm and welcoming. Polite words were exchanged, the standard diplomatic pleasantries that played well for the cameras. More handshakes followed—ministers, advisors, Vatican representatives—all smiles, all carefully composed.

Amid the formalities, the four Vatican Knights remained apart from the spectacle. Dressed in cleric shirts and Roman collars, they projected an air of quiet piety from the waist up. But the illusion ended there. Combat fatigues and well-worn boots spoke to their true purpose. They stood at the perimeter of the gathering, eyes scanning the crowd, reading movement, assessing risk. Isaiah subtly turned his head toward a cluster of security personnel stationed along the edge of the tarmac. Solomon shifted his stance, angling himself for a better view of the media enclosure. None of them spoke. They were there to observe, not engage the diplomats.

The French president gestured toward a sleek black SUV parked nearby, large enough to accommodate the cardinal and his security detail. The convoy of vehicles behind it—armored sedans and police escorts—stood ready to move. With the formal greetings concluded, the cardinal stepped toward the SUV, his detail following closely behind. One of the Vatican Knights opened the door, waiting for Cardinal Angulo to settle inside before taking his own place. The others moved with precision, entering the vehicles in practiced coordination.

The moment the doors shut, the convoy pulled away. Across the tarmac, airport personnel stood at a halt, their operations temporarily suspended until the motorcade had cleared the area. The line of vehicles made its way toward the exit, escorted by French security forces tasked with ensuring safe passage through the city. Their destination was Élysée Palace, the official residence of the French president, where the real discussions would begin.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rooftop Bar at Hôtel Dame des Arts

Paris, France

The rooftop bar was nearly empty, the late afternoon crowd deterred by the gray sky stretching over Paris. The cityscape sprawled beyond the terrace railing, its rooftops damp from an earlier drizzle. Kimball Hayden sat at the bar with his forearms resting against the counter, his gaze fixed on the television screen mounted on the far wall.

Before him, seven shot glasses lined the polished wood. Five were already emptied, turned rim-side down in a neat row. Two remained filled, the amber liquid catching the dim light. He picked one up, rolled it between his fingers, then downed it in a single motion before setting it beside the others.

The screen displayed live coverage from Charles de Gaulle Airport. Though Kimball didn’t understand French, he didn’t need to. The images spoke for themselves. Cardinal Secretary of State Angulo had arrived, greeted by the French president and his delegation. The usual diplomatic exchange played out—handshakes, smiles, cameras flashing.

But it wasn’t the politicians that held Kimball’s interest. It was the detail standing just behind them. The Vatican Knights.

His focus sharpened. Vatican Knights were deployed into conflict zones, not diplomatic events. Their presence meant this summit carried more weight than he’d originally thought. Whatever was happening here, it wasn’t just politics.

Then he saw them—Isaiah and Jeremiah.

Kimball’s lips curled into a faint smile, a rare moment of warmth creeping into his thoughts. It had been a long time since memories of missions carried out in the darkest corners of the world and battles fought side by side surfaced. They weren’t just former comrades; they were family.

He reached for the last shot glass and tipped it back, the burn trailing down his throat. Without a word, he lifted a hand, signaling the bartender for another round.

His gaze returned to the screen. Two faces he didn’t recognize.

Solomon and Moses.

New blood. Whether they had been brought in to fill the ranks of those who had outlived their usefulness or to replace fallen warriors, Kimball didn’t know. Either way, the cycle continued.

The bartender placed seven more shots in front of him. Kimball nodded in thanks, then turned his attention back to the broadcast.

Kimball watched the screen as the Vatican envoy moved toward the waiting black SUV. The Cardinal Secretary of State climbed in first, followed closely by Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the two new faces, Solomon and Moses. The doors shut, and the convoy began its slow departure across the tarmac. Airport operations had been halted, the usual rush of baggage carts and fuel trucks was absent as the vehicles made their way toward the exit.

The camera angle shifted. A female broadcaster appeared on-screen, speaking in rapid French into a microphone. Though Kimball couldn’t understand the words, the language itself carried an elegance, each syllable flowing smoothly into the next.

On the lower third of the screen, the chyron displayed names—Germany and Lebanon.

Kimball picked up another shot glass but didn’t drink it right away. He watched as the broadcast cut to footage of the upcoming arrivals. A new set of dignitaries would be landing soon, the security detail heightened in the wake of Samir Haddad’s assassination. The camera panned to armed personnel stationed throughout the airport, their presence a clear statement.

Then, the image changed again. Two still frames appeared side by side—one of Commissaire Charles Bouchard of the Brigade Criminelle, the other of Commissaire Vivienne Girard of the DGSI—both wearing the expression of professionals caught in the middle of something bigger than themselves. No details were provided—no suspect was named in the assassination of Samir Haddad, and no indication was given of how far along they were in their investigation. They were just two faces, perhaps soon-to-be heroes, who were carrying the weight of an unanswered crime.

Kimball exhaled and shifted his gaze to the row of shot glasses in front of him. The buzz was settling in now, a slow, familiar warmth. His fingers traced the rim of one glass as a face surfaced in his mind—Isaiah.

Kimball had seen that face in every setting imaginable. The rare smile when things were at ease. The unreadable expression when they weren’t. The look of a man who carried burdens without complaint.

He lifted the shot in front of him and held it for a brief moment, as if offering a silent toast.

To Isaiah. To Jeremiah . . . To all the Vatican Knights.

Then he tipped the glass back, finishing it in one motion.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

Khalid Al-Ghazi sat alone in the dim underground chamber, the glow of his laptop screen casting sharp lines across his face. The small space around him was silent, save for the occasional drip of water seeping through unseen cracks. The air was stale, thick with the scent of earth, but he hardly noticed. His focus remained on the screen, where lines of text scrolled in quiet succession—updates, intercepted communications, satellite images, news reports. None of it changed what he already knew.

The negotiations were a game, a performance meant to stall for time. He had seen it before—talks stretched into oblivion, concessions made and revoked, leaders feigning diplomacy while planning their next strike.

There was only one way to force their hand.

His fingers hovered over the laptop’s keyboard before he sat back, eyes drifting to the table beside him. Stacked neatly in a row were several bricks of Semtex, their dull, red-brown casings inert but brimming with potential. He imagined them molded into the vest pockets, each brick fitted with precision, waiting for the final moment when they would be put to use.

Waleed Abbas and Momar Ali would wear the vests first, their mission clear: if they succeeded, the impact would be undeniable; if they failed, Fahad Al-Saad would step in as another thread in the design Khalid had woven. But Khalid himself would not wear a vest since that was not his role. He was meant to guide and dictate, to remain standing when the dust settled while the others would burn in fire, their bodies torn apart in service to the cause—that was the nature of control, to have complete dominion over others.

He reached for a brick of Semtex, turning it in his hands. The material was pliable, easy to shape, its real value lying in how it would be used. Power did not come from the explosion itself, he considered, but from the ability to command others to carry it out. He did not need to be the one to walk into a crowded place and detonate; others would do it for him. And that was Khalid’s strength.

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Khalid moved between the monitors and the table, his eyes shifting from the scrolling news feed to the Semtex brick in his hand. The plan was incomplete. Suicide vests alone would not be enough—not here, not with the summit now set to take place at the Palais de l'Élysée. The building was a fortress with its security layers deep, its perimeter nearly impenetrable. Setting off vests in the crowd outside would make a statement, but not the one he needed. Collateral damage meant nothing if the real targets remained untouched. The message had to be clear: we can reach you anywhere, at any time.

He set the Semtex down and turned to the monitors again, absorbing the fragmented streams of information. On one screen, the French president greeted the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State. The words translated into Arabic scrolled along the bottom, their diplomatic exchanges courteous and predictable. On another screen, the faces of two investigators filled the frame—Brigade Criminelle Commissaire Charles Bouchard and DGSI Commissaire Vivienne Girard. They were the ones leading the hunt for Samir Haddad’s assassin.

For now, their search was tangled in speculation. The world still pointed to Israel, an easy suspect, but no evidence had surfaced to confirm or deny it. That uncertainty bought time, but not much.

Khalid's gaze flicked to a third screen. The Vatican official’s motorcade had arrived at the airport. The vehicles lined the tarmac, their polished black exteriors reflecting the dim airport lights. The broadcaster droned on about the role of the Brigade Criminelle and DGSI on another screen with theories rather than facts. Back to the first screen, the cameras followed the convoy as it began to move.

He reached for the Semtex again, fingers running over its surface. His mind worked through the possibilities: the motorcade, the palace, the investigators. He watched the screens, shifting between the vehicles disappearing from view, the two stilled photos of the commissaires, and the news feed still looping the greeting between heads of state.

Then, he realized that the key was in front of him.

He glanced from the Semtex to the screens as a plan took shape, the man offering a rare smile.

Khalid Al-Ghazi had found a way into the Palais de l'Élysée.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Palais de l'Élysée

Paris, France

Evening

The chamber was quiet, the heavy drapes muting the sounds from the courtyard below. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the sitting area where Cardinal Angulo waited, his hands folded in his lap. Isaiah entered at the cardinal’s summons, stepping forward with his posture straight and his expression neutral.

“Sit, Isaiah,” the cardinal said, motioning to the chair across from him.

Isaiah took the seat, sensing the conversation’s direction before a single word was spoken. He had been through these discussions before—carefully worded reminders of duty, control, and restraint.

“I want to express my gratitude for your presence here,” Cardinal Angulo began. “The Vatican Knights serve an important function, one I do not take for granted. Your team’s vigilance is appreciated, but I must emphasize the importance of discipline in your command.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “I will not abide by the same reckless tactics that were once standard under Kimball Hayden.”

Isaiah’s jaw tightened, though he remained composed. “Reckless?”

The cardinal inclined his head. “The Vatican Knights were once known for a level of aggression that did not reflect the Church’s values. I trust that under your leadership, such methods will not continue.”

Isaiah let a silence settle between them before speaking. “With all due respect, Your Eminence, the Vatican Knights were never reckless under Kimball Hayden. They were regimented. They were precise. And no finer leader existed—not then, not now.”

The cardinal’s expression didn’t change, but Isaiah caught the flicker of something in his eyes.

“I do not dispute his effectiveness,” the cardinal said. “But his approach was—”

“Necessary,” Isaiah interjected smoothly. “Kimball Hayden did what had to be done. His methods were not for spectacle. They were not for indulgence. Every action was purposeful.”

The cardinal sighed, shifting slightly in his chair. “His methods gave the Church a reputation that many of my brethren found troubling. His readiness to kill—”

“Kimball never sought death for its own sake,” Isaiah said. His voice was calm but firm. “Did you ever spend time with him? Even five minutes?”

The cardinal hesitated.

Isaiah nodded, already knowing the answer. “Then you’ve only heard the stories. You know his actions, but not the man.”

“I know enough,” the cardinal countered. “I know that he often killed with impunity. That his decisions made the Society of Seven uneasy. That his commitment to his own vices was stronger than his commitment to the Church.”

Isaiah remained composed, his response even. “Kimball was a man who turned his pain into purpose. His struggles didn’t weaken him—they refined him. He was a man who understood sacrifice in a way few ever do. His commitment was never in question.”

The cardinal held Isaiah’s gaze but said nothing.

Isaiah let the silence sit, allowing his words to settle before either of them spoke again.

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The cardinal exhaled, his hands coming together as he regarded Isaiah with the patience of a man accustomed to long debates. “I understand your loyalty to Kimball Hayden,” he said. “But I called you here to remind you that under my watch, the Vatican Knights must uphold a higher standard. We represent the Church, especially during these negotiations. We cannot afford the same unpredictability that defined Kimball’s tenure.”

Isaiah remained silent, his face giving nothing away.

The cardinal continued, his voice steady. “The Society of Seven had long ago made their concerns clear to me. Whether the accounts are true or not, Kimball’s reputation speaks for itself. He was violent. He believed that force was always an acceptable solution, no matter the situation. That kind of thinking cannot—and will not—be tolerated. Not here. Not at the Palais de l’Élysée.”

Isaiah sat forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. “Your Eminence, with respect, the Vatican Knights do not exist to placate the concerns of the those who sit on the panel of the Society of Seven, with whom Kimball has had his differences with. Our purpose is singular: to protect the citizenry of the Church, its interests, and its sovereignty. That is our mission. That is why we are here.”

The cardinal’s expression did not change. “I do not question the mission. I question the methods.”

Isaiah met his gaze. “The world is not as forgiving as the halls of the Vatican. There are those who would see the Church diminished—if not destroyed entirely. We do not exist for diplomacy. We exist for protection.”

“Protection does not require brutality.”

Isaiah shook his head. “No, it does not. But it requires action. And action is often mistaken for brutality by those who have never had to make the choice themselves.”

The cardinal frowned but said nothing.

Isaiah continued, his tone measured. “The peace talks are a target. You know it. I know it. If the time comes to act, we will do what must be done. That is not recklessness. That is not an abandonment of principle. It is an acceptance of reality.”

“Reality,” the cardinal repeated, voice quiet.

Isaiah nodded. “This is not a game, Your Eminence. It is not a courtly debate. It is a matter of survival. And survival often requires choices that are neither pleasant nor easy.”

The cardinal studied Isaiah for a long moment, noting the quiet certainty in his expression. There was no arrogance in his stance, only conviction in his purpose, in Kimball Hayden, in the Vatican Knights’ duty.

With a measured nod, the cardinal exhaled. “I see that your commitment is unwavering, as is your belief in Kimball Hayden and the mission you uphold. And I won’t deny the truth of your words. The world is not a bastion of peace.” His voice carried a trace of resignation. “If it were, I would not be here.”

Isaiah remained still, listening.

The cardinal sighed. “I hope the need for such measures does not arise, that neither you nor your men will be forced to act. I pray that these negotiations unfold as they should, without interference and without bloodshed.”

Isaiah inclined his head. “So do I, Your Eminence.” His voice held no mockery, no defiance—only certainty. “But until all men carry the kindness found in the heart of the pontiff, until that same kindness exists in all men, we must remain vigilant. Complacency is the killer of all men.”

The cardinal’s gaze wavered, reflecting on Isaiah’s words. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But surely you can see that with the security in place here at the Palais, there is little reason to expect an attack.”

Isaiah did not answer right away. He let the moment stretch before responding, his tone even. “The people who killed Samir Haddad, if their goal is to disrupt these negotiations, will stop at nothing. You see security, barriers, protocols. They see obstacles to be overcome.”

The cardinal’s expression tightened, but Isaiah continued.

“If it is not the IDF,” Isaiah said, “it will be another faction willing to sacrifice itself. Their lives are not their own. They are given to a cause that outweighs the individual. They will find a way, because they believe their deaths serve something greater.”

The cardinal nodded. “Then perhaps we should pray that reason prevails.”

Isaiah gave a small nod. “I pray all the time, Your Eminence. With a pure heart.” He let the words settle before adding, “But still, we are called to act. As long as darkness exists, we are needed.”

The cardinal fell silent. His eyes moving toward the low-burning lamp beside him, its light barely illuminating the edges of the room. After a pause, he spoke again, his voice quieter. “Then let us pray it does not come to that.”

Isaiah made no further argument. The discussion had reached its end.

The cardinal straightened and met Isaiah’s gaze once more. “Thank you for your counsel,” he said, his tone formal yet not unkind. “That will be all for tonight.”

Isaiah inclined his head respectfully before turning for the door, his steps even as he exited.

Now alone, the cardinal sat back in his chair, his fingers drifting to his chin as he considered Isaiah’s words.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Paris, France

Next Day, 1100 Hours

The panel van sat idle along the curb, its dark-tinted windows masking the two men inside. Waleed Abbas and Momar Ali remained silent, their eyes fixed on the Haussmannian-style building across the street. The structure stood in quiet elegance, its symmetrical facade, wrought-iron balconies, and mansard roof blending seamlessly into the Parisian landscape. They watched with patience, knowing their targets would be alone.

The dashboard clock clicked to 11:00 a.m.

Without a word, they pulled down their ski masks. Waleed checked the street through the side mirror, then glanced at Momar, who did the same. The avenue was still, no pedestrians nearby, no passing cars to slow their approach.

They moved.

Opening the van doors in sync, they stepped onto the pavement, closing them softly behind them. Momar adjusted the strap of the small bag slung over his shoulder, his movements smooth and practiced.

They crossed the street quickly, reaching the building’s entrance in seconds with Waleed already having his lock picks in hand.

Standing close to the door, he worked with the confident precision of experience, and, within moments, the lock gave way without hesitation or wasted motion.

Momar, keeping watch, scanned the street once more.

Nothing.

With a final turn of his wrist, Waleed eased the door open wide enough for them to slip inside, then shut it silently behind them.

* * *

The kitchen was filled with the rich aroma of wine and slow-simmering herbs as seventeen-year-old Sophie stood at the stove, stirring the pot with an easy rhythm, the deep red broth bubbling gently around the chicken, mushrooms, and carrots. The warmth of the stove flushed her cheeks, her dark hair tucked behind her ears as she checked the dish, satisfied with its progress.

In the next room, her fourteen-year-old sister, Louise, sat curled in a chair, her diary open on her lap, pen tapping absently against the page. Her headphones covered her ears, blocking out everything but the music.

Sophie dipped the spoon into the pot to taste, the flavors coming together with the wine mellowing into something rich. After tasting the broth, she gave a small nod, pleased.

Then she froze.

A feeling settled over her, something just slightly off.

She turned her head, listening. The soft hum of the apartment’s AC, the bubbling stew, the occasional scrape of Louise’s pen—nothing unusual.

Still, a woman’s intuition was not something to be dismissed.

“Louise?” she called, wiping her hands on a towel.

No response.

Then she remembered—the headphones.

Setting the spoon down, she stepped out of the kitchen and moved toward the hallway. The apartment was dimmer here, the light from the kitchen casting long shadows.

As she turned the corner, a man stood before her in a ski mask that covered everything except his eyes—cold, black, and unblinking. Sophie’s breath caught in her throat and her body tightened with paralytic terror as a cloth was clamped over her face before her scream could form, the scent hitting her instantly—sharp, chemical, and sickening.

Her hands clawed at his wrist and her body twisted, but strength drained from her limbs almost immediately as her struggles weakened, her fingers slipping from his arm.

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Louise sat cross-legged on the couch, her journal balanced on one knee, pen moving steadily across the page. The words came easily as she wrote about the boy in her class—how he laughed, the way he ran a hand through his hair when he was nervous. She didn’t tell Sophie about him yet. Not because she didn’t trust her sister, but because saying it out loud made it feel too real.

Music filled her ears through her headphones, drowning out the world beyond the small, comfortable room. The furniture was familiar, worn in all the right ways. The windows let in a soft glow from the streetlights outside, though the curtains were only partially drawn. The TV sat dark in front of her, its black screen reflecting a faint version of the room behind her.

Then, movement.

It was small at first, just a shift in the reflection, something that didn’t belong. Her pen stilled as a cold prickle ran up her spine.

Louise turned her head.

A man stood inside the room wearing dark clothes and a ski mask, his cold, unyielding eyes pinning her with a hard stare. In his gloved hand was a stained cloth, its scent strong and acrid.

Before he could close the space between them, the journal flew from her hand, aimed at his face. The intruder swatted it aside with a quick motion, not slowing.

Louise sprang from the couch with her muscles reacting before her mind fully caught up. She had no plan, no preparation—just instinct. The headphones came next, flung straight at him. He knocked them away just as easily, his other hand already reaching for her.

There was no way out, the intruder standing between her and the doorway.

Then Louise screamed, the sound barely begun before the cloth clamped over her nose and mouth. The smell was sharp and stinging as her hands clawed at his wrist, pushing, twisting, and trying to break free. But the man was stronger, his grip firm.

Her struggles slowed.

Her fingers loosened.

And then her knees gave.

The intruder caught her, steadying her body as consciousness slipped away. Carefully, he lifted her and eased her back onto the couch.

* * *

Waleed worked swiftly, rolling the unconscious girls into the accent carpets taken from the nearby rooms. The thick fabric made the task cumbersome, but the patterns—intricate swirls of deep reds, blues, and gold—helped disguise the shape of the bodies within. He adjusted each wrap, ensuring they looked like nothing more than rolled-up rugs ready for transport.

Nearby, Momar placed a small bag on the table, next to the open bottle of ether and the stained cloth. The sharp, chemical scent still hung in the air, thick and cloying. Still wearing his gloves, he capped the bottle, then wrapped the cloth around it before carefully tucking both into the bag. Then, rummaging through its contents, his fingers brushing against familiar items before pulling out a sealed envelope, followed by a burner phone that was cheap, disposable, and untraceable. These devices were intended to be used once or a handful of times before being discarded, the phone leaving no digital footprint. There would be no call logs, no GPS tracking, and no way to trace ownership. When the job was done, the phone would be broken apart and its SIM card destroyed, ensuring no connection remained.

Momar set the phone on top of the envelope, placing both in plain view. The message was waiting, an invitation or a warning—whoever found it would know what to do.

Stepping out of the room, he found Waleed finishing his task. The girls were securely wrapped, the thick fabric concealing them well enough to avoid suspicion. When they lifted the carpets over their shoulders, the weight caused a natural bend where the girls’ hips would be, but to any onlooker, they were just movers hauling rolled-up rugs.

Without a word, they exited the apartment without drawing a suspicious eye.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Paris, France

A convoy of black sedans and armored SUVs moved steadily through the streets of Paris, flanked by police escorts on motorcycles. The dignitaries from Germany and the United States had arrived, their journey from the airport to the Palais de l'Élysée conducted under the strictest security measures. Snipers were positioned on rooftops, their scopes scanning every corner, while surveillance drones hovered at strategic points, relaying live footage to command centers monitoring the route. Pedestrian movement was restricted near the motorcade’s path, and additional barricades ensured no unauthorized vehicles entered the vicinity.

Inside the vehicles, the atmosphere was heavy with the quiet intensity that came with high-stakes diplomacy. The German delegation sat in silence, reviewing documents while occasionally glancing out the tinted windows. Their American counterparts, equally reserved, maintained a professional demeanor, their security details communicating through discreet earpieces. Every turn, every stoplight, every stretch of road had been scrutinized in advance to minimize risk.

Further behind, another convoy approached under similar security conditions—the Israeli Peace Delegation. Their arrival carried its own significance, their presence at the negotiations both necessary and delicate. Armored vehicles carried the delegation through the streets of Paris under the close watch of Israeli security personnel, who coordinated with French authorities at every checkpoint. Inside, the Israeli representatives sat in quiet discussion, their expressions measured, aware that their role in the coming talks would be scrutinized by allies and adversaries alike. As their convoy neared the Palais de l'Élysée, security tightened further, ensuring their arrival proceeded without incident.

As the convoy neared the palace, the scene outside reflected the heightened state of alert. Officers from the Gendarmerie Nationale stood in staggered formations, monitoring the surroundings with trained precision. The Brigade Criminelle had deployed plainclothes agents in the crowd, blending into the environment while remaining observant. The DGSE and DGSI, working in coordination, had reinforced cybersecurity protocols, ensuring that no external threats compromised communication channels or operational plans.

The gates of the Palais de l'Élysée opened, allowing the convoy to enter the secured perimeter. The vehicles came to a smooth stop in the courtyard, where French officials stood ready to receive the arriving dignitaries. As doors opened, security agents emerged first, scanning the surroundings before the diplomats stepped onto the cobblestone driveway. Photographers stationed at a designated distance captured the moment, their cameras flashing as the representatives of two of the world’s most influential nations ascended the steps leading into the grand halls of the palace.

Later that evening, another car arrived, its sleek black exterior reflecting the muted evening light. Omar Al-Shami, the newly appointed Lebanese representative from the March 8 Alliance, stepped out with measured composure. His tailored suit bore the sharp lines of European craftsmanship, complemented by a silk scarf in the red and white of the Lebanese flag. His expression remained neutral as he took in his surroundings, his dark eyes scanning the grandeur of the palace entrance before proceeding inside.

With only two days remaining before the negotiations commenced, security operations intensified. Inside a command center within the palace, representatives from the Gendarmerie Nationale, DGSE, DGSI, and Brigade Criminelle pored over live feeds and intelligence reports. Every possible threat scenario was analyzed, every contingency discussed as tactical units remained on standby, their presence a silent but firm reassurance that any breach would be met with immediate action.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

Laptop monitors lined the dimly lit room, their screens casting flickering glows across the concrete walls of the subterranean stronghold. Signals shifted between channels with occasional static, the feeds displaying live coverage from Al Jazeera, CNN International, the BBC, and French networks, each broadcasting different angles of the same event—the arrival of the diplomatic delegations in Paris. Throughout the day, the screens had cycled through images of convoys moving through heavily secured streets, dignitaries stepping onto the cobblestone driveway of the Palais de l'Élysée, and security forces monitoring the surroundings with rigid precision.

Most of the focus remained on the delegations from Israel and Lebanon, their presence drawing the sharpest commentary. Footage replayed the arrival of Israeli officials, stepping out of their armored vehicles under the watchful eyes of security teams. Journalists dissected their body language, their expressions, and every detail of their reception. Meanwhile, the coverage on Omar Al-Shami played in equal measure, the Lebanese representative from the March 8 Alliance shown adjusting his silk scarf before ascending the palace steps. Analysts speculated on the intentions behind his carefully chosen words, discussing how Lebanon’s alignment with Hezbollah and, by extension, Iran, played into the negotiations.

The emphasis on Lebanon’s role in the talks set a particular tone in the room. The March 8 Alliance had positioned itself as a voice for the Palestinians, yet its loyalties remained tethered to Tehran. The monitors displayed footage of discussions in Beirut, officials speaking in measured phrases about sovereignty, about representation, about the necessity of peace—words that rang hollow against the backdrop of broader political maneuvering. The media painted an image of diplomacy in motion, of progress being made, but the realities behind those closed doors remained predictable. Promises would be exchanged, agreements outlined, statements issued to the public, yet the cycle would continue unchanged.

The screens continued broadcasting, switching between live feeds and expert analysis, the endless rotation of coverage reinforcing the same narrative. Israeli and Lebanese officials, standing before the world, speaking on matters that would not be resolved in meetings or through carefully worded statements. Outside the palace, cameras panned across the heightened security presence, officers standing guard, snipers monitoring from rooftops, and drones scanning for potential threats. Every measure had been taken to ensure the safety of the delegations, yet no security presence could alter the fundamental truth playing out on the monitors.

The talks in Paris were a stage, carefully managed and meticulously orchestrated. The outcome had already been decided.

Fahad sat back, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the news feed as footage of the arriving delegations played on loop. His expression remained impassive, but there was an edge to his voice when he spoke.

“The assassination of Haddad was supposed to send a message, to disrupt their unity,” he said. “Instead, it’s only hardened their resolve. They’re more determined now than before. Even with suspicion hanging over Israel, the security has tightened beyond anything we anticipated. We won’t get anywhere near them, the task now impossible.”

Khalid barely glanced at him as he kept his focus on the monitors, where images of armored convoys and well-armed security details flashed across the screen. Then evenly, he said, “That word—impossible—does not mean something cannot be done. It only measures the degree of difficulty.”

Fahad exhaled sharply. “We don’t have the means to penetrate that level of security. The entire structure is locked down. The Gendarmerie, DGSE, DGSI—all of them are working together now. Every approach is monitored, every access point guarded. Even if we tried, we’d be crushed before we got close.”

Khalid turned to him then, his expression unreadable. “Not all paths are blocked,” he said. “Not all doors are closed. You see walls, but I see openings. And more importantly, we hold the key. We have access to the Palais de l'Élysée.”

Silence followed, save for the quiet hum of the monitors. Fahad said nothing, but his posture shifted slightly, a sign that, despite his doubts, he was listening.

Khalid let the silence settle, allowing his words to take root. His gaze swept across the room, pausing on each man—Fahad, Waleed, Momar—all men of conviction, yet conviction alone was not enough as doubt crept into the minds of even the most steadfast, especially when the path ahead seemed insurmountable. He had seen it before. And he had always known how to turn uncertainty into resolve.

He straightened in his chair with his voice measured and unwavering.

“History does not favor those who see only obstacles,” he began. “It belongs to those who recognize that obstacles are but illusions, created by the mind to test one’s will. Tell me, when has a fortress ever been impenetrable? When has a wall ever stood without a gate? There is no such thing as absolute security—only the illusion of it. And illusions can be shattered. And that is our advantage.”

Fahad exhaled through his nose, unconvinced but listening. Waleed leaned forward slightly with his sharp eyes betraying marginal interest. Momar, however, remained unreadable.

“They gather behind their walls,” Khalid went on, “believing themselves untouchable, trusting in layers of defense that are only as strong as their weakest point. But they forget one thing: no matter how fortified a place is, it requires people to function. And people are flawed. They are predictable. Their routines, their habits, their complacency—all of it can be used against them. Even the most vigilant cannot account for what they do not see.”

Waleed nodded faintly, acknowledging the truth in Khalid’s words.

“The operation is not impossible,” Khalid resumed. “It is only difficult. And difficulty does not deter the faithful. If anything, it defines them. Were ease and comfort the measures of success, then no cause worth pursuing would have ever been achieved. The path of least resistance leads nowhere. The struggle, the hardship—that is where meaning lies. That is where faith is tested and proven.”

Momar folded his arms, his expression contemplative. Fahad remained skeptical, but there was a shift in his posture—something less rigid, less closed off.

“We are not the first to stand against giants,” Khalid went on. “Nor will we be the last. But giants fall. They always have. Their own arrogance undoes them. They trust in their might, their numbers, their technology. But we have something they do not: clarity of purpose. A cause greater than the self. They move out of fear, out of a desperate need to maintain control. We move with certainty, not because we seek chaos, but because we seek truth. And truth does not break.”

His voice did not rise, nor did it waver. It was the voice of a man who did not entertain doubt, a voice that carried the certainty of belief without needing to force it upon others. He knew his words would take hold, not because he demanded it, but because they rang with an undeniable logic—one that resonated with those who already stood close to the fire.

“The path forward is clear,” he said. “We have access. We have purpose. The only thing left is action. And that is not a question of possibility, but of resolve.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Waleed gave a slow nod. Momar exhaled, shifting his stance slightly. Even Fahad, though reluctant, no longer had the same steel in his eyes.

Khalid had seen the moment before. The moment when uncertainty gave way to conviction. When doubt was pushed aside, leaving only purpose.

That was the moment when plans became reality.

Then Khalid’s eyes shifted to Fahad. “And the recruits?” he asked. “How many?”

Fahad hesitated for the briefest moment before answering. “Only two.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed Khalid’s face, his fingers tapping once against the arm of his chair. Two. It was far from the number he had hoped for. Commitment was a rare currency, and the stakes were high. But disappointment was wasted energy. His mind turned the number over, considering.

“Two is better than none,” he said at last, his tone even. “Two more bodies, two more minds, two more hands willing to act. Small, yes—but small efforts ripple outward. And two can become more. Conviction spreads, given time.”

Fahad gave a small nod, though his skepticism remained. Khalid, however, had already moved on.

“Bring up the blueprints,” he ordered.

Fahad turned to his console, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. Within seconds, a detailed architectural layout of the Palais de l'Élysée illuminated the central monitor. The palace, vast and intricate, filled the screen with its halls, chambers, and corridors. Decades of renovations, expansions, and security modifications were laid bare in a single image that had been painstakingly extracted from the digital files of the French National Archives through Fahad’s careful intrusion.

Khalid leaned forward, his eyes scanning the display. “No stronghold is impenetrable,” he murmured. “Every structure has its flaws.”

Fahad gestured to the screen. “I applied AI software to analyze the layout,” he explained. “It’s reading through layers of data, identifying structural weaknesses, potential access points, and, more importantly, the designated meeting location for the delegates. The system is still running, but it’s already mapping out viable routes.”

On the screen, thin red lines traced paths through the palace — a digital web of potential infiltration points and strategic movement corridors. Certain areas glowed brighter, denoting heightened security or limited access. The AI was doing its job, sorting through possibilities with mechanical precision.

Khalid studied the evolving map, his focus sharp. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, refine it. I want three entry points—the least guarded, the most efficient. No unnecessary risks, no wasted motion. We work with precision.”

Fahad nodded and set to work, adjusting parameters and running deeper analyses.

Khalid checked his watch. Time moved forward, as it always did, without pause and without hesitation.

He rose from his seat, his form slipping into the dim light of the subterranean room. “It’s time for the next phase,” he said, his voice steady. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped into the shadows, vanishing from sight.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The cold from the concrete seeped through their clothes as Louise shifted, her head pounding, throat parched. A low groan escaped her lips as she tried to gather her bearings.

“Sophie?” Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I'm here.” Sophie’s reply came weakly from beside her. “Are you okay?”

“My head . . . it hurts.” Louise swallowed, wincing at the dryness in her mouth. “Where are we?”

Sophie exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. There’s nothing here—just these chairs and a bucket.”

Louise blinked, forcing herself upright. The dim bulb above barely cast enough light to see Sophie’s face.

“Do you remember anything?” Sophie asked, shifting in her chair.

Louise closed her eyes, grasping at fading images. “I was . . . writing. Then someone was there.” Her breath hitched. “He had a cloth over my nose and mouth.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Sophie whispered, her voice unsteady. “I remember the smell. It made everything go black.”

A long silence stretched between them, the reality of their situation pressing in from all sides.

Louise’s breath quickened. “Louise . . . why would someone take us?”

Sophie wished she had an answer. “We’ll figure it out,” she answered instead. “We just have to—”

A sharp metallic sound cut through the silence. The lock on the steel door shifted with a rattling noise, causing them both to start.

Louise instinctively reached for Sophie’s hand and squeezed. Neither of them moved. Neither breathed.

The door opened.

A shape stood in the doorway, a figure blacker than the shadows behind it. Silent. Watching.

Neither sister spoke. Their eyes locked onto the figure, the room holding its breath along with them.

Then, the shape stepped inside and shut the door.

Moving forward, the dim bulb’s glow caught on the contours of a mask—smooth, featureless except for a voice-modifying mouthpiece. Strapped to the man's thigh was a sheathed knife, its presence drawing Sophie’s attention immediately.

He stood before them without a word, his presence filling the dim light as the ruby-colored lenses of his mask reflected their pale faces drawn tight with fear, his exhale through the voice modulator distorted and metallic.

“Do you speak English?” His metallic-sounding voice was calm and devoid of emotion.

Sophie tightened her grip on Louise’s arm and shook her head. “No English.”

The man didn’t move. “Everyone speaks English,” he said. “It bridges the divide of all languages.”

Sophie shook her head again, more forcefully this time. “No English,” she repeated in French. “Only français.”

A pause. The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering her response, while the silence stretched thick with unspoken threats. Without a word, he reached for the knife strapped to his thigh, the chrome blade catching the meager light as he turned it in his grip.

“No more games,” he said, his tone flat. “I’ll ask once more. Do you speak English?”

Sophie’s answer, in French, was quick. “No. No English.”

The man grabbed Louise in a single fluid motion, tearing her from Sophie’s grasp as she screamed and struggled, then pressed the cold steel against her throat, stilling her.

“Then you are both useless to me if neither of you understand,” the metallic voice said.

Sophie’s hands shot up. “Yes!” she cried. “We speak English! We both do!”

The knife hesitated. Then, with almost casual ease, the man released Louise. She stumbled back into Sophie’s arms, her breath ragged, eyes wide with terror.

The man stepped away, slipping the knife back into its sheath. “Of course you do,” he said.

Under the dim, flickering light, the masked man regarded them in silence. The ruby lenses of his mask revealed nothing, his presence made known only by the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the layers of anonymity. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, he tapped the hilt of his sheathed knife, the dull sound carrying a warning. “If you lie to me again,” he said, his voice distorted through the modulator, “I will not hold back next time.”

Neither Louise nor Sophie spoke as the moment settled heavily between them, their breaths uneven, their bodies tight with tension.

Sophie swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet the dark voids of the lenses. “Why?” Her voice wavered but held. “Why are you doing this? Why were we taken?”

The masked man tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the question. “Because you are the key to everything,” he said. “You are the means to something far greater than yourselves. A statement must be made—one that cannot be ignored.”

Louise, still trembling from the earlier encounter, clutched Sophie’s hand, her knuckles white. “I don’t understand.” she said, her words barely above a whisper.

The man nodded. “A momentous act, one that will echo throughout the Arab world. A wake-up call.” His voice, though metallic and hollow, carried the weight of conviction. “Too long have warring nations dictated the fate of people who do not belong to them. They carve borders into stolen land, erasing the past as if history bends to their will. And what does the world do? It watches. It tolerates. It allows the invaders to grow stronger.”

The sisters exchanged uneasy glances. The words, though impassioned, meant little to them. They had no deep understanding of politics, no grasp of the struggles he spoke of. Their lives had been ordinary and untouched by the complexities of war and conflict.

“You’re pawns.” The man continued, the mechanical tinge to his voice making his words all the more impersonal. “Everything in this world is a game of power, and pawns move the board as much as kings. You don’t have to understand. You only need to serve your purpose.”

The man wearing the mask reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unremarkable burner phone. He turned it over in his hand, then held it up for the girls to see.

“You will cooperate fully,” he said, his voice filtered through the modulator, cold and mechanical. “Speak only when I tell you. Anything else, and I will remind you of your place.” His fingers tapped the hilt of the knife at his thigh, the motion deliberate and slow.

Sophie and Louise sat unmoving, their eyes fixed on the device in his hand.

He pressed a single button. The call connected immediately.

A voice burst through the speaker, thick with barely contained fury. “If you’ve hurt them, I swear to God—”

The masked man cut in without hesitation. “First of all, in English. And secondly, shut up. You have no leverage. I’m making that clear to you right now.”

There was silence on the other end. Then the voice, more restrained but no less frantic, spoke again. “Let them go . . . Please.”

The masked man exhaled through the modulator, a sound more static than breath. “You seem to think you have options. If you ever speak to me like that again, I will send their corpses home in several different boxes over the span of a month. Is that clear?”

Another pause. Then, quieter now, almost pleading, “Are they alive?”

The masked man tilted his head, then held the phone out toward the girls. “Speak.”

The words came in a rush—Sophie and Louise talking over one another, their voices tangled with desperation. They called for help, begged for answers, pleaded for their safety.

The masked man waved them off. “Enough.”

They fell silent, their breath still ragged from the effort.

He brought the phone back to his ear. “You will follow my instructions exactly as given. Quickly. There is no time to waste.”

The voice on the other end hesitated. “Why should I trust you?”

“You have no choice.”

Silence.

Then, finally, “What do you want?”

The masked man began to speak, laying out each step, each directive, each demand in methodical order. The voice on the other end barely responded, only offering reluctant acknowledgments. The instructions came without emotion, each word measured, as if the plan had already been set in stone long before this call was made.

When he finished, he let the silence stretch between them.

“You understand,” he said at last.

The person on the other end responded with a reluctant, defeated, “Yes.”

“Then we will meet tomorrow at the given time I already mentioned. Bring with you what I asked for. No more, no less. If you tell anyone about me, the children will die. Play any games, the children will die. If you don’t come alone, the children will die. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“Bring only what I ask for.” The masked man disconnected the call abruptly without another word.

* * *

Khalid stepped out of the chamber, the heavy metal door shutting behind him with a dull sound. He stood still for a moment, then reached up and pulled the mask from his face, setting it on the small table beside him. The ruby lenses reflected the dim overhead light, the voice modulator resting silent against the cold surface.

In his hand, the burner phone felt almost weightless. He turned it over between his fingers, running through the facts once more. The device was untraceable, a tool without history or identity. The person on the other end had no way of knowing where he was, no way to follow the thread back to him.

This was the moment when control shifted. The operation had moved from concept to reality, and the path ahead was his to shape. He had pressed the right nerve and left the person with no option but to comply. Now, the pieces would fall into place, as they were always meant to.

Khalid exhaled slowly, his mind shifting to what remained. There was still work to be done. The entry points into the Palais de l'Élysée were being refined, the AI mapping out weaknesses with precision. His men stood ready, unwavering in their devotion. Some would die, but they would do so with purpose. Not just for God, but for him—for Khalid Al-Ghazi, the one who carried out the will of the divine.

He tucked the phone into his pocket and moved forward, his steps silent against the concrete. The corridor stretched ahead, dim and narrow, the air cool against his skin. He welcomed the quiet, the moment between action and consequence. Then, without hesitation, he stepped into the darkness.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

A Secure Facility within the DGSI headquarters

Paris, France

Late Afternoon

The conference room carried the muted tension of a space where too many minds worked through too few answers. A long table stretched between the two groups, the Brigade Criminelle on one side, the DGSI on the other. Folders sat open, tablets glowed with reports, and a large screen displayed an aerial view of Paris, key locations marked with red indicators.

Commissaire Vivienne Girard sat near the center, her posture composed but her thoughts elsewhere. The faint tapping of a pen against the table punctuated the quiet moments between conversations, her mind drifting beyond the room’s walls.

Across from her, Commissaire Charles Bouchard watched with careful eyes. He had worked with her long enough to recognize when something weighed on her. He leaned back slightly in his chair before speaking.

“Vivienne,” he said, his tone even. “Are you with us?”

She blinked, her expression shifting as she straightened. “Of course.”

Bouchard wasn’t convinced, however. “You’ve been quiet. More than usual.”

A small, measured smile crossed her lips, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s personal,” she admitted. “Something I may need to step away from if things take a turn, but for now, I wait.”

Bouchard acknowledged Vivienne's words with a nod before shifting his focus back to the matter at hand. The room remained still as he gathered his thoughts. The assembled team, a mix of DGSI and Brigade Criminelle officers, watched him in quiet anticipation—some poised with their hands over keyboards, others with arms folded as they waited for direction.

Finally, Bouchard spoke.

Despite their efforts, he told them, the investigation had stalled. Digital surveillance continued across radical networks and encrypted chatrooms, but no credible leads had surfaced to indicate who had orchestrated Samir Haddad’s assassination. No group had claimed responsibility, no individual had stepped forward to gloat or threaten further action. It was as if the killing had been a message meant only for those who understood its meaning, and that made the situation all the more difficult to decipher.

The summit was approaching, and with it, the growing risk of another incident. Each passing day without an identified suspect heightened concern. If Haddad’s murder had not been an isolated event but the first step in a larger operation, then they were already behind. The unknown variables made predicting the next move nearly impossible.

Security measures had been reinforced, but defenses meant little without knowing what they were protecting against. If the assassin had ties to a foreign government, it would be a different kind of fight — one of political maneuvering and careful negotiations. But if the culprit belonged to an extremist faction, then the threat was far more unpredictable. A lone actor or an organized cell, a message or the precursor to something catastrophic—it was impossible to say.

The president had issued direct orders to strengthen security at all levels. With no face to the enemy, they had to assume the worst. Every protocol had to be scrutinized, every potential weakness addressed. The lack of intelligence only made their job harder, forcing them to prepare for an attack they couldn’t yet define.

In the dim light of the conference room, the atmosphere grew heavier with unspoken concerns. The reality was clear: they were grasping at shadows, and time was running out.

Bouchard surveyed the room, scanning the faces of those gathered. The summit was now just over a day away, and the absence of a concrete suspect meant they had to pivot. They could no longer afford to focus solely on the investigation—they had to ensure that every dignitary set to attend was protected against an unknown threat. The risk was too great to leave any margin for error.

The discussion shifted toward security measures. The Brigade de Recherche et d’Intervention (BRI) and the Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale (GIGN) would take the lead, working in tandem with the Republican Guard stationed at the palace. Each team had distinct roles, but seamless coordination would be key.

Bouchard outlined the necessary adjustments. Access points needed to be reassessed, security personnel repositioned, and emergency response plans refined. Surveillance would intensify, both physical and digital. While officers continued combing through global chatrooms and encrypted channels, physical patrols around the Palais de l’Élysée would double. Every vehicle, every delivery, every movement near the premises would be subject to scrutiny.

The dignitaries arriving—representatives from the United States, Israel, Lebanon, Germany, and France—required individualized security details, their protection tailored to the threats they might face. American and Israeli personnel would bring their own teams, but the primary responsibility for overall security fell on French forces. This meant constant communication, ensuring that all defenses were aligned without conflicting protocols.

The Republican Guard would manage close protection within the palace, while BRI and GIGN would oversee external security and rapid response. Armed teams would be stationed at key points, ready to intercept any attempt to breach the perimeter. Rooftops, underground access routes, and adjoining buildings were being swept and secured. Entry points were limited to a select few, each reinforced with multiple checkpoints.

The challenge was anticipating the unpredictable. With no known adversary, the threat could come from anywhere—an individual slipping through unnoticed, a coordinated assault, an inside breach. There were too many possibilities, too many ways for failure to take form. The attack on Samir Haddad had been precise, methodical. If the same hands were behind another strike, they had to assume it would be equally calculated.

As the briefing came to a close, officers began filing out, each with a role to execute before the summit commenced. The room emptied quickly, the sense of urgency driving everyone to action.

Bouchard remained seated for a moment, his mind sifting through the moving parts of their operation. As the last of his colleagues exited, his gaze settled on Vivienne. She was the last to leave, her steps slower than usual. There was something off in the way she carried herself—a disconnect, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The night had settled thick and unmoving by the time Fahad arrived, bringing with him the two new recruits. Khalid stood near the doorway, watching as they stepped inside. They were young—too young. Their faces still held traces of childhood, their frames thin, as if they hadn’t yet grown into themselves.

Khalid took them in with a measured glance, assessing more than their physical presence. They lacked the hardened look of men who had suffered long enough to become resolute. Instead, they carried the uncertainty of youth, the kind that wavered when met with something irreversible. He had seen their type before—those who had been stirred by fiery words, drawn in by the idea of sacrifice, only to falter when faced with the final act.

Disappointment settled in him, though he kept it from showing. Was this all his cause could bring? Two boys barely old enough to understand the finality of what they had chosen. They would swear their convictions now, but when the time came—when they stood at the threshold of death—would they hesitate? Would fear root them to the spot, their hands refusing to move, their instincts overpowering their belief? He had witnessed it before, the moment of doubt that turned devotion into cowardice.

Still, they were here. That meant something as they had stepped into this room of their own accord, guided by the promise of something greater than themselves. Khalid would take that and shape it. He would speak to them of purpose, of how their suffering and the suffering of their people were not in vain. He would tell them that they were chosen, that Paradise waited to grant them all they had been denied in this life.

They needed to believe it. And if they did not yet, they soon would.

Khalid did not waste time. He turned to Fahad and motioned for him to follow. The recruits remained where they stood, their presence acknowledged but not addressed further. There would be time for them later. Now, there was work to be done.

“There’s no time for sleep,” Khalid said as they moved toward the adjoining room. “We push ahead. The weapons must be checked—every rifle, every magazine. No malfunctions. The vests, too. I want them ready before dawn.”

Fahad gave a short nod, already anticipating the order. He had been with Khalid long enough to know there was no room for delay, no space for anything but preparation.

“The breach plans are complete,” Fahad said, his voice low. “We’ve identified the weak points of the palace.”

Khalid stopped and turned to him. That was the first solid piece of news he had received all day. The summit was close, and without a defined entry strategy, everything could have fallen apart before it even began.

“Show me,” Khalid said.

Fahad pulled a tablet from his bag and powered it on. The screen illuminated, revealing a digital layout of the palace. He tapped on several areas, highlighting key sections of the structure. Points of access, routes with minimal surveillance, potential obstacles. It was thorough, meticulous.

Khalid studied the screen in silence. Every entryway, every corridor—these details would determine the difference between success and failure. If their calculations were wrong, if the response time of security was underestimated, it could all unravel.

“Download the blueprints onto my phone,” he said finally.

Fahad hesitated for only a second before connecting the burner phone to the device. Files transferred in seconds, leaving no trace once complete.

Khalid took the phone and turned it over in his palm. Within this device was the key to their victory. Every hallway, every blind spot, every potential weakness in the fortress they planned to infiltrate. But maps and diagrams were not enough. Plans on paper meant nothing without execution, and that required someone on the inside—someone who could move unseen, open doors when needed, and ensure their passage was unimpeded.

He slipped the phone into his pocket, his thoughts already moving ahead. The operative had no choice in their role—coerced into compliance, a pawn caught in the current of something far beyond their control. Khalid had ensured their obedience through methods that left no room for defiance. He had no time for theatrics or reassurances—the individual he was about to meet had been manipulated into choosing a side, taking the step that could not be undone, and there would be no second-guessing.

As he adjusted his jacket, he felt the moment settle upon him not as a burden, but as a certainty. The road ahead was set, and he was the one who would lead them through it.

“Continue preparing,” he said. “We move soon.”

With that, Khalid turned and walked forward without hesitation, knowing that what lay ahead was not just another step in the plan, but the beginning of something unstoppable.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Isaiah knelt on the floor of his chamber, hands clasped together, murmuring a quiet prayer. The room was still as the walls of the Palais de l’Élysée stood firm around him, but his thoughts reached beyond them, seeking guidance in the silence.

Suddenly, a vibration broke through the stillness, a subtle hum against the wooden table. His eyes opened and he remained motionless for a brief moment, exhaling before making the sign of the cross. Rising, he walked over and picked up the phone. The screen displayed the caller. Vatican Intelligence.

Isaiah answered without hesitation. At first, his expression remained vacant, but a subtle shift came — a slight narrowing of his gaze, a faint tension in his jaw.

“Are you certain?” His voice was even, but something deeper lay beneath it.

He listened again, the silence in the room amplifying the words on the other end. A slow nod. Then another.

“Where?”

Again, he waited. The answer came. Another nod. No further words were spoken. The call ended.

Isaiah lowered the phone, stared at the screen, then set it aside and sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, head bowed, and shoulders curved inward.

For a time, he remained like that, unmoving, as though the directness of the call had settled into his bones. Then, slowly, he brought his hands up and threaded his fingers into his hair.

A quiet sob escaped him.

And then another.

Alone in the chamber, Isaiah wept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rooftop Bar at Hôtel Dame des Arts

Paris, France

Evening

The rooftop bar sprawled beneath the Parisian night, a sleek arrangement of tables and low-lit fixtures casting a subdued glow against the skyline. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, its golden lights casting a steady glow against the crisp evening air. The moment was completely serene as the quiet hum of conversation mixed with the low pulse of downtempo music, a rhythmic lull that softened the clinking of glassware and the occasional burst of laughter from nearby patrons.

Kimball sat alone, his table marked by the remains of his progress—four shot glasses overturned against the tabletop, three still upright, waiting. He traced a slow finger around one of the waiting glasses, his eyes fixed but unfocused. The burn from the last round had faded, replaced by a familiar dullness creeping at the edges of his mind, a numbing sensation that never lasted long enough to truly settle.

On the television mounted above the bar, PSG players swarmed the field, their victory over Olympique de Marseille playing out in celebration. The sports anchor’s voice carried across the space, caught between updates and replay footage. There was no mention of the upcoming summit, no recycled coverage of heightened security or diplomatic maneuvering. Just the game, the goals, the triumphs that mattered only in the context of a final whistle.

Kimball exhaled as he reached for the next shot. He lifted it, let the liquid settle before tipping it back. The warmth hit first, then the slow descent. Another glass turned over. Five down. Two to go.

He wasn’t pacing himself, wasn’t savoring the taste or the ritual of it. This was just motion, a cycle that would play out again before the night ended. Another round, maybe two. Enough to take the edge off, though the edge always remained.

He stared at the overturned glasses, lined like fallen pieces in a game he no longer knew how to play. The realization, not unfamiliar, sat with him each night, nestled somewhere between the first drink and the last. Kimball, as of late, had become a man without direction, moving only toward the bottom of a glass.

Kimball’s gaze drifted over the empty glasses before him as a familiar sense of worthlessness crept in, not sudden, not overwhelming, but steady—like a dull ache that had never quite faded. He knew the alcohol was the root of it, had always been, yet it remained the one thing he couldn’t abandon. It dulled the edges, softened the blows, even if only for a while. The relief was never real, just a trick his mind played on itself, a temporary escape from the truth he couldn’t face sober. And still, he reached for the next glass, another attempt to blot out the faces that tormented his mind—the men, women, and children he had killed over the years. They never faded completely, only receded into the haze of alcohol, waiting for the moment the numbness wore off to resurface with more clarity than before. He had long stopped trying to justify it, long stopped convincing himself that it had been necessary. Necessary didn’t mean right. Necessary didn’t mean forgivable. And in the eyes of God, he was certain, there would be no pardon.

He drank.

Kimball set the glass down, placing it rim-down beside the others. One more remained. Then he became aware of another presence, a subtle shift in the air signaling he was no longer alone. It wasn’t movement or sound, just something instinctive, the way a man who had lived too long in the shadows could sense when he was no longer alone.

Shame tightened his chest as his fingers hovered over the last shot, but he withdrew his hand, closing his eyes instead. The weight of his sins settled in, heavier than the liquor ever could. He had spent years outrunning the judgment he knew was inevitable, but some things caught up no matter how far he tried to bury himself.

“I was hoping you would never find me.” His voice was low and resigned.

From the dim and moody ambience of the bar, Isaiah emerged from the shadows, his gaze steady and unflinching. He said nothing at first, only watching, his presence a quiet condemnation in itself. The glow of the Eiffel Tower reflected faintly in his eyes, but his focus remained locked on Kimball. Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, with things that neither needed to say but both understood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Paris, France

The figure stood motionless before the window, framed against the glow of Paris at night. Streetlights cast a dim, golden hue over the rooftops, their reflections stretching across the glass. The city was alive—cars winding through narrow streets, distant voices carried by the wind—yet in this darkened apartment, there was only silence.

It had always been easy to believe in morality when life had not tested it. A person could stand firm in their convictions, confident in their choices, so long as desperation had never cornered them. But desperation had a way of stripping a person bare, revealing the lengths they would go to when there was no other way out. And now, faced with an impossible choice, the figure had already begun down a path from which there was no return.

A trembling hand rose to rake through their hair, fingers dragging against their scalp in a futile attempt to soothe the storm inside. The bargain had been made, though not by choice. Khalid had ensured that. This was no ideological shift, no sudden embrace of a cause. It was survival—nothing more, nothing less. Do as he commanded . . . or lose everything.

The figure turned away from the window, no longer able to bear the sight of a city that continued on, unaware of the horror moving beneath its surface. Each step toward the couch felt heavier, as though the air had thickened into something syrupy. Sinking into the cushions, the figure pressed their palms into their face, their body trembling. Sobs came without restraint, deep and shuddering, the kind that tore through the chest and left a person raw.

There was no room for morality anymore. Only the will to protect the ones who mattered most.

The children.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rooftop Bar at Hôtel Dame des Arts

Paris, France

The murmur of conversation and music faded into the background as Isaiah and Kimball sat across from each other. A single full shot glass stood between them, surrounded by the remnants of its fallen predecessors. Kimball’s fingers hovered near the glass, his eyes fixed on the table to avoid Isaiah’s gaze.

Isaiah said nothing at first, just watched Kimball with a blank expression, waiting as the silence stretched between them. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “Well?”

Kimball exhaled through his nose and nodded slightly. He had expected the question and owed Isaiah an answer, though he doubted it would be one worth hearing. His fingers drummed against the table before he finally spoke.

“The idealist inside me is dead,” he finally said, his voice even, almost detached. “And the realist took over.”

Isaiah’s focus sharpened.

Kimball leaned back in his chair with his gaze fixed downward. “I spent too many years believing that redemption was something I could reach,” he said. “And if I just kept trying—if I kept on pushing forward—I’d eventually get there. But the truth is, Isaiah, my journey was one of impossible achievement.” Another sigh from Kimball, his shoulders deflated. And then, “All that time when I thought I was moving toward the Light . . . I was just running in circles.”

Isaiah remained silent, taking in every word. Kimball knew he was being studied and measured.

“I don’t deserve it,” Kimball continued, his tone quiet but firm. “I never did. And I don’t care to try anymore. What’s the point? It’s just wasted effort. Redemption, salvation—whatever you want to call it—it’s for people who still have something left to save.”

He finally lifted his eyes, meeting Isaiah’s gaze. There was no anger in them, no self-pity. Just certainty.

Isaiah’s expression remained still at first, but then his eyebrows dipped sharply over the bridge of his nose. The small shift in his features was the first real sign of emotion since he had arrived. “That’s not what I was asking,” he finally said, his voice controlled, though there was an edge to it. “I wasn’t talking about your fight for the Light.” His fingers curled slightly against the tabletop. “I was talking about why you faked your death.”

Kimball tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. He had known the question would come eventually. He just hadn’t expected Isaiah to ask it with this much restraint.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then let out a slow breath. “Because I wanted a clean break,” he said simply. “From everything.”

Isaiah gave a short, sharp shake of his head, unconvinced.

Kimball looked down at the single untouched shot glass, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down again. “I didn’t deserve to be a part of the Church,” he continued. “Not on any level. The Society of Seven saw me for what I was. A man without restrictions. A man who killed in the name of God. But I should have known better because there is no God that would ever condone the killing of another man.”

Isaiah’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Kimball leaned back with his hands resting loosely in his lap. “And it broke my heart to do it,” he admitted. “To walk away. To let everyone believe I was gone.” His voice dropped slightly as the weight of his words settled between them. “But it had to be that way. A clean cut. No room for doubt. I wanted to be nothing more than a memory to those I loved.”

Isaiah was holding himself in check, Kimball could tell, his restraint almost visible, like a thread pulled tight.

“People get over their losses in time,” Kimball continued, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. “It’s rough in the beginning, but it works out in the end.”

Isaiah’s hand curled into a fist before relaxing again as he took a slow, measured breath and exhaled, no doubt choosing his words carefully.

“You say that like you know that’s what really happens,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

Kimball didn’t respond.

Isaiah leaned forward with his gaze locked onto Kimball’s. “I mourned you,” he said, his voice steady but strained. “Greatly. I lost myself in it at times. Questioned everything. My faith, my purpose. All of it.”

Kimball’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

“I asked why,” Isaiah continued. “Why a good man would be taken when his entire mission in life was to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.” He shook his head slightly, the tension in his shoulders apparent now. “That was who you were. That’s who you still are, even if you refuse to see it. You lived by that principle, even if it meant losing yourself in the process.”

Kimball exhaled, slow and controlled. His eyes moved away, just for a second, before settling back on Isaiah. Then, “I had . . . to go, Isaiah,” he said again, quieter this time.

Isaiah didn’t react immediately. He sat there, unmoving, letting the silence stretch. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, yet firm. “Had to?” he repeated. “Or wanted to?”

Kimball let out a quiet breath through his nose, somewhere between frustration and acceptance. “Both.”

Isaiah’s expression didn’t change. He was waiting for more.

Kimball leaned back slightly, resting an arm on the edge of the table. “I got tired,” he admitted. “Tired of pretending I belonged. Tired of looking up at the cross above the Basilica every day, knowing it didn’t belong to me.” His fingers tapped against the table, slow, methodical. “The life I lived, the things I did—they didn’t belong in the Light. And I got tired of being a hypocrite, forced to play the part of a man reaching for something he had no business claiming.”

Isaiah studied him with sharp eyes.

Kimball continued. “You know where I was most comfortable?” he said, his voice quieter now. “In the Darkness. That was my safe zone. My comfort zone. It didn’t ask me to change. It didn’t ask me to atone. It didn’t expect anything from me.”

Isaiah’s fingers curled slightly on the tabletop. “So, what?” he asked. “You wanted a new life?”

Kimball nodded. “That’s exactly it.”

Isaiah lifted a hand and gestured toward the table—toward the empty shot glasses, rim-down in neat little rows. “This?” he asked. “Is this your new life? Drinking yourself into waywardness?”

Kimball followed Isaiah’s gaze, staring at the evidence laid out in front of him. He could feel the buzz of the alcohol humming through his system, the familiar numbness creeping in.

Then, as if in defiance—against Isaiah, against himself—he grabbed the last remaining glass and tipped it back, swallowing the whiskey in one long pull. The burn was dull now, almost nonexistent.

He placed the empty glass down with an audible clink, then raised a hand toward the bartender for another round.

Isaiah’s expression didn’t shift, though something in his posture did. A quiet disappointment settled into the set of his shoulders.

His voice remained even. “You’ve changed,” he said. “You’ve fallen.”

Kimball felt his jaw tighten.

“The Kimball Hayden I knew,” Isaiah went on, “was an honorable man whose scepter of rule, before going into battle, was the metaphorical Sword of Light, raised high for all to see.” His tone didn’t rise, but there was something in his words that struck deep. “Your courage was unbound. And now, all I see is a man defeated.” Isaiah leaned forward slightly. “A liar. A defector of courage.”

Kimball’s fingers twitched against the table. He inhaled through his nose, slow and steady, though there was a heat in his chest now. His eyes flicked to Isaiah, sharp.

“I am neither,” he said, his voice clipped.

Isaiah didn’t respond, letting the words settle.

Kimball exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “You think I don’t know what I’ve become?” he asked. “You think I don’t feel it, every damn day?” He gestured vaguely at the empty glasses. “This? It’s not an escape. It’s not even an answer. It’s a distraction.”

Isaiah watched him, unmoving.

Kimball’s voice was quieter now, though the edge in it remained. “I’m tired of grasping for something that will always be out of reach.” He tapped a finger against the table once, absentmindedly. “I spent years convincing myself that I could earn redemption.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “I finally accepted the truth.”

Isaiah lifted a brow. “And what truth is that?”

Kimball met his gaze. “That some men aren’t meant for the Light.”

Isaiah’s face remained unreadable, but something in his eyes sharpened. “And you think drowning yourself in whiskey will fix that?”

Kimball exhaled a short breath. “It blunts the pain.” His fingers curled slightly. “That feeling you have—the one you keep to yourself. The guilt, the self-doubt, the questioning. I had that, too. Even as a Vatican Knight, it clung to me.” His voice dropped slightly, as if speaking the next words aloud made them more real. “And I never found a way to rid myself of it.”

Isaiah held his gaze, unwavering. “Then maybe you weren’t meant to rid yourself of it,” he said simply.

Kimball didn’t answer as the bartender placed seven shot glasses in front of him. But for the first time that night, he didn’t reach for one. Instead, he exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. “I don’t need you to judge me, Isaiah. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Isaiah leaned back with his expression steady, waiting.

Kimball’s lips pressed together before he continued. “God judged me long ago,” he said, then glanced at the glasses in front of him, but still, he didn’t reach. “You want to know when? It was when I killed my first innocent person.” His voice didn’t waver, though something in his eyes darkened. “And then another. And another . . . Children included.”

Isaiah’s expression remained stoic, but Kimball saw something flicker behind his eyes.

“And that,” Kimball went on, tapping a finger against the rim of one glass, “is something you need to see. Something you need to accept.” He lifted his eyes to meet Isaiah’s. “I’m not the man you think I am. You need to stop placing me on a pedestal, because I don’t belong there.”

Isaiah’s jaw tensed slightly. “And how exactly do you think others see you?”

Kimball scoffed. “I don’t care how others see me.”

“Don’t you?” Isaiah’s voice was level. “Because it seems to me like you’re caught in the past, unwilling to let go of it.”

Kimball shook his head. “That’s not it.”

“What is it then?”

Kimball exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s a fact,” he said simply. “My past. A period in my life where I was stripped of my conscience, where I killed without hesitation.” His fingers curled slightly against the tabletop. “And if I’m being honest, there were moments when I enjoyed it.”

Isaiah remained still, watching him carefully.

“There were times,” Kimball continued, “when I relished the kill. The way they looked at me—their terror-stricken eyes, pleading, not understanding why. Right up until the moment I pulled the trigger.” His voice was steady, but the way his fingers tensed against the wood gave him away.

Even now, those faces haunted him.

“They don’t go away, Isaiah,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Even after all these years. They’re still there. Watching.” His gaze drifted, though not toward anything in particular. “And sleep, whenever I can get it, is a luxury.”

Isaiah studied him for a long moment, his features unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke. “And you think drowning yourself in this will make them go away?” He nodded toward the shot glasses lined before Kimball.

Kimball didn’t answer. Because they both already knew the truth.

Kimball reached for a shot glass, tipped it back with a practiced motion, and set it rim down beside the others. The burn in his throat was immediate, familiar. Across the table, Isaiah remained silent, watching.

Kimball wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let the quiet settle between them before finally asking, “How’d you find me?”

Isaiah didn’t blink. “Shari Cohen called me.”

Kimball’s brows lifted slightly. “That so?”

“She told me about a man matching your description,” Isaiah continued, “who wasn’t even bothering to hide his real name. Said he showed up in Texas, tangled up in something that happened with a mining company.”

Kimball’s fingers idly traced the rim of an overturned glass. “A lot of men match my description.”

“Not many who walk into a cartel operation and dismantle it like you did.” Isaiah’s tone remained even. “Mining company was working in collusion with the Mexican cartel—drugs, weapons, human trafficking. Profiting off all of it. Then, from nowhere, a ghost appears and beats them into paste.” He leaned forward slightly. “Sound like anyone you know?”

Kimball huffed through his nose but said nothing.

Isaiah continued, “It sounded like the Kimball Hayden I once knew. The man who, no matter how far he tried to fall, always landed on the side of conviction.”

Kimball scoffed, shaking his head. “Conviction,” he muttered, more to himself than to Isaiah.

Isaiah sat back. “After that, I did something I never thought I’d do.”

Kimball lifted an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

Isaiah met his gaze. “I disturbed your tomb.”

A muscle twitched in Kimball’s jaw, but he kept his expression neutral.

“Found it empty,” Isaiah went on. “So, I confronted the pontiff. Thought maybe he’d have answers.” He paused. “But he was evasive.”

Kimball smirked. “Imagine that.”

“So, I took it a step further,” Isaiah went on. “I told Vatican Intelligence.”

That got Kimball’s attention.

Isaiah nodded. “They found your Vatican passport had been used more than a few times since your so-called death. The dead man, it seems, has been traveling well.”

Kimball’s expression didn’t change, but he no longer feigned indifference.

Isaiah studied him for a moment before saying, “Then they used facial recognition and found you here in Paris. Checked into the Hôtel Dame des Arts. Again, under your real name.”

Kimball let out a low chuckle, perhaps an attempt to lighten the tension. “Not exactly hiding, am I?”

“No,” Isaiah said. “And I wasn’t surprised to find you in the bar.” He motioned to the empty glasses. “First place I looked. I knew I wouldn’t have to look far.”

Kimball didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the glasses in front of him as if they held answers. Then, finally, he muttered, “Guess you know me better than I thought.”

Kimball hesitated, his fingers grazing the edge of an overturned glass. His expression shifted, the smirk fading into something somber as he inhaled slowly, then asked, “Does Shari know I’m still around?”

Isaiah shook his head. “Not yet.”

Kimball’s gaze lifted, searching Isaiah’s face.

When their eyes met, Isaiah continued, “I haven’t told the Vatican Knights either. But if they ask, I won’t lie. Especially to Shari.” He let that settle between them before adding, “I keep in contact with her. She’ll ask. She has her suspicions. Maybe even hopes.”

Kimball nodded a quiet acknowledgment. Then his eyes lowered again, staring at the grain of the wooden table. When he spoke, his voice was measured. “I saw her once.”

Isaiah blinked. “Where?”

“New York. She was in a park . . . With another man.” Kimball’s fingers tapped lightly against the rim of a glass. “She looked happy.”

Isaiah said nothing.

“So, I let her go,” Kimball continued. “Because that’s what you do when you love someone, right? You let them go . . . Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

Isaiah’s expression remained neutral.

“I walked away from everything I ever loved,” Kimball went on, his voice quiet but firm. “That includes you.” He met Isaiah’s eyes. “You were always my brother.”

Isaiah absorbed the words but didn’t soften. “I don’t buy it.”

Kimball raised an eyebrow.

“If you wanted to walk away, you could have just said so,” Isaiah said. “You didn’t have to fake your own death.”

Kimball shook his head. “No. I tried that before. Tried to start over, leave it all behind. Never worked.” He leaned forward slightly. “Because as long as I saw you, spoke to you, kept even the smallest connection, I’d never be free of it. I’d never be free of my past. And I couldn’t be saddled with those ties.”

Isaiah studied him for a long moment.

Kimball broke the silence first. “How did she take it?”

Isaiah didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and asked, “How do you think?”

Kimball closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them, waiting for the answer he already knew.

“She was devastated,” Isaiah said, his voice steady. “Losing you wrecked her.”

Kimball nodded slowly, but when he spoke, there was an edge to his tone. “Didn’t take her long to move on.”

Isaiah’s expression darkened. “She didn’t just move on, Kimball. She survived. She clawed her way through hell just to get back to some semblance of peace.” He leaned in, eyes sharp. “And that? That was on you.”

Kimball swallowed but said nothing.

Isaiah sat back. “You forced her through fire just so you could make a clean break.” His voice was quieter now, but there was no mistaking the meaning. “That was your choice. Not hers.”

Kimball sat in silence with his fingers resting against the rim of an untouched shot glass. His throat felt tight, and for the first time in a long while, he found himself without words. Shame sat heavy in his chest, spreading through him like something slow and corrosive. After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke. “It was never my intention to hurt anyone.” His voice was lacking its usual edge. “I just wanted to be alone. To live my life on my terms.”

Isaiah didn’t respond right away. He just watched, unmoving, waiting for Kimball to follow his own words to their inevitable conclusion.

Kimball’s gaze drifted downward, falling on the shot glasses lined in front of him. This was the life he had chosen. The one he’d sacrificed everything for. The one that had cost him his friends, his faith, and his sense of purpose. And what did it amount to? A dimly lit bar, a row of empty glasses, and a man drinking himself into oblivion because he had nothing else left.

He reached for a glass and tipped it back in one smooth motion. The burn felt muted now, dull. Without hesitation, he grabbed another and did the same.

Isaiah exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re right.”

Kimball frowned slightly, setting the empty glass down. “About what?”

Isaiah’s eyes didn’t waver. “Maybe Kimball Hayden did die after all.” He gestured vaguely at the glasses. “Because the man sitting in front of me isn’t the man I knew.”

The words hit harder than Kimball expected as he clenched his teeth and willed himself not to react.

But Isaiah wasn’t finished.

“I’ll pray for you, Kimball,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Not for redemption—you don’t believe in that. Not for forgiveness—you think it’s beyond you. But I’ll pray that one day you look in the mirror and see the man you used to be, because the man I knew wouldn’t have given up like this.” Isaiah got to his feet and pushed his chair back without ceremony. “Enjoy your new life, Kimball.”

Kimball said nothing as Isaiah turned and walked away. He wanted him to stop. To turn around. To give some kind of sign that there was still something left to salvage between them. But Isaiah never looked back.

As the door swung shut behind him, Kimball let out a slow breath. Then, almost defiantly, he grabbed another glass and knocked it back.

And another.

And another.

By the time the last one hit the table, his pulse had settled into something slow and even, his body buzzing with alcohol. He raised a hand to the bartender without hesitation.

“Another round.”

Seven more shot glasses slid in front of him.

The night for Kimball Hayden was just getting started.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

Khalid sat in silence, the dim glow of a single lantern casting elongated shadows against the stone walls of his chamber. He rarely slept since rest was a luxury for men who had the time to waste on it, his thoughts always sharp and unyielding as they fixed on what lay ahead.

He knew the power of children, the leverage they provided in war. The girls in his custody, hidden away in a secure chamber, were more than just captives. They were tools—motivational instruments that would ensure obedience, devotion, and the unrelenting will to see his conquest through. When a person had something to lose, they were far less likely to betray his cause. And when the cause was ingrained deeply enough, they would fight without hesitation and without mercy.

The thought settled within him, solid and unwavering. Closing his eyes for a moment, he centered himself in quiet meditation, finding internal peace. Then, with purpose, he stood, his time for reflection over.

Stepping out of his chamber, he strode down the dimly lit corridor, the flickering light from wall-mounted lanterns barely scoring the darkness beyond their reach.

When he entered the comm center, the room was alive with the glow of laptop screens and work lamps, their feeble light reflecting off tired faces. Across the room, his two newest recruits sat on the floor with their rifles partially disassembled in their laps. Waleed and Momar stood over them, watching as they struggled to break down and reassemble their weapons with efficiency.

Khalid observed in silence, his gaze sharp. The recruits’ hands fumbled—not out of fear, but from inexperience. The metallic clinks of shifting parts echoed against the walls, an uneven rhythm that spoke of their lack of coordination.

Then Khalid’s attention shifted to Fahad, who stood by, waiting. Then in a voice that was even and measured, he asked Fahad, “Will they be ready when the time comes?”

Fahad met his gaze without hesitation. “They lack refinement but not resolve. They’re both willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of Allah and show no fear. That's all we can ask for.”

A faint smile touched Khalid’s lips—an expression so rare that Fahad couldn’t tell if it was genuine or something calculated since with Khalid, it was always difficult to tell.

“Are you certain about their dedication to Allah?” Khalid asked.

Fahad nodded. “I have seen men hesitate and so have you. But these two will not.”

Khalid stepped away from Fahad without another word, moving toward the recruits with measured strides. They remained seated on the floor with their hands working through the breakdown of their rifles, but their motions were hesitant, clumsy. Small parts slipped from their fingers, the rhythm of assembly uneven.

Khalid said nothing at first, only observing. Their faces, young and unscarred by experience, showed effort but no natural instinct. Waleed caught Khalid’s gaze from across the room, his expression blank at first. Then, with the barest shake of his head, Waleed gave his silent assessment — no. These two were not fighters. What they lacked in the honed skills of soldiers whose reflexes had been shaped by combat—all they had was conviction.

Khalid returned a nod, but his answer carried a different meaning. It’s all right. The heart is the greatest weapon of all.

Khalid knew this exercise was meaningless. These boys wouldn’t need to fire a single shot. The vests they would wear would be their true weapons, their faith the only requirement for the coming task. Their purpose had already been decided, long before they sat here fumbling with rifle parts. This exercise was not for efficiency, but belief. They needed to feel useful, to understand that the weapons in their hands were not just instruments of war but symbols of divine will.

He crouched down beside them, his presence causing them to stiffen slightly. Their fingers moved faster, more determined, but no more precise. He watched them struggle for another moment before speaking. “You’re doing fine.” His voice carried certainty, leaving no room for doubt. “Allah is pleased.”

Their eyes flicked up toward him, searching for approval. Encouraged, they redoubled their efforts, though their hands remained unsteady. Khalid let them continue, knowing the illusion was necessary.

Rising, he returned to Fahad, who remained seated at the laptop station, eyes scanning the muted news broadcasts. The screens flickered between reports from CNN International, the BBC, and a French news network, all running different angles of the same global events. Arabic translations crawled along the bottom of the screens, detailing developments Khalid already expected. The world watched, analyzed, speculated—but it never truly saw what was coming.

Khalid took in the shifting images, the familiar faces of politicians attending the summit. Then, without looking away from the monitors, he spoke evenly. “It’s time for the next phase.”

Fahad didn’t hesitate. He rose from his chair and moved away from the workstation, disappearing into the corridors beyond.

Khalid remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the screens. Behind him, the sound of metal scraping against metal filled the room as the recruits continued their futile work, the pieces of their rifles clicking together in disjointed rhythm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The van rolled to a silent stop with its headlights cutting out the moment the tires settled against the curb. The hum of the engine faded, leaving only the distant murmur of the city beyond the Seine. Across the water, Paris shimmered, its lights casting fractured reflections on the slow-moving current, but here, beneath the shadow of an old stone bridge, the world felt abandoned.

The lot stretched wide and unkempt, choked with weeds that curled through the gaps of a rusted chain-link fence. Sections of the metal sagged where time and neglect had eaten away at its integrity. Patches of graffiti marred the concrete supports of the bridge, remnants of those who had passed through. Torn scraps of fabric fluttered from fence posts, the remnants of makeshift shelters long since abandoned.

It was the kind of place that should have harbored life — a gathering ground for the displaced, a sanctuary for those the city ignored. But tonight, it stood empty. No ragged tents, no cardboard bedding, no lingering scent of burning trash or murmured voices drifting through the dark.

Only stillness.

A breeze pushed through the lot, rustling through the brittle weeds. A plastic bag, caught in the fence, twisted and flapped before settling again. Somewhere in the distance, a siren echoed, muffled by the vastness of the city.

The van remained motionless, its presence an intrusion in the desolation.

Inside, behind darkened windows, Khalid and Fahad waited, the dim light from the dashboard casting a muted glow over them, shadows deepening in the cramped space. The silence stretched between them, while outside, the night pressed in, the city’s distant life feeling worlds away.

Fahad shifted in his seat, the man on edge. “Security will be a problem,” he muttered. “They’ve reinforced the palace ranks. New personnel. New protocols. They’ve adapted.” His voice carried a quiet frustration, laced with something close to doubt.

Khalid, sitting composed, barely moved. “All security has its flaws,” he told him. “No matter how many layers they add, there are always openings. And the strategic use of children is something no protocol fully accounts for. Those that we took . . . They’re more than just tools for infiltration. They’re leverage. A person fights hardest when they have something to lose. When their family is at stake, they do not hesitate, do not question. They commit because there is no other path left to them.” His gaze flickered toward the darkened window. “That is how loyalty is forged, Fahad. Not through belief alone, but through necessity. Once they have crossed that threshold, once their hands are stained, they will fight with conviction.”

Fahad sat back, silent, knowing Khalid spoke the truth. There was no greater motivator than desperation.

“Don’t let fear poison your mind,” Khalid said, turning to face him fully. “This plan will work, so I don’t want to hear any second guessing from you—especially you. Allah will shield us, for we act in the name of our Palestinian brothers. The cause is just. You need to remember that.”

Fahad nodded, but his eyes remained downward on the floor as if searching for reassurance in the patterns of worn metal beneath his feet.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the fence.

Across the bridge, a pair of headlights cut through the dark, creeping forward until a car emerged into the vacant lot. It rolled to a stop, the glow of its beams vanishing as the engine cut. The vehicle sat in silence, a darkened shape against the abandoned landscape.

For a moment, nothing. Then, the soft click of a door opening. The interior light flickered on—just a brief flash, but not enough to reveal the driver’s identity. Then the door shut behind a lone figure that now stood beside the car, waiting.

Inside the van, Khalid remained composed as he slipped a burner phone from his pocket. His fingers moved with practiced precision as a pointed finger tapped on an app that activated the voice modulator, distorting whatever would pass through its speaker. Another tap on the numerical keypad sent a call out into the night.

Across the lot, the figure stirred. A burner phone lifted to their ear in perfect sync with the ringing from Khalid’s device.

Khalid spoke first, his voice hollowed by the metallic filter. “To reiterate, you know what happens if you’ve brought anyone with you.”

“I haven’t.”

“Good,” Khalid said. “Because if that changes, so does the fate of the children.”

A pause. The figure’s posture stiffened. “Are they all right?”

“For now.” Khalid’s answer was neither reassuring nor cruel—simply a fact. His voice remained level, the distortion making it devoid of warmth. “Harming them serves me no purpose. I have seen too many children suffer. I know the innocence they carry. But make no mistake . . .” He leaned forward slightly, as if the figure could somehow feel the words closer. “They are pawns. And like all pawns, they are moved at the will of others.”

The figure exhaled sharply, though it was unclear if it was from frustration or restrained emotion. They remained still, phone held tight to their ear, waiting for whatever came next.

The silence stretched between them, thick and expectant. Khalid remained still in the van with the distorted echo of his own breath crackling through the modulated speaker. Across the lot, the figure held the phone tight, waiting.

“Did you bring what I asked for?” Khalid’s asked. “No more, no less.”

The figure didn’t answer right away. Instead, the figure turned and moved toward the rear of the sedan. The trunk popped open with a muted click, the lid lifting just enough to reveal the dark interior. Without hesitation, the shape reached in and heaved two large duffel bags onto the dirt. The soft thud of impact sent a small puff of dust curling into the air before it settled back into the stillness of the night.

Khalid watched, his expression giving nothing away. And then, “You understand that these will be searched. Not just unzipped and glanced over, but broken down, every seam checked, every lining examined. If there is even the smallest device, the faintest signal . . .” He let the thought linger, unfinished, knowing the mind fills in threats far worse than those spoken aloud.

The figure’s head tilted slightly toward the phone, their voice measured but tight. “There’s nothing. No trackers. No signals. Just what you wanted.”

Khalid leaned back against the seat with his free hand resting against his knee. “I want to believe you,” he said evenly. “I do. But I should remind you that even now, even as we speak, the children have blades to their throats. Waiting. All it takes is one sign that something is wrong.”

He let the words settle, crafting the illusion with precision. He could almost hear the breath hitch on the other end.

“Please.” The figure’s voice broke, strained under the pressure. “I swear—there’s nothing. No tricks. No hidden eyes. You have what you asked for.”

A pause.

Khalid remained motionless, his mind shifting through possibilities. The night stretched on with the duffel bags sitting untouched in the dust, the wind stirring faintly through the broken fence. Then, finally, he made his decision.

Khalid, still motionless in the van, kept his gaze on the distant figure. Without looking at Fahad, he issued a single word.

“Go.”

Fahad pulled his ski mask down in one swift motion, adjusting it snugly before reaching behind his back. The soft rasp of fabric shifting over metal was barely audible as he drew his suppressed sidearm. Without hesitation, he slipped out of the van, shutting the door just enough to avoid a sound that could carry in the still night.

He moved quickly and crossed the street with smooth efficiency. When he reached the broken-down fence, it presented no obstacle as he scaled it in a few swift motions and landed lightly on the other side. Shadows swallowed him as he advanced toward the waiting figure, pistol raised, the barrel a dark extension of his hand.

Inside the van, Khalid remained on the line, his voice calm, measured. “No harm will come to you,” he assured. “If all is well.”

The figure’s breath was audible through the receiver. “There are no tricks or hidden eyes. I told you the truth.”

Khalid let the response settle, then gave the next order. “Tell my man to proceed.”

From his vantage point, he saw the figure lower the phone slightly, and said, “Go ahead.”

Khalid caught the words over the open line just as Fahad responded with a sharp nod. The gun disappeared back into his waistband as he crouched beside the bags, running a careful hand along the fabric before unzipping the first one.

The inspection was meticulous as Fahad worked through each compartment, each pocket, his hands moving with methodical precision. He emptied the contents onto the ground, running his fingers along the seams, flipping items over, checking for anything out of place.

Minutes dragged on as the figure remained still, watching, the shape’s posture betraying unease. Khalid stayed silent as he listened to the occasional shuffle of fabric and the soft clink of metal against metal as Fahad moved through each item.

Twenty minutes passed before Fahad finally stood, dusting off his hands. He turned, glancing toward the van. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, he raised a hand and flashed a thumbs-up.

Khalid kept the phone steady as he spoke. “I will be sending you a blueprint of the Palais de l'Élysée,” he said, his voice calm, methodical, metallic sounding. “Along with mapped-out sections that serve as ways into the palace—the paths of least resistance. Given your position, you will ensure these paths are cleared.”

The figure shifted slightly but did not immediately respond. When they did, their voice was edged with hesitation.

“My power only extends so far.”

Khalid’s tone did not change. “And yet, you know what is at stake.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Then, Khalid spoke again, each word measured.

“There will be no discussion or debate on this. You will find a way to alter the security plans.” He let the clout of his command settle before asking, “Can it be done?”

Another pause. Then, finally, the answer came.

“Yes. It can be done.”

“Good.”

Khalid tapped the screen, sending the blueprints to the burner phone. Across the lot, he could see the glow from the figure’s screen as they studied the file, scanning the corridors marked in red. The AI-driven analysis had determined these were the optimal routes—passages where security presence could be minimized with the right influence.

Seconds passed. The figure kept their eyes on the phone, absorbing the details.

Then, lifting the burner back to their ear, the figure spoke. “And if something changes? If there are complications?”

“Then make sure there aren’t,” Khalid replied evenly. “Move quickly. Time is short. This plan must be solid and without disruption.” He allowed the warning to settle before adding, “From this point forward, I will be in constant contact. I expect updates. Assurances. There will be no surprises.”

Then, without waiting for acknowledgment, Khalid ended the call.

The figure lowered their hand, signaling the end of the call. Fahad, recognizing the gesture, wasted no time. He grabbed the duffel bags, hoisting them up with ease, and turned toward the van. His movements were efficient, purposeful, his boots scuffing against the uneven ground as he made his way back.

Meanwhile, the figure opened the sedan’s door and slid into the driver’s seat. A moment later, the engine turned over, the low purr barely audible beneath the bridge. Headlights remained off as the vehicle reversed, maneuvering carefully out of the lot’s uneven terrain. Then, with a slow turn, it pulled away from the deserted space, rolling out from beneath the stone bridge and toward the distant glow of the city.

Fahad, reaching the van, slid the side door open just enough to toss the bags inside. The soft thud of heavy fabric against the floor was the only sound before he shut the door with a controlled motion. Without looking back, he climbed into the front passenger seat.

No words were exchanged as the van eased forward, its tires crunching softly over debris before slipping into the darkness beyond the bridge, disappearing into the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kimball staggered into his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that felt heavier than it should have. The world moved in slow, uneven waves around him, the alcohol coursing through his veins like a warm, familiar drug, numbing every sharp edge. His limbs felt loose, his thoughts sluggish, but there was a certain bliss in it—the kind that erased everything he didn't want to think about.

He swayed toward the mirror, catching a blurred version of himself before his vision focused. Isaiah’s stinging words still rang in his mind, an echo he couldn’t drink away. Not the man I knew. Not the brother I loved. A stranger.

The face staring back was barely his own. Deep lines carved his skin, the grooves more pronounced under the dim lighting. The shadows beneath his eyes had darkened, giving his face a sunken, hollow look. His eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, were bloodshot from too many nights like this, too many drinks meant to drown out things that refused to sink. Then he lifted a hand and ran his fingers along his jaw, feeling the unfamiliar slackness in his skin, the way his face seemed to droop as if he were melting into someone else.

This was who he had become.

The alcohol softened everything, blurred the edges of regret and memory, dulled the ache of things unsaid. But even now, in the dull glow of the room, he could see the truth staring back at him. Isaiah had seen it, too. That was why he had left. That was why his words had carried more than disappointment — they carried the kind of sorrow reserved for something already lost.

Kimball exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment, but there was no escaping it. The man in the mirror would still be there when he opened them, a reflection of a life lived in self-imposed exile.

Was this his future?

The thought lingered of coming nights spent in drunken oblivion, detached from everything, floating in a world of blurred edges and fading clarity. No redemption, no light—just an existence slowly unraveling into darkness.

He wanted to scoff and to dismiss the thought as nothing more than self-pity, but deep down, he knew better. This wasn’t some tragic misunderstanding. This wasn’t a man finding solace. This was a man running. And at some point, there would be nowhere left to go.

Kimball opened his eyes again, looking at himself. Isaiah had seen the truth. Now, so did he.

And it disgusted him.

Kimball turned away from the mirror, unable to look at himself any longer. A dull throb pounded at his temples, the alcohol’s haze settling over him like a thick fog. The room stretched and swayed around him as he made his way toward the bed, his steps slow and unsteady. The decor was typical—muted colors, a television mounted on the wall, a desk with a chair pushed slightly askew. Nothing out of place, nothing remarkable, yet everything appeared distant, as though he were viewing it through murky glass.

Lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, he sat motionless with his hands resting on his knees. His vision blurred as he stared at nothing in particular, caught between thought and the numbing effects of the liquor. The silence in the room felt thick, pressing in on him, leaving him alone with everything he had been trying to escape.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen’s glow illuminated his tired features as he swiped through his directory, scrolling past names that no longer held meaning until he reached the one that did. Isaiah.

His thumb hovered over the name while a strange tightness coiled in his chest, a mix of hesitation and something dangerously close to regret. He knew he should call, knew that if there was ever a moment to reach out, it was now, while he still had enough clarity to recognize his own failings.

But what if Isaiah didn’t answer?

What if the silence on the other end confirmed everything Kimball feared? That the bridge between them had burned beyond repair. That he was alone in a way that even alcohol couldn’t blur.

The doubt gnawed at him, but before he could think himself out of it, he tapped the number.

The dial tone rang once. Then twice. A third time.

Voicemail.

Isaiah’s voice filled the line, unchanged, steady, and familiar. A reminder of a time before everything unraveled. Before Kimball had become this—whatever this was.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. What could he even say? That he was sorry? That he wanted to be someone Isaiah could respect again? That he didn’t know how to claw his way back?

His courage slipped away as quickly as it had come, and he ended the call without leaving a message. The screen dimmed as he placed the phone beside him, the unanswered call another failure added to the list.

Leaning back, he let himself sink into the mattress and stared blankly at the ceiling. The room felt colder now, his limbs heavy and his thoughts muddled as exhaustion pulled at him. Soon, his eyes drifted shut and sleep took him—not restful, not peaceful, but an escape all the same.

* * *

Isaiah sat at his desk in his chamber within the Palais de l'Élysée, surrounded by a fortress of documents, digital screens, and tactical layouts. A series of security measures were being finalized—protocols that required absolute precision, a coordination between the DGSI and the Brigade de Recherche et d’Intervention. Every potential breach point, every weak link in the perimeter, had been scrutinized, adjustments made accordingly.

The screens displayed blueprints and live security footage. Every measure had to function in seamless unison, each unit operating not as separate entities but as one cohesive force. The logistics alone were an enormous undertaking, requiring constant oversight and adjustments as new intelligence emerged. Every contingency had to be anticipated, allowing for no gaps or errors.

As he reviewed the latest amendments, his phone vibrated against the polished wood of his desk. His gaze shifted to the screen, catching the glow before it faded. Kimball Hayden.

Isaiah remained still, letting the call fade into silence. A moment later, the screen dimmed, the connection broken. He exhaled slowly, then reached for the device, checking the voicemail log. Nothing. No message left behind. Only an unanswered attempt at contact.

He set the phone back down, careful and slow, as if the call carried something heavier than the security plans before him. His focus remained on the darkened screen a moment longer, his thoughts momentarily slipping from strategy and logistics to the man on the other end of that severed call.

Kimball.

There had been a time when an unanswered call between them would have been unthinkable. When their trust had been something unshakable, a bond forged through fire and battle. Now, that connection felt frayed, barely holding.

The moment passed, and Isaiah straightened in his chair, forcing his attention back to the documents before him, knowing there was no room for distraction.

Still, the call lingered, unspoken, a voice unheard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

Fahad strode into the comm center of the subterranean lair, the duffel bags in each hand heavy with their contents. The room was dimly lit, the glow from the monitors casting a cold blue hue over the space, where maps and schematics cluttered every available surface.

With a controlled motion, Fahad dropped both bags onto the central table, then he unzipped one bag, reached inside, and pulled out the first set of uniforms. Black fabric unfurled beneath his hands, crisp and marked with bold white initials on the back: BRI. A name that commanded authority, fear, and unquestioned access in the right circumstances.

One by one, Fahad laid out the pieces—four identical uniforms, each meticulously folded. The accompanying Kevlar helmets followed, their matte finish absorbing the dim light. Tactical cargo pants, combat boots, gloves—every detail accounted for. A complete disguise, one that would allow them to move undetected where no ordinary man could.

Khalid stood over the display with his gaze tracing the gear in measured silence. This was the moment when planning took shape, when abstract ideas transformed into tangible reality. The uniforms were more than just fabric and armor; they were the key to bypassing obstacles, the final touch to a strategy long in the making.

Around the table, the others took in the sight with their own private thoughts. No words were spoken, but the moment settled over them. The recruits had committed themselves to a path from which there was no return, and now, standing before the tools that would solidify their roles, the importance of that decision was undeniable.

Khalid, however, noticed what the others failed to acknowledge. Among the silent faces, one stood out—pale, drawn, betraying emotions he wished to hide. The young recruit’s fingers twitched slightly at his sides, his breathing shallow. His features bore the look Khalid had seen countless times—a man who had dreamt of martyrdom, of glory, of righteous sacrifice, only to come face to face with the stark reality of what that truly meant.

Khalid shifted his focus fully to him, watching as the recruit swallowed hard, his gaze flickering toward the uniforms before darting away. The false bravado he had carried before was gone, stripped away by the nearness of the mission.

Stepping forward, Khalid placed a hand lightly on the young man’s shoulder, guiding him away from the others and toward the darker corner of the room. The recruit followed without resistance, his unease almost palpable.

Once they were away from the table, Khalid turned to him, his voice even. “What’s your name?”

The recruit hesitated. Then, finally, he spoke. “Abdul.”

Khalid studied the boy before him. And then, “How old are you?”

Abdul hesitated, shifting slightly on his feet, before answering, “Sixteen.”

Khalid nodded, taking in the answer without reaction. “And your family? They are here in France?”

“Yes. My parents.”

There was no flicker of emotion from Khalid as he merely regarded the boy. Then he spoke in a steady voice that carried the kind of conviction that left no room for doubt. “There is no greater honor than martyrdom.”

Abdul’s gaze lifted, meeting Khalid’s eyes. His uncertainty still lingered, but Khalid could see how quickly it could be shaped, how easily hesitation could be replaced with belief.

“And there is no greater place than Paradise,” Khalid continued, his tone shifting, becoming richer, more alluring. “A land beyond pain, beyond suffering. A place where the faithful walk upon silk carpets stretching farther than the eye can see. Rivers of milk and honey flow endlessly, their waters cool and pure, sweeter than anything you have ever tasted.”

Abdul’s lips parted slightly, his breathing quiet, his focus drawn in.

“There are gardens unlike any on this earth,” Khalid went on, his voice weaving a world into existence. “The trees bear fruit so full of life that with every bite, your body is renewed. There is no hunger, no thirst—only abundance, endless and without toil. The air is fragrant with the scent of jasmine and rose, and the very ground you walk upon is softer than the finest silk.”

Abdul’s eyes gleamed now, his expression shifting. The fear was still there, but something else had begun to take root—wonder and longing.

Khalid saw it and pressed forward. “And waiting there are the rewards promised to the faithful. Companions of incomparable beauty, their eyes only for you. Their laughter is like music, their touch gentler than the morning breeze. They will never age, never fade, for in Paradise, there is no decay, no sorrow—only joy beyond measure.”

The boy was entranced now, his shoulders no longer rigid, his breathing no longer unsteady. The visions painted before him had taken hold, and Khalid could see in his face that the fear had begun to dissolve, replaced by something more potent—certainty.

He let the words settle, giving Abdul time to absorb them, to let the images deepen in his mind. Then, with quiet purpose, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his touch light.

“Paradise awaits,” he said, the words carrying the weight of an unbreakable truth.

Abdul nodded slowly, his face calmer, and his thoughts were no longer clouded with doubt.

With that, Khalid turned and guided him back to the table where the garments lay, their dark fabric stark against the cold surface. The uniforms were waiting, the final step before destiny.

The costumes of death.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Notre Dame Cathedral

Paris, France

Following Morning

The morning unfolded beneath a sky thick with brooding clouds likely to bring rain as Kimball Hayden stepped through the grand entrance of Notre Dame Cathedral, his footsteps echoing softly in the vast, hushed space within. Candles flickered in shallow alcoves, their tiny flames casting restless shadows along the stone walls while the air carried the faint scent of melting wax and refurbished wood, which mingled with the distant murmur of whispered prayers.

Scattered among the pews, worshippers sat in silent reflection, their gazes lifted toward the crucifix towering above the altar. Some bowed their heads, lips moving in private supplication. Others simply stared, lost in contemplation, their burdens offered up in faith. Alongside them, tourists moved in quiet clusters, led by a guide who spoke in measured tones, mindful of the cathedral’s reverence. The stillness was only punctuated by the occasional shuffle of feet against stone and the rustle of turning pages from a prayer book.

As Kimball walked down the central aisle, his hands brushed against the smooth backs of the pews as he passed. The grandeur of the cathedral stretched high above him, its ribbed vaults reaching for heaven. Stained glass windows, dulled by the gloom outside, stood motionless in their depictions of saints and martyrs, their stories captured in color and light.

His steps slowed as he neared the confessionals, a row of wooden booths that lined the wall with their intricate carvings worn soft by centuries of penitence. The small door to the priest’s compartment stood open, signaling its vacancy. Yet, Kimball reached for the handle of the adjacent booth and stepped inside, closing himself in.

The compartment was narrow, the enclosed space lending an almost suffocating intimacy. The wooden bench creaked slightly as he settled into place. To his right, a small lattice window that was divided by a sliding panel connected his chamber to the priest’s. Through the opening, a slant of light spilled into the darkness where he sat—a faint glow that barely illuminated his features.

He waited.

The stillness of the confessional held a strange power, one that made him feel both exposed and unseen. His breath remained steady, though his mind was anything but, as his thoughts circled back to Isaiah and to the words that had settled deep inside him, words that refused to be shaken.

. . . A stranger . . .

. . . A liar . . .

. . . A man built on illusions . . .

The truth of them stung.

In his lifetime, Kimball Hayden had done many things. He had served. He had killed. He had walked paths of righteousness and roads drenched in shadow. He had justified his actions, excused his sins, built himself into something unbreakable. But now, for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, something stirred within him.

Not guilt. Not regret.

Something quieter. Something waiting.

He inhaled slowly, the air cool in his lungs.

And still, he waited.

A voice drifted through the confessional lattice, soft yet unmistakable in its presence. “You've come here to seek comfort from an even deeper darkness.”

The words sank into Kimball Hayden before he could register their full impact. His eyes lifted toward the panel, where thin streaks of gray light streamed through the narrow slats. The door to the priest’s compartment remained open, allowing that glow to filter in. Yet, even with the passage of light, there was no visible outline, no shape occupying the other side.

The voice had spoken English, clear and fluid, without the slightest hint of an accent. In Paris, inside Notre Dame, that alone was peculiar. But there was more to it than just that. The tone and inflection carried an eerie familiarity, though he couldn't immediately place it. It wasn't a single voice but a composition of many, woven together in a single breath. It carried the cadence of long-lost voices, fragments of those who had once walked beside him before vanishing from his life.

He listened again, waiting for the voice to speak once more, for some clue that might explain this strange familiarity. Instead, a thick, expectant silence stretched between them. Yet, something about the voice in his mind stirred a sense of recognition. It wasn't just one voice—it was many, woven together into something both familiar and unsettling. He heard the layered echoes of those he had lost: Leviticus, the soldier; Bonasero Vessucci, his mentor who had risen to the papacy; and his mother, stolen from him by senseless violence. And beneath it all, another presence—one he did not recognize, possessing a quiet authority that filled him with an all-encompassing peace unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Kimball sat in the hush of the confessional while the voice hung in the air like an unfinished thought. It did not rush him, nor did it demand answers; it simply existed, waiting.

“You carry a darkness," the voice said at last. "One that is not merely wrapped around you, but one you have chosen and embraced. And yet, despite this, it does not comfort . . . It devours.”

Kimball exhaled. “Comfort was never the point.”

“No?” There was something almost knowing in the response, neither judgment nor reproach, only an invitation to examine his own words. “Then why seek it out? Why pull it over yourself like a shroud?”

Kimball hesitated. He had asked himself the same thing countless times, but never aloud. “Because it’s easier,” he said finally. “Easier than facing what’s left behind.”

“What is left behind?”

He shut his eyes. Faces came to him unbidden, memories sharpened by time rather than dulled. Isaiah. Shari. Others, too many to name. The ones he had walked away from, the ones who had believed in him despite everything. The ones he had hurt in ways he had convinced himself were necessary.

“People,” Kimball admitted, his voice quieter now. “People I built something with. People I believed in. And they believed in me, until I gave them every reason not to.”

The voice considered this. “Is that why you buried yourself in this darkness? Because you believed their faith in you was a mistake?”

“No. I did it because I was the mistake. A cancer. I was always a force that takes and gives nothing back but destruction.”

Silence stretched between them again, but it did not feel empty. It was full of thought and understanding.

“All people serve a purpose,” the voice said eventually. “Their paths are not accidents, nor are the connections they forge. You were placed in their lives not to undo them, but to shape them. To stir them toward something greater.”

Kimball shook his head. “You say that as if I haven’t caused more harm than good.”

“Harm and growth are not always separate things,” the voice replied. “To touch another’s heart is to change its course. You do not yet understand the full extent of how you have shaped them.”

Kimball scoffed. “I know enough. I know that whatever good I may have done is overshadowed by the damage. I thought leaving, erasing myself, would protect them. But all I did was trade one kind of pain for another.”

A pause. Then, gently, the voice asked, “Shari and Isaiah?”

Kimball’s throat tightened at the sound of their names. He did not need to ask how the voice knew. It simply did.

“Yes,” he admitted. “And others. But them, especially.”

“And what would you do, if given the chance?”

Kimball had no answer. Or rather, he had too many, none of them certain.

The voice did not press him. It let the question settle, a quiet thing waiting to be faced.

Kimball sat motionless with his breath steady but shallow, as the voice was neither forceful nor insistent, only present, drawing him into the depths of his own reflection.

“You see yourself as a fragment detached from the whole,” the voice said, “a solitary ruin with no place in the foundation of something greater. But life does not work in singularities. It is a weaving of endless threads, intersecting, shaping, binding together to form something vast beyond comprehension.”

Kimball’s gaze dropped to the slatted wood beneath him. “You make it sound like every thread has a purpose,” he murmured. “Even the frayed ones.”

“Especially the frayed ones,” the voice answered. “They are the most resilient. The most necessary. They hold the fabric together in ways unseen.”

Kimball inhaled slowly, his mind circling the thought. “Then what am I? If not a severed thread, then what?”

“A force of change,” the voice said. “Not an agent of destruction, as you believe, but a catalyst. You have moved through the lives of others, and in doing so, you have altered their paths. You look back and see only harm. But you fail to see how pain often reshapes, strengthens, and prepares.”

Kimball clenched his jaw. “Pain doesn’t always lead to something better. Sometimes, it just lingers.”

“It lingers until it transforms,” the voice countered. “Nothing remains in suffering indefinitely. The universe finds a way to restore balance. Even the deepest wounds heal, and those who bear them emerge with a wisdom they would not have otherwise gained.”

Kimball exhaled, long and controlled, absorbing the words but unwilling to accept them fully. “It’s easy to say that from a distance,” he said. “But living with it—carrying the knowledge of the hurt I’ve caused over a lifetime—it’s not so simple.”

“No, it’s not,” the voice acknowledged. “But redemption does not come from ease. It comes from the struggle to move toward the Light despite the darkness clinging to you.”

Kimball closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ve tried,” he admitted, the words nearly soundless. “I have tried to be more than what I was. To make amends where I could. But it never feels like enough.”

“And yet, those who have seen you, truly seen you, recognize the Light within you,” the voice said. “They do not see something beyond your reach. They see what is already there.”

Kimball’s throat tightened. “Isaiah doesn’t see it,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Shari doesn’t see it.”

“They see more than you think,” the voice replied. “Hurt does not erase understanding. It only delays it.”

Kimball swallowed against the knot forming in his chest. The voice did not seek to absolve him, nor did it try to diminish his regrets. It simply laid the truth before him, leaving him to decide whether to accept it.

Silence stretched between them once more, not expectant, not empty—just waiting.

Kimball's hands curled into fists as the voice peeled back the layers he kept buried, exposing what lay beneath with quiet precision. He hated how easily it saw through him, how it reached the very parts of himself he tried to silence.

“I am ashamed of what I’ve become,” Kimball admitted. "The things I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt — I crossed over to a darkness that doesn’t let go and it’s not something I can just turn away from . . . It owns me.”

“The darkness is of your own making,” the voice replied, calm and steady. “You forged it from the choices you made, the pain you accepted as truth. Just as you created it, you have the power to step beyond it.”

Kimball exhaled sharply. “Again, you make it sound easy.”

“Not at all,” the voice said. “But it’s possible. You choose to remain in the shadows because guilt chains you there. You believe you are beyond redemption, so you do not seek it.”

Kimball shook his head, his jaw tight. “That’s because I don’t deserve it.”

“Perhaps,” the voice conceded. “But it is not about what you deserve. It is about what you must become. You resist the Light within you, not because it’s absent, but because you refuse to see it. Guilt blinds more than any darkness ever could.”

Kimball remained silent, his mind circling the words. The idea that he had imprisoned himself in his own guilt was not new, but hearing it spoken so plainly, so matter-of-factly, unsettled him.

“Any man’s guilt is the most difficult thing to overcome,” the voice continued. “It lingers, whispers, and convinces one that they are beyond hope. But to move forward, to serve a greater purpose, it must be conquered.”

Kimball lifted his head slightly, staring through the slotted panel where only the dim light remained. “And if I can’t?”

“Then you will remain as you are. A man trapped in the past, never able to step into what he is meant to be.”

“And what is that?”

The voice paused before answering. “You are a thread in the grand design, Kimball Hayden. One that will intercede in the lives of others when you are needed most. The Light within you is not gone. Even the darkest path can serve the Light’s purpose . . . Your time is now.”

Something in the voice shifted, a finality settling over the words as though an unspoken truth had just been revealed. Kimball sat forward, his pulse quickening. “How do you know my name and what do you mean by that?”

Silence.

Kimball leaned closer to the panel, his breath steady but edged with urgency. “What do you mean?”

Nothing. The presence was gone.

Without thinking, Kimball pushed the door open and stepped out of the confessional. He turned toward the priest’s compartment, expecting to find someone there, but the door remained ajar, untouched. Empty.

He scanned the cathedral. No priest stood nearby, no robed figure moving between the pews. The booth had been vacant all along.

His fingers curled as he looked around the vastness of Notre Dame. Shadows stretched beneath the towering arches, the glow of candles flickering in their glass holders. Worshippers remained seated in silent reflection. The tour group continued moving, hushed, and reverent. Nothing had changed.

And yet, something had.

* * *

Rooftop Bar at Hôtel Dame des Arts

Paris, France

Evening

The bar hummed with conversations and the clink of glassware, but Kimball Hayden remained unmoving, his focus locked on the seven shot glasses lined up before him. Each one filled to the rim, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of neon reflected from the bottles behind the bar. Beyond the windows, the Eiffel Tower stood illuminated against the night sky, its golden lattice remarkably cheerful—unlike Kimball himself.

Tonight was another test, another challenge of his will. The pull of old habits whispered to him, coaxing him toward surrender. It would be easy. One motion, one flick of the wrist, and he could drown the thoughts circling his mind. Just let the alcohol dull the echoes of the voice that had spoken to him inside the confessional booth.

The voice that was all-knowing had unraveled him without effort. It had told him what he feared most—that the darkness consuming him was of his own making. That he was not trapped by some external force, but by his own refusal to step into the light he denied existed within him. It had spoken of guilt, how it bound him tighter than chains, how it clouded his vision and kept him from seeing the truth. He had convinced himself that his absence from the lives of those he cared about was an act of mercy, when in reality, he had only deepened their pain.

He thought of Isaiah and Shari, the ones he had abandoned. He had believed himself to be poison, a corrupting presence that tainted everything good. But the voice had challenged that belief. It had told him that his presence in their lives had meaning, that every connection, every encounter, had purpose beyond his own understanding. Even in darkness, he had been an instrument of light.

Kimball exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the counter. The temptation remained, with the instinct to escape through liquor being a well-worn reflex. The choice before him was simple: indulging the weakness that had haunted him for so long or proving to himself that he still had control—that he was stronger than his demons.

He stared at the line of glasses, at the liquid promise of oblivion. Then, without a single drop passing his lips, he pushed back from the bar and rose to his feet.

The decision had been made.

He stepped away, leaving the untouched whiskey behind, the night air greeting him as he walked out onto the balcony, crisp and cool against his skin. He did not know what path lay ahead, only that it would find him when the time was right, and he would answer the call when it came.

Once again, he would serve the Light through Darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

The chamber was dim, the air damp and chilly. Sophie and Louise sat huddled together in the farthest corner, their arms wrapped around each other, their faces pale beneath the sickly glow of the overhead light. Across from them, Khalid stood motionless, his mask hiding any trace of expression. The ruby lenses caught the faint light, giving away nothing of the thoughts beneath.

Neither side spoke. The girls didn’t plead, didn’t move, didn’t dare look away. Their gazes stayed locked on him, wide with fear, searching for something—mercy, humanity, a hint of what lay ahead. Khalid, on the other hand, remained still, his breathing measured beneath the mask, his voice modulator silent.

He had come to tell them that their time in this place was temporary, that once the mission was complete and lives were taken, they would no longer be needed. The words were there, waiting, yet they never left him. Instead, something simmered deep inside, something far more consuming than the cold efficiency he had wrapped himself in for so long.

His mind drifted to another time, to another place. His mother, his father, his two sisters, lives stolen before their time. Sophie and Louise, cowering before him, were not so different from his siblings. The likeness was haunting, twisting something within him that he wished to ignore. He wanted to find compassion within himself, to tell the girls they would be all right, that he would let them go. To prove, if only to himself, that a man who fought to carve his mark on the world—even through bloodshed—could still show mercy to those untouched by politics and war.

But that part of him had died long ago, buried beneath the ruin of his family, crushed beneath years of conflict. Whatever kindness had once existed within him had been burned away, leaving nothing but purpose.

He looked down at them, searching for words that would soften their fear. But none came. He had no comfort to give, no reassurance to offer. Compassion was beyond him now.

Children were pawns, he considered. And pawns were the first to be sacrificed.

Without a word, he turned and left, locking the door behind him.

* * *

Khalid tore the mask from his face as though it suffocated him, setting it down on the rickety table. The ruby lenses caught the dim light, staring back at him like sightless eyes. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the dampness of sweat and the tension coiled in his jaw.

The chamber door remained closed behind him. Two girls on the other side. Innocents. Their fear had been palpable, pressing against him in that room like something living, something pleading. It would take so little effort to undo their binds when the time came, to release them once his purpose had been met. A single decision. A moment of grace.

But his mind recoiled from it, dragged back to the faces of his own family. His mother, his father, his two sisters—gone in an instant. Their home reduced to ruin. Their bodies broken beneath the might of a world that never cared for them. No one had spared them. No one had shown mercy. And in the aftermath, the grief had hardened into something unrelenting, something that pulsed within him with every breath.

An eye for an eye. A child for a child.

His fingers brushed the knife strapped against his thigh, tracing the ridges of the hilt. He had wielded it before. Had drawn blood with it. But could he do it now? Would it be justice or another step into the abyss? Would it bring peace or drown him further in the rage that had already consumed so much of him?

He closed his eyes.

"Ya Allah."

The prayer was silent but desperate, seeking clarity where none existed. He begged for an answer, for something to cut through the storm within him.

But all he felt was the knife, its presence undeniable, its purpose clear. He opened his eyes, exhaling slowly. The weapon was there for a reason. It was an extension of will. Of power.

A sharp burst of anger surged through him, setting his hands into motion. He slammed his fists against the table, the old wood groaning beneath the force. Again. And again. The mask rattled with each strike, teetering on the edge as if ready to fall.

Then, stillness.

His heartbeat slowed. His breathing evened out. The rage that had flared so violently now cooled, settling into something controlled. The man of anger receded, leaving behind only resolve.

Without another glance at the chamber door, he stepped away, vanishing into the shadows.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

The Following Morning

From his stronghold, Khalid watched the arrivals unfold across multiple laptop screens. Video feeds displayed convoys pulling up to the palace gates, security personnel scanning each vehicle, and dignitaries stepping onto the red-carpeted entrance. The captions identified them one by one, naming their countries and ranks, each a key figure in the upcoming talks.

One absence stood out. No Palestinian delegation. No Hamas officials. Instead, Hezbollah representatives took their place, a silent acknowledgment of shifting dynamics.

Khalid leaned back, absorbing the moment. The summit was in motion, the players in position. Without hesitation, he set his own piece into action. While Khalid watched the monitors and tracked the movement of what the news networks were reporting about the last of the arriving dignitaries, he lifted the phone to his ear and waited.

One ring.

Then a voice on the other end.

“The house is full,” Khalid said, his tone even. “I trust you’ve studied the blueprints.”

A pause. Then, “There’s no clear path. Security is layered, overlapping. No blind spots.”

Khalid exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. “There is always a way. You have a role to play, and you understand what’s at stake here.”

A silence stretched between them. Then, “I want to speak to them.”

“No.” His response was firm. “They are unharmed. Focus on your task.”

A breath, barely audible. Frustration, fear—Khalid recognized the signs, but they meant nothing. The path had been set. “You have influence,” he continued. “Enough to shift pieces on the board. To create a moment of weakness. My people will handle the rest.”

The voice hesitated. “It’s not that simple?”

Khalid fought for calm, his silence answer enough.

And then from Khalid’s inside person, “Tell me what needs to be done.”

Khalid leaned forward, eyes scanning the monitors. “On the blueprints you examined, there are three points of entry. Three opportunities to alter security protocols, just long enough.” He listed them, each a potential opening in the palace’s defenses. “Choose one. Make the adjustment. We move when the moment is right.”

No response at first. Then, finally, a quiet, “Understood.”

Khalid leaned back, then, in a flat voice, he said, “My team will be in position before dawn. You’ll have it figured out by then—the route, the timing, the weak spot. A place they can hold until the moment comes.”

The reply was tight and controlled. “I’m working on it.”

“Work harder. Faster. There’s no time for hesitation. No time for sleep. The summit is about to begin.”

Khalid glanced at his watch, tracking the hours slipping away. “I’ll call back in six hours. By then, I expect a plan in place.” He let the words settle, then he continued. “If it falls apart, so do the children. Piece by piece. A finger first. Then a hand. Then an arm. Kept alive through it all, aware of every cut, every break. Until there’s nothing left of them. Remember that.”

“How can I forget? You remind me of this every two seconds.”

Silence. A hesitation just long enough to tell him the message had been received.

Then, before hanging up, Khalid said, “Six hours.”

He ended the call and set the phone aside, his eyes never leaving the monitors.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Palais de l'Élysée

Paris, France

The security operations room inside the Palais de l'Élysée was a hive of controlled activity. Large monitors displayed live surveillance feeds, digital schematics of the palace, and scrolling data streams from intelligence sources. Officers and analysts moved with precision, adjusting security protocols in real time, their focus unbroken as they processed incoming reports.

At the center of it all, Chief Commissioner Marc Lefevre of the Service de la Protection (SDLP) stood before an expansive screen projecting a detailed digital map of the palace grounds. He was in command of the meeting, overseeing the coordination of every security detail involved in safeguarding the summit. Around him, the highest-ranking officials from France’s elite security units listened intently—Commissaire Vivienne Girard of the DGSI, Commissaire Charles Bouchard of the Brigade Criminelle, General Jean Dupont from the Gendarmerie Nationale, and Chief Pierre Moreau of RAID.

The map displayed layers of security measures, each sector marked with designated teams and responsibilities. Lefevre’s gaze swept over the assembled personnel as he gestured to the main points of entry. The palace perimeter would be heavily patrolled, with armed officers positioned at key junctions. The front courtyard and main entrance were assigned to the SDLP, their officers strategically placed to control access and monitor high-profile arrivals.

Inside, plainclothes DGSI operatives would blend into the background, scanning for any signs of threats while maintaining constant communication with the command center. The Brigade Criminelle, known for their investigative expertise, had teams dedicated to assessing potential breaches and following up on any suspicious activity flagged by intelligence.

The Gendarmerie Nationale, with their extensive resources, would handle external surveillance, monitoring the outer streets and surrounding areas for unusual movement. Checkpoints had been set up at critical access points, ensuring that only authorized personnel and vehicles entered the perimeter.

For rapid response and crisis intervention, RAID was stationed at multiple undisclosed positions. Their units remained on standby, ready to act the moment an incident required immediate resolution. Every possible point of weakness had been considered, with overlapping layers of security reinforcing each other.

Lefevre continued laying out each role with precision, ensuring that no part of the plan had room for failure. Every movement within and around the palace was accounted for, every shift change synchronized to maintain constant vigilance. The summit demanded absolute control, and with the highest-ranking officials of the security forces present, that control would be upheld.

With every position assigned and every protocol reinforced, the meeting pressed forward, the weight of responsibility shared among those who had spent their careers preparing for moments like this.

The discussion shifted as Commissaire Charles Bouchard of the Brigade Criminelle and Commissaire Vivienne Girard of the DGSI stepped forward, each prepared to make their case for securing the palace from within. While the SDLP, Gendarmerie Nationale, and RAID had the outer defenses locked down—perimeter security, controlled access points, and rapid response teams—there remained the matter of internal security. This was where the Brigade Criminelle and the DGSI held their ground.

Bouchard studied the palace schematics, scanning corridors, entryways, and points of convergence where guests, staff, and dignitaries would intersect. His team specialized in criminal investigations, pattern recognition, and anticipating threats that did not come in the form of direct assaults but through deception. The halls of power often attracted those who could bypass physical barriers simply by blending in, slipping past checkpoints with falsified credentials or misdirection. His officers needed to be mobile, weaving through the gathering without drawing attention, their focus on identifying behaviors rather than merely monitoring secured doors.

Girard, on the other hand, knew that threats were often seeded long before an event of this magnitude. The DGSI’s role was intelligence—preventing an attack before it took shape. The palace itself was not the only concern; the dignitaries came with their own entourages, personnel, and shifting allegiances. A threat could come disguised as a trusted assistant, a security detail member, or a diplomatic aide. Her agents needed access to the central communications hub, cross-referencing live intelligence reports against those moving through the palace. They would not only watch the attendees but also trace movements leading up to the summit, catching any discrepancy that could expose an infiltration attempt.

Both Bouchard and Girard laid out their positions with precision, detailing the internal security web that would complement the external forces already in place. The Brigade Criminelle would take up discreet stations within the main corridors and gathering spaces, keeping an unobtrusive yet ever-watchful presence. Their officers would patrol as if they belonged, subtly tracking unfamiliar faces or noting erratic behaviors. Meanwhile, DGSI agents would monitor real-time intelligence from their internal command center, filtering reports and feeding critical information directly to the field.

Chief Commissioner Marc Lefevre listened carefully, weighing their recommendations against the existing structure of the operation. Both Bouchard and Girard understood the stakes, their approaches logical, and their expertise undeniable. Internal security could not rely solely on barriers and checkpoints—it required fluidity, adaptability, and the ability to anticipate what others might overlook.

After a moment’s review, Lefevre gave his approval, greenlighting their strategies. The plan was now fully in motion, each component reinforcing the next, from the outer perimeter to the heart of the summit chamber itself. Every team had its role, every layer accounted for. Now, they only had to execute it.

As the meeting wrapped up, chairs scraped against the polished floor, and the quiet murmur of final exchanges filled the room. Bouchard gathered his documents, slipping them into his briefcase with practiced ease. Across from him, Girard moved slower, stacking papers with less urgency, her expression drawn.

Bouchard noticed the distant look in her eyes, the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion but something deeper, something unsettled. He’d worked with her long enough to recognize when something was weighing on her mind.

“You look like hell,” he said, his voice low, not wanting to draw attention from the others still lingering nearby.

Vivienne Girard exhaled, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge whatever thoughts had taken hold. She offered a small, humorless smile before answering. “My husband of twenty-three years decided, just like that, that he was done. No signs, no warnings. One day, he just said he was leaving.” She clicked the locks on her briefcase, the snap punctuating her words. “So now I go home to an empty apartment.”

Bouchard stilled, thrown by the bluntness of it. He knew she was private, never one to share much about her personal life. That she was telling him this at all meant the situation had settled into her bones, heavy and unmoving.

She straightened, brushing a stray hair from her forehead, her composure returning like armor being locked into place. “So, I need to be here. I need work. I need people. That’s all there is to it.”

Bouchard had nothing to say. What could he say?

Girard didn’t wait for a response. She hoisted her briefcase, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that left no room for pity. “I’ll see you on the floor.” Then she turned and walked out, her heels echoing down the corridor, leaving Bouchard standing there, briefcase in hand, still searching for words that wouldn’t come.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

The hollow chamber carried a humid heaviness to it as Khalid stood before the two recruits, Abdul and Hussein, their faces half-lit by the dim overhead bulb, the air between them still.

Hussein, the older of the two, held himself with an air of defiance with his shoulders squared. Abdul, younger, was quieter, his gaze flickering between Khalid and the floor as though searching for answers before they were even asked.

Khalid studied them both, then spoke. “Tell me what you believe.”

Hussein’s voice was sharp with conviction as he repeated the rhetoric Khalid had heard countless times before—words laced with fury, thick with the weight of borrowed hatred. He spoke of vengeance, of taking back what was stolen, of blood paying for blood. His voice rose as he went on, feeding off the fire of his own declarations.

Khalid listened without interruption, his expression neutral. When Hussein finished, the silence that followed was heavy. Then, Khalid’s voice cut through it. “And is this your anger?” He tilted his head slightly. “Or is it someone else’s?”

Hussein blinked, caught off guard. “It’s mine,” he said quickly.

Khalid stepped closer. “Is it?” His tone remained even, but his eyes stayed locked on the young man. “Or have you taken words from the Internet, from men who fill your mind with fury but do not stand beside you in battle?”

Hussein hesitated, his certainty faltering just enough for Khalid to see it.

“To romanticize an idea is not the same as feeling it,” Khalid continued. “It is easy to speak of vengeance, to call for blood when your hands are still clean. But when you act, when you take a life, it is not words that will drive you—it’s true conviction.”

He glanced at Abdul, who had yet to speak, then back to Hussein. “If this path is righteous, you must feel it—not because someone told you to, but because your heart constricts with the injustice done to your people. Because you cannot breathe knowing they suffer while you stand idle.” His voice did not rise, but there was a force behind it, something measured yet firm. “So, tell me . . . does your heart truly burn with this cause? Or do you only like the way the words sound?”

The silence stretched. Neither of them answered immediately.

Khalid looked between them, then nodded. “Think about it,” he said, voice quieter now. “Do not tell me what you’ve heard. Tell me what you feel.”

Then he turned, leaving them with their thoughts.

The chamber held its silence as Khalid waited, his gaze steady, giving them space to speak their truth.

Hussein, still carrying the bravado from before, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I know why I am here,” he said. “The occupation has robbed us of everything—our land, our dignity, our lives. We have no choice but to strike back. To take what was taken from us. If I must give my life, then I will do it without hesitation.”

Khalid studied him, letting the words settle before responding. “And what does that sacrifice mean to you?” he asked. “Is it simply a means to an end? Or do you feel it, deep in your soul, as something more than just revenge?”

Hussein’s brow tightened. “It’s justice.”

“Justice,” Khalid echoed. “Or the idea of justice?” He stepped closer, his voice remaining calm. “If I handed you a knife right now, told you to carve out justice with your own hands, would you? Or would you pause?” He let the question linger before adding, “Would your mind race with the same anger you’ve spoken of? Or would doubt slip in, forcing you to question whether you were meant for this?”

Hussein did not answer right away.

Khalid turned his attention to Abdul, who had been silent, his hands clasped behind his back. “And you?” Khalid asked. “Do you feel it, truly? Does it settle in your chest, make it impossible to live another day without acting?”

Abdul’s lips parted, but he hesitated before speaking. “I believe in the cause,” he said slowly. “But . . .” He trailed off, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

Khalid stepped forward, his gaze sharp. “But?”

Abdul swallowed, shifting his stance. “I don’t fear death,” he said, though his voice lacked the sharp conviction of Hussein’s. “I know Paradise waits for those who sacrifice for the whole. But—” He looked at Khalid then, as if searching for the right words. “What if I do not reach it? What if my heart hesitates when the moment comes?”

Khalid considered him, measuring the weight of the question. Then, he spoke, voice low. “Those who truly walk the Lighted Path do not hesitate. There is no room for doubt. No room for pause.” He gestured between them. “This is why we speak now. To strip away anything that does not belong.”

Neither recruit responded, but the silence between them spoke louder than any words could.

Khalid let the moment stretch before offering a small, tempered smile. It was not warm, nor was it cruel—just enough to ease the tension without softening his authority. “Get some sleep,” he said. “Only a few hours.” He met their eyes once more. “Your call to Allah will arrive shortly.”

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the chamber, leaving them alone in the dim light, their thoughts heavier now than before.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Hôtel Dame des Arts

Paris, France

Evening

Kimball folded the last of his clothes into his backpack, smoothing the fabric before pulling the zipper shut. The sound carried a sense of finality. He had loved France—Paris especially—but it was time to move on. The city had given him moments of peace and a fleeting sense of belonging, even as he fell off the wagon and then regained himself. But the road called again, as it always did, and, come morning, he would be off—maybe to Rome or Athens or Barcelona.

He set the backpack aside and hesitated as his fingers brushed against a small, zippered pocket near the top, one he hadn’t opened in a long time. Unzipping it, he reached inside and pulled out the white band of a Roman Catholic collar. Though creased and slightly soiled, it remained intact—a relic of another life, another purpose. It had weathered time, just as he had, carrying with it the weight of choices that had led him far from where he began.

Holding it between his fingers, he studied it, a slow smile forming. Memories surfaced—ones filled with duty and conviction, and the quiet reassurance that he had once been part of something greater than himself. It wasn’t just a collar. It was a reminder of the Vatican Knights and of their mission to resurrect virtue in a world growing darker by the day.

He ran his thumb along its edge, the feel of it familiar and grounding. The path he had taken hadn’t always been straight, but this small piece of cloth reminded him that it hadn’t been broken either. The calling still lingered, something he could not deny, even if life had pulled him in different directions.

A vibration against the nightstand broke the moment. His cell phone buzzed, the name on the screen catching his attention.

Without hesitation, he picked up and answered. “Isaiah.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

Khalid entered the main chamber, the glow from a single overhead light casting harsh angles across the room. Fahad, Waleed, and Momar stood around a long table, their focus shifting to him the moment he stepped inside. The walls, rough and unadorned, held the faint scent of gun oil and damp stone, remnants of a place repurposed for their cause.

He walked forward, his boots scraping against the floor. “There’s a problem,” he said, eyes moving between them. “Abdul.”

Waleed straightened, arms crossing. “What about him?”

“He’s uncertain.” Khalid let the words settle, watching their reactions. “He answers the right way, but there’s doubt in his voice. I’ve heard it before . . . That hesitation when seeking words to appease.”

Fahad exhaled sharply. “We don’t have room for hesitation.”

“No,” Khalid agreed. “Which is why I need to know if we can trust him when the time comes.”

Waleed nodded once, firm. “I’ll handle it. He’ll be ready.”

Khalid studied him, knowing Waleed’s word carried weight. He had taken weaker men and shaped them into something stronger. If anyone could ensure Abdul followed through, it was him.

A brief silence followed, then Momar shifted, gesturing toward the table. “Come. Look at the vests.”

Khalid stepped closer, his eyes settling on the gear spread before him. The vests given to them by Khalid’s source lay in neat rows, dark fabric reinforced with precise modifications. At a glance, they looked standard issue, indistinguishable from those worn by legitimate security forces. But beneath the surface, the alterations told a different story.

Fahad ran a hand along the nearest one. “The modifications are seamless,” he said, his tone edged with satisfaction. “They attach cleanly to the initialized BRI flak jackets. No one will question them.”

Khalid picked one up, feeling its structure, its deceptive lightness. “Show me.”

Fahad unzipped a hidden seam, revealing molded Semtex bricks tucked inside the inner pockets. “Each vest holds enough to breach concrete barriers. The pockets distribute the load evenly.” He tapped another section. “Ball bearings here. They’ll maximize the spread.”

Khalid turned the vest over in his hands, taking in the careful adjustments. The stitching blended flawlessly, the BRI insignia still clearly visible, an added layer of disguise. It would allow them to move with ease, bypassing scrutiny, slipping through defenses unnoticed until it was too late.

He placed the vest back down. “And the detonation?”

Waleed nodded toward a small device set apart from the others. “Remote and timed options. We have full control.”

Khalid let his fingers rest on the table’s surface. The plan was taking shape, the pieces aligning as they should. Soon, everything would be in motion—smooth and fluid.

He looked at each of them in turn. “We move forward.”

No one spoke, but the agreement between them, unspoken yet understood, hung in the air.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Hôtel Dame des Arts

Paris, France

Kimball sat on the edge of the bed, the phone to his ear, the Roman collar band held loosely in his other hand. The room was dim as evening light filtered through the thin curtains. His backpack sat on a chair, packed and ready, containing everything he owned. He had lived light ever since he walked away from the Church, but tonight, that truth felt heavier than it ever had before.

Isaiah’s voice cut through the quiet. “Are you sober?”

Kimball exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb along the worn edges of the collar. It was the kind of opening he had expected. A punch straight to the gut—one he deserved.

“I am,” he answered, his voice steady.

Isaiah was quiet for a moment, letting the silence stretch between them. When he finally spoke, there was no anger in his voice, just something measured, something firm. “You put me through a lot, Kimball. Not just me—but everyone who ever cared about you. It doesn’t make sense what you did.”

Kimball turned the collar between his fingers, its worn edges familiar. He let Isaiah’s words settle, knowing they were deserved. “I told myself it was necessary,” he said.

“I don’t see how it was. What I see is that you lied. And that’s what I can’t reconcile.”

Kimball exhaled, the collar shifting in his grip. “I’ve always been a cancer to those I care for most, Isaiah. It’s what I do—I ruin things. Sooner or later, I would have ruined you, too—in some awful way.”

Isaiah didn’t hesitate. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“No,” Isaiah said, his voice unwavering. “I’ve never doubted you, not once, until now. Not because of who you are, not because of your past, but because of this. We always had brutal honesty between us. At least, I thought we did.”

Kimball’s gaze flicked to the backpack near the door. “Brutal honesty?” He huffed a quiet laugh, though it held no humor. “Here’s honesty, then: my life is nothing more than the sum of my bad decisions. That’s where it’s led me—this room, this moment.” He stared the bag. “Everything I own is in my backpack. That’s all I have to show for a lifetime.”

His fingers traced the edge of the collar, the one thing in his possession that carried more than material value. He looked at it, then at the bag. One held meaning. The other held everything else.

Kimball’s jaw tightened. “What I did was never about hurting anyone. Not you. Not Shari. I just—” He stopped, trying to find the right words. “I just wanted to erase myself from everything and from everyone because I was done, Isaiah. And not just with the life I was leading—but with myself.” His eyes flicked back to the bag.

Isaiah was quiet for a moment, then said, “The reason for friends, Kimball, is to be there to lift someone up when they fall.”

Kimball closed his eyes. “I’ve fallen too far, Isaiah. Even I can see that.”

A silence passed between them, neither rushing to fill it. Finally, Kimball asked, “Why did you call?” He hesitated, then added, “You walked out on me at the bar. I figured that was it.”

Isaiah’s voice was calm, certain. “Because I was taught to forgive.”

Kimball’s throat tightened. He stared down at the collar in his hand as Isaiah continued.

“And despite what you did . . . I forgive you. I wanted you to know that. I thought that might be important to you.”

The words hit Kimball like a fist to the gut. His fingers curled tighter around the collar as his chest ached in a way he hadn’t expected. He blinked hard, but the tears welled anyway, hot behind his eyes. Words he never thought he’d hear. Words he didn’t think he deserved. But words they were—something medicinal.

“Kimball?”

Kimball stared at the collar in his hands, noticing how it was soiled and bent, but not broken. Then, trying to sound off with strength, Kimball failed miserably, his voice cracking. “Thank you,” he uttered.

“Are you all right?”

Kimball continued to toy with the collar between his fingers, his throat becoming tight as he tried to steady himself while feeling the worn edges, the fabric that had been through as much as he had. And then, “Maybe . . . once things settle, once I can get a handle on where I’m going, we could sit down. Just you and me. Like we used to.” He hesitated, then added, “As friends . . . As brothers.”

Isaiah was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’d like that.”

Kimball nodded, though Isaiah couldn’t see it. He wanted to say more, to somehow express what all of this meant, but the words felt too heavy to get out. Instead, he listened as Isaiah exhaled softly on the other end.

“Take care of yourself, Kimball.”

Then the line clicked off.

Kimball stayed there with phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the empty drone of the dead line. Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the collar in his hand, his thumb running along its edges. His voice, barely above a whisper, finally broke the silence. “Yeah,” he whispered into the phone. “I’d like that too.” After a pause, he added, “Take care, Isaiah.”

Kimball set the phone aside and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The rush of emotion still lingered, but he forced himself to shake it off. He stood and crossed the room, pushing open the bathroom door.

The fluorescent light buzzed softly as he flicked the switch. Then, stepping toward the sink, he stared at his reflection. The lines on his face were still there, etched deeper with every passing year. But the shadows beneath his eyes—those dark hollows that had once made him look gaunt, almost lifeless—were gone.

He then lifted the clerical band and fit it into the collar of his shirt. Looking at himself again, something stirred in his chest — a deep, lingering sadness he couldn’t quite shake. Was it the man in the reflection he mourned, or the one he used to be? He wasn’t sure anymore. The life he had once lived, the purpose he had once followed, felt distant, like a story belonging to someone else.

Not all heroes wore capes, he considered.

Some carried burdens no one else could see, shouldering the choices that set them apart. Others held onto things greater than themselves—faith, purpose, something unshakable

But Kimball had lost that.

Or, maybe he never had it to begin with—not really.

Reaching up, he removed the collar and stared at it, telling himself it had outlived its usefulness, that it belonged to a life now behind him.

But he would be wrong.

Because soon, Kimball Hayden would don it once again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

0400 Hours

Abdul stood still as Waleed tightened the straps of his vest, adjusting the fit so it sat properly against his narrow frame. The tactical gear, designed for sturdier builds, draped over him awkwardly, the fabric bunching at the seams. Waleed worked methodically, fastening the vest snugly, ensuring the Semtex was secure and the remote det cords were in place. Every strap, every fastening point, had to be just right.

Hussein, broader and more solid, required fewer adjustments. Momar moved around him, checking each attachment, running his hands over the vest to feel for anything that might seem out of place. He gave a slight nod, satisfied that everything looked as it should. The uniforms they wore—modified BRI gear—blended seamlessly with the real thing. The vests bore no obvious flaws, the flak jackets appearing standard-issue. Even the helmets, with their Kevlar shells and darkened face shields, carried the same markings as their legitimate counterparts.

Waleed took a step back, studying Abdul once more. He reached for a loose strap near the shoulder, cinching it tightly before patting the vest, a final test of its stability. Then, he turned his attention to his own equipment, running quick checks over the pouches at his waist, the reinforced plating within his vest, the earbud communication link nestled securely in place.

Momar did the same, his fingers brushing over his rifle before moving to his sidearm. Everything needed to be right. No errors, no missteps.

The rifles were next. Waleed and Momar retrieved the smuggled AK-47s, flipping them over in their hands, checking the bolts, the magazines, the sights. Each weapon had been modified to avoid detection, yet they functioned as expected as a dry fire test confirmed smooth operation.

Once satisfied, Waleed handed Abdul and Hussein their rifles. Hussein took his with some familiarity, adjusting his grip instinctively. Abdul, though less practiced, held his firmly, fingers settling into place along the worn metal.

With the final checks completed, Waleed turned toward Khalid, who stood alongside Fahad, the two of them in civilian clothing, marking their roles as overseers rather than participants. The stronghold would be their vantage point, the tactical unit receiving guidance through the communication links embedded in their helmets.

Khalid’s eyes swept over the four men before him—dressed, armed, indistinguishable from the real security forces they were meant to impersonate.

There was no pride in this moment. No swell of admiration for their readiness. They were tools, nothing more. Instruments of a purpose greater than any single one of them. And yet, despite his convictions, a small part of him acknowledged the loss that would come. Waleed and Momar—seasoned, reliable, men he had come to respect—would not return. Unlike Abdul and Hussein, whose fates had been sealed the moment they pledged themselves, Waleed and Momar had been with him long enough to forge something beyond utility. He would never say it aloud, but their absence would be noticed.

Still, it would not change the course ahead.

Khalid’s gaze remained steady as his voice carried through the dimly lit chamber. “What you do you do for the people of Palestine,” he said. “By Allah's hand, you are the vessels through which history will turn. The world will listen when you surrender yourselves fully to His embrace. This is not just your duty . . . It’s your calling.”

After he let his words settle, he watched their expressions, seeing the quiet conviction reflected back at him.

Then, without hesitation, he pulled a phone from his pocket. A few taps activated the voice modulator, distorting his tone to ensure anonymity, then dialed. The line rang twice before the call connected.

Khalid didn’t wait for pleasantries. “They’re on the way.”

A breath, barely audible. “Understood.”

“Were you able to establish a direct route into the palace? A path of least resistance?”

A pause. Then, “Yes. But the window is small. Security will be tight—guards and obstructions. It won’t be seamless, but it’s possible.”

Khalid’s grip on the phone tightened. “It must be more than possible. It must be certain.”

“The summit is scheduled for 8:30,” the voice continued. “The dignitaries will begin gathering inside the summit chamber by eight for pre-instructions. That’s when the security detail will be in motion, checking final clearances, redirecting focus inward. It won’t be easy, but if they move precisely, they can slip through.”

Khalid’s expression remained unchanged. “Where should they enter?”

There was a brief rustling, the sound of pages begin to flip back. And then, “There’s a weak point at the northwestern side of the palace, near Rue de l’Élysée, which was picked up by your AI blueprint, a solid choice. There’s an auxiliary entrance—typically used for maintenance crews and select staff—flanked by service corridors. Right now, it’s handling overflow from multiple agencies. A rotating guard shift watches it, but they stagger movements. When one rotation ends, there’s a gap before the next fully assumes position.”

Khalid’s jaw tensed. “And what time will this gap occur?”

“7:52. At most, they’ll have three minutes before the shift overlaps. If they time it exactly, they can slip in. But once inside, they’ll still need to move carefully. Interior patrols are running in unpredictable patterns.”

Khalid’s patience thinned. “You speak as if this is uncertain.”

“I speak as if this is the reality.”

Khalid’s voice dropped to something sharper. “No excuses. This will be done.”

A beat of silence. Then, the voice relented. “Fine. The meeting point is on the corner of Avenue Gabriel, just before it turns south toward the Champs-Élysées. There’s an alleyway between two buildings, tucked out of general view. Have them wait there at 7:45. I’ll ensure the timing aligns.”

Khalid nodded to himself. “Good.”

Without another word, he ended the call and tucked his phone away into his pocket.

Then, Khalid moved first to Waleed, then to Momar, drawing them each into a firm embrace, his lips brushing their ears as he whispered, “Allahu Akbar.” Abdul and Hussein followed, receiving the same gesture, the same words.

Stepping back, Khalid looked at Waleed. “It’s time,” he murmured.

Waleed gave a single nod of acknowledgment, then, without hesitation, moved his team ahead until they vanished into the shadows.

Khalid and Fahad remained, watching as they left, their faces taking on ghoulish lines under the pale light of the laptop screens.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Waleed stepped out first, his footfalls light on the pavement. The morning air carried the scent of rain from earlier, damp and lingering. Behind him, Momar followed with his gaze sweeping the empty street before he moved toward the van parked just outside the shuttered bakery. Le Petit Délice had been closed for years, its windows covered with brown paper whose edges had curled from time and neglect. The sign above the door was faded, the lettering barely legible under the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp.

Waleed opened the driver’s side door and climbed in, while Momar slid open the side door. Abdul and Hussein wordlessly entered, taking their places in the back. Momar followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

As the engine came to life, the van rolled forward and eased onto the narrow street. Abdul, turning his head slightly, looked through the rear window.

In the distance, just beyond the rooftops, the spires of Notre Dame rose against the dawn sky. Less than two blocks away, the cathedral stood as a silhouette of history and faith, the sight lingering for a moment before the van turned a corner and disappeared.

CHAPTER FORTY

Kimball sat on the edge of the bed with eyes fixed on the balcony door. Beyond the glass, the first streaks of dawn stretched across the sky, soft hues of orange and pink melting into the fading night. The city was quiet at this hour, the streets below barely stirring.

He let his gaze linger. There was always something about this moment—the shift between darkness and light, the brief stillness before the world woke. It was a beauty that never asked for attention yet demanded it all the same.

But the time had come.

He exhaled slowly, then reached down and grabbed his backpack from the floor. The familiar weight settled against his palm as he stood. And then one last look at the sky, at the way the colors swirled like a painting that would never be the same again.

Turning and walking toward the door, he stepped into the hallway without hesitation. There was still one stop to make before he whispered his quiet farewell to France.

À la prochaine.

(Until we meet again)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Waleed pulled the van up to the meeting point on the corner of Avenue Gabriel, just before it curved south toward the Champs-Élysées. The street was mostly empty as Paris lay in the quiet grip of dawn, with a faint glow stretching across the cityscape’s horizon.

Inside the van, no one spoke. The air was laden with the kind of silence that came with waiting. Waleed’s fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel before he checked his watch. Two minutes early. Nevertheless, he shifted slightly in his seat with his leg bouncing restlessly, the way it always did when impatience took hold.

Beyond the windshield, the shadows held firm along the sidewalk. Then, movement. A figure stood just outside the reach of the morning light, lingering there a moment longer, watching.

Waleed narrowed his eyes. Then the figure stepped forward into the growing light.

It was Commissaire Charles Bouchard of the Brigade Criminelle.

His face was set, expressionless at a glance, but Waleed saw past the exterior. Bouchard carried himself with practiced control, yet the concern was there—woven into the way he held his shoulders, the slight tension stiffening his stance.

Still, he kept walking, each step bringing him closer to the waiting van.

Bouchard entered the passenger seat and pulled the door shut without a word. His hands rested on his lap, fingers curled slightly, as he stared out the window. The silence stretched between him and Waleed, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Still looking forward, Bouchard finally spoke. “My daughters. Are they safe?” His voice was low, controlled, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable. “Are they alive?”

“They are,” Waleed said, his tone even. “If all goes well, they will be released. We have no interest in harming them.” He turned his head slightly toward Bouchard. “But if we’re deceived in any way—if you act outside of what’s expected—we will not hesitate to terminate them.”

Bouchard turned then, his eyes searching Waleed’s face for any sign of deception. “Show me proof.”

Waleed met his gaze without hesitation. “You have my word.”

“That’s not enough.”

Waleed leaned forward slightly, his posture shifting as he took control of the conversation. “They’re fine,” he repeated, his voice measured. “But let me be clear. I have the authority to decide whether they live or die. If you resist, all I have to do is push a button on my phone.” He tapped his jacket pocket. “That sends a code to command. The moment that happens, they’re gone. It’s that simple.”

Even though Bouchard’s face remained blank, Waleed could see the tightness in his jaw and the stiffness in his posture—the fear he was trying to keep buried was there.

Finally, Bouchard exhaled a slow breath through his nostrils. “It’s almost time,” he said. “The palace guards’ shift overlap is coming up. Three minutes.”

Waleed studied him for a moment before reaching for the van door. He pushed it open, stepping one foot onto the pavement. “Remember what I said,” he warned. “Any betrayal on your part will be at the cost of your daughters’ lives.”

Bouchard didn’t hesitate. “I have no intention of betraying you,” he said, his voice steady. “I just want my daughters safe.”

“Then get us inside.” Waleed motioned toward the back. “Now.”

Bouchard turned, looking past Waleed at the others inside the van. Their face shields were lowered, masking their features. Weapons ready, each of them was dressed in BRI tactical gear, indistinguishable from the real counter-terrorism officers stationed throughout Paris.

With Waleed leading, everyone stepped out of the van. Bouchard glanced at his watch, noting the time. The shift change was approaching fast.

Without another word, he led the way toward the palace.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Notre Dame Cathedral

Paris, France

Kimball stepped into the cathedral, his footsteps resonating faintly against the stone floor. The hush of early morning wrapped around him, thick and undisturbed as a faint glow from flickering candles in the votive racks sent shadows dancing along the high arches, their flames carrying the heavy scent of melting wax.

His gaze moved toward the confessional boxes. Their doors stood open, vacant of both priest and confessor; now a hollow space where whispered burdens should have been shared.

He didn’t know why he had come, only that something had drawn him here.

Moving down the central aisle, he chose a pew near the altar, directly in front of the crucifix. Christ on the Cross, suspended above, a figure carved in agony and sacrifice meant for the guilty. For men like him.

Kimball stared at the face of Christ, at the crown of thorns digging into flesh, at the nails pinning Him in place.

Then, he lowered himself onto the pew and set his backpack beside him. The stillness of the cathedral leached into him, cold and absolute, but it didn't soothe, didn't heal. Instead, it made the hollow inside him feel deeper. A void with no direction, no purpose. He had spent his life fighting battles in the shadows. But now . . . He was lost.

Closing his eyes, he felt the spiral begin. A slow descent into a place he could never quite escape. A place where he was nothing. A place where he was—

A hand touched his shoulder.

Warm. Steady. Familiar, though unknown.

The descent stopped. Not only that — it reversed, pulling him back from the edge, lifting him.

Kimball remained still as the warmth of the stranger’s touch remained on his shoulder. Then in the silence of the cathedral that surrounded him, he heard something beyond the absence of sound.

A voice.

It spoke his name, not as a single voice but as many woven into one. It carried the familiarity of Bonasero Vessucci and Leviticus, along with the gentle timbre of his mother, and another—one that was beyond any singular presence, a voice that was both known and unknowable. It was the same voice he had heard in the confessional during a moment of uncertainty.

“Kimball,” it said, calm and steady. “Believe me when I say that your purpose in this world is not without purpose or value . . . Though it may seem that way to you.”

Kimball kept his gaze fixed on the figure of Christ above the altar. “Then why do I feel like I have no design? I’m just wandering with no direction while at the same time I’m erasing everyone and everything that I cared for in my life. I no longer matter to anyone. And I did that. That falls on me. And I did that because I’m . . . nothing.”

“That’s because you continue to weigh yourself against the past and against your regrets, instead of seeing what lies ahead. Nothing is only the absence of something, Kimball. And you are not absent from this world.”

Kimball shook his head. “I’ve nothing to look forward to,” he said. “And that’s the truth. All I have is the past . . . And that’s beginning to fade too.”

Kimball closed his eyes as doubt continued to eat away at him. “I barely remember my mother’s face,” he admitted. “And Bonasero’s, and Leviticus’s . . . My memories of what they used to look like are fading, even though I try to hold on.” He hesitated, then added, “I fear I’ll forget Isaiah’s face in time as well. That the divide I created, despite our recent interactions, will continue to widen over time.”

There was a pause, not of hesitation but of careful thought, as if the voice chose its words with purpose. “The cover of a book, Kimball, only gives a face to the vessel. What matters most are the words between the covers. It is those words that give it meaning, not the cover of the book itself.”

Kimball remained silent, listening.

“As long as you remember who they were—their voices, their lessons, the impact they had on you—then you have not lost them, and you never will. The face is merely an introduction to the soul. And the soul, Kimball, is what truly remains.”

Kimball let out a slow breath, taking in the words.

Then, he was suddenly able to remember clearly the way his mother’s hand tucked his hair behind his ear when he was a boy. He could now vividly see the way Bonasero Vessucci laughed, that gruff sound full of warmth, the vision bringing a smile to Kimball’s face. Then he recalled Leviticus’s look when he believed in a purpose beyond the moment, the way he arched the corner of his eye. And then there was Isaiah, the brother who had always seen through him, even when Kimball had done everything to push him away for the sake of what—supposedly saving him?

The memories were still there, clear for the moment—perhaps a gift from the voice, he considered, the recollections still present after all, memories that were perhaps buried deep but resurrected.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly, grounding him.

And for the first time in a long while, Kimball did not feel entirely alone because the voice did not fade. If anything, it carried a profound assurance.

“You will have a greater purpose soon,” it told him. “Know that one soul always touches another for the greater good. And your value will come to the surface again, in time, saving the life of someone whose future may hold great significance in the scheme of all things.”

Kimball’s jaw tightened, causing the muscles to work. “What if I don’t believe that?”

The voice was patient. “Belief does not shape the truth. You have walked through darkness, but you are not bound by it. Your ability to use it in service of the Light has not vanished—it will rise again, and soon. Maintain the course.”

Kimball remained silent.

“You think you have drifted too far. That your mistakes have cast you beyond redemption.” A pause, as if waiting for him to acknowledge the truth of it. “But tell me, does the shadow cast by the cross diminish its purpose? Does the night that falls upon the earth erase the coming of dawn?”

Kimball clenched his hands together, his fingers laced tight. “No.”

“Then why do you believe that your darkness can never serve the Light ever again?”

The words settled deep, but before Kimball could respond, the hand on his shoulder withdrew. With it, the sense of inner calm vanished, leaving behind the heaviness of dark thoughts.

Kimball turned immediately, but the pew behind him was empty. The nave stretched before him, still and silent, save for the flickering of the votive candles. No figures stood in the dim glow, no presence lingered where the warmth of that touch had been just moments before.

Slowly, almost defeatedly, he turned back to the altar with his gaze lifting to the figure of Christ on the cross, and he shut his eyes, willing himself to find some sense in what had just transpired. But all he could hear now was his own voice—low, insistent, unrelenting.

This is what you wanted to hear.

Not what was real.

His own guilt, his own longing, twisting itself into something that would make the weight of his failures easier to carry.

Kimball sat unmoving in the pew with his hands resting loosely in his lap.

He did not pray.

In fact, he wasn’t sure if he even knew how.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The Palais de l'Élysée

Paris, France

Cardinal Angulo stood before the tall mirror, fastening the final buttons of his cassock. The deep black fabric, lined with red piping, fell neatly against his frame as he adjusted the chain of his pectoral cross, letting it rest at the center of his chest. He reached for his biretta on the nearby stand, placing it beside his zucchetto, though he would not wear it until the moment required it.

Across the chamber, Isaiah stood with his hands lightly clasped in front of him, watching the cardinal with quiet attentiveness.

“The garments,” Cardinal Angulo said, his voice steady, “are more than tradition. They are a reminder, not just to myself but to those who will sit across from me today.” He adjusted his sleeves, ensuring the cuffs sat evenly at his wrists. “They will see the red and be reminded of sacrifice. They will see the black and know that matters of the soul, of conscience, are not to be taken lightly.”

Isaiah studied him. “And do you believe that will be enough to move them?”

Cardinal Angulo shook his head. “I don’t know. I realize that I don’t hold any real power in these negotiations—at least, not in the way the others do. I neither offer incentives nor wield consequences.” He turned toward Isaiah, his expression composed. “But I am not here to negotiate with authority. I am here to reach beyond it.” Cardinal Angulo stepped away from the mirror. “It’s not a matter of politics, Isaiah, but of the soul. If those sitting at the negotiation table cannot be moved by logic or strategy, perhaps something deeper—hopefully—will stir within them.” He picked up the zucchetto, setting it gently atop his head. “Whether they will listen is beyond me. I can only do what I have been called to do.”

There was a quiet between them.

Then from Isaiah, “And if they don’t listen?”

Cardinal Angulo smoothed the front of his cassock. “Then I will have still done what I had to do in this negotiation, to be a spiritual and moral compass for others to follow . . . But I fear this will not end as we hope.”

Isaiah gave a slow nod as Cardinal Angulo reached for the biretta, turning it slowly in his hands before looking back at Isaiah. “Faith is a force, Isaiah. One that does not always lead to victory in the way men understand it. But it is a light, nonetheless. Even in failure, there is something to be gained.”

Isaiah considered his words. “Do you ever tire of carrying that belief?”

The cardinal gave a small, knowing smile. “Belief is not a burden, my friend. Doubt is.” He held Isaiah’s gaze a moment longer. “Come. There is still more to say before the summit begins.” Cardinal Angulo adjusted the sleeves of his cassock, smoothing the fabric with measured precision with his gaze remaining steady on Isaiah. And then, “Remember your role in the scheme of things, Isaiah,” Cardinal Angulo told him. “You are a Vatican Knight in representation of the Church, not the war pieces of Kimball Hayden’s past army.”

Isaiah kept his stance relaxed, though the words struck their intended mark. “We’re protectors of the Church, Your Eminence, not aggressors.”

Cardinal Angulo lifted a hand in dismissal, cutting off any further argument. The slight wave of his fingers conveyed the finality of his stance on the matter. “That is a discussion we have had before. My position remains unchanged.”

Isaiah remained silent and his expression neutral as he absorbed the reprimand without response.

“The palace is under heavy guard,” Cardinal Angulo continued. “My welfare is well protected. Were it not for the pontiff’s mandate that you and your kind be present, you wouldn’t be here at all if I had my way.”

Isaiah gave no reaction, maintaining the composure expected of him. He had heard this before.

“The Vatican Knights will bear no weapons,” the cardinal added. “Hardly a symbol the Church wishes to present.”

Isaiah said nothing. He had no need for weapons. He and his brethren had been trained beyond the need for them. Their hands, their feet, their very bodies were more than enough. The Vatican Knights did not require steel when flesh and bone could be just as decisive.

A silence settled between them, not one of comfort but of understanding, an impasse neither had the will to push further. Then, without another word, Cardinal Angulo turned toward the door, Isaiah falling into step beside him, his movements soundless.

They left the chamber, stepping into the grand halls of the palace. The cardinal walked with purpose, each footfall leading him toward the negotiation table where the first round of talks would soon begin.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The team remained concealed in the shadows, watching as the guard rotation unfolded with precise efficiency. Six guards stood at their posts, clad in dark tactical gear, their movements crisp and controlled. The transition took place exactly on schedule, a seamless shift that spoke to the discipline instilled in them. Three of the guards departed, replaced by three fresh sentries who stepped into position without hesitation, scanning their surroundings as they assumed their watch.

Bouchard adjusted his stance before stepping forward, leading Waleed, Momar, Abdul, and Hussein toward the checkpoint. Their own uniforms carried an air of authority, the illusion they needed to maintain. As they approached, one of the guards raised a gloved hand, signaling them to stop.

Bouchard halted, standing firm as the guard regarded him with sharp scrutiny. Their conversation began in French, the exchange formal yet wary. The guard demanded identification, and Bouchard produced a special access card, holding it out steadily. A second guard approached, carrying a compact handheld scanner, his movements methodical as he took the card and ran it under the device’s sensor. The screen blinked to life, displaying Bouchard’s credentials—his photograph, physical description, Brigade Criminelle status, and the necessary access codes.

The device emitted a soft chime of approval. The first guard studied the screen, verifying every detail before looking up. “Access confirmed,” he stated in French. Then his gaze shifted past Bouchard to the others. “Their cards.”

A silence settled over the group. No one moved.

The guard’s expression remained poker-faced, though his posture stiffened slightly. “All personnel require clearance,” he stated. “Hand over your access cards.”

Bouchard did not hesitate in his response. “They’re my tactical team,” he said smoothly. “Brigade Criminelle’s special unit, assigned to my command for today’s security operations.”

The guard didn’t lower his hand. “Protocol is protocol, Commissaire. Every individual entering must have proper clearance . . . You know this.”

Another beat of silence followed. The second guard studied Bouchard before narrowing his eyes. “Why is the Brigade Criminelle requesting access anyway? Tactical units have been ordered to maintain a perimeter. This . . . you also know.”

No one moved as the tension thickened.

Waleed’s gaze flicked toward Bouchard, unreadable beneath the faint glow of the security lighting. Momar and Abdul stood poised, waiting. Hussein’s fingers hovered just near his belt, though whether it was an act of patience or preparation remained unclear.

Bouchard kept his expression neutral, though inside he felt the moment teetering toward something dangerous. He had expected a challenge—but this was the part where the wrong word, the wrong movement, could tip the scales.

He lifted his chin slightly, choosing his next words carefully. “Then perhaps you should contact your supervisor,” he said evenly. “And let him know that I am under direct orders to be here.”

Neither guard moved to comply.

The moment stretched, every second weighing heavier than the last.

Then, one of the guards accepted Bouchard’s challenge and turned toward the booth, his boots sounding against the pavement as he moved with purpose with his hand hovering near his radio, prepared to call in the clearance request.

The moment his back was turned, Waleed and Momar acted in unison. Suppressed gunfire whispered through the air, the quick bursts no louder than a series of low coughs. The guards didn’t even have time to register what was happening before bullets stitched through them, tearing across vests and flesh alike. Their bodies jerked before collapsing to the ground, blood pooling beneath them, glistening under the artificial glow of the security lights.

Bouchard's breath caught in his throat, his face paling as he turned to Waleed, his voice sharp with disbelief. “I had the situation under control!”

Waleed barely spared him a glance. “No, you didn’t. And we don’t have time for this.”

Bouchard's lips parted as if to argue, but Waleed had already moved on. With swift efficiency, he, Momar, and Hussein dragged the bodies toward the booth, keeping their movements controlled and methodical. They weren't rattled by the blood on their gloves or the lifeless eyes staring into the void. They had done this before, the act natural to them to a point.

Once he laid the body down, Momar stepped into the booth, his eyes quickly scanning the computer system before his fingers started to dance over the keyboard as he accessed the network. His expression remained neutral as he navigated through the security feed. A few keystrokes later, the cameras were compromised, their live feeds looping seamlessly, replaying empty corridors as if nothing had changed. Satisfied, Momar glanced toward Waleed and gave a firm thumbs-up.

Waleed turned to Bouchard. “Get us inside. Now.”

Bouchard hesitated. His chin trembled slightly, his fear evident in the way his hands clenched. He looked at the bodies again, the reality of the situation closing in on him, suffocating. He had known what he was getting into but knowing and witnessing were two different things.

Waleed’s patience thinned. “Move.”

Swallowing hard, Bouchard stepped toward the access panel. His fingers trembled as he swiped his card through the reader. A small light flickered, prompting him for further identification. Taking a slow breath, he leaned in, allowing the scanner to analyze the intricate mapping of his eye, reading the subtle pulsations of his capillaries to verify he was a live subject and not an artificial duplicate.

A soft beep.

And then a click.

The heavy, bombproof door unlocked, its mechanisms whirring as it slid open along a reinforced rail, granting them passage.

Waleed took the lead, stepping into the palace’s dimly lit corridor. The scent of polished marble and aged wood filled the air. CCTV cameras loomed from every corner, blinking red in silent vigilance. But Momar had done his job well. The security feeds continued their loop, masking their presence as they moved forward.

Waleed’s gaze flickered toward Bouchard. Though the commissaire tried to compose himself, the slight quiver in his steps betrayed his nerves. He was in too deep now, caught in the current with no chance of swimming back to safety.

Through the dark shield of his helmet, Waleed’s eyes remained unreadable. “We’re running out of time. Get us to the negotiation table.”

Bouchard nodded stiffly. He knew what was at stake. His daughters. His survival. His very soul.

He moved forward, leading them deeper into the palace, the faint ticking of time slipping through their fingers like sand.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The negotiation room was modest in size, its long table stretching nearly from one end to the other with close to two dozen chairs neatly arranged. The flagstaffs by the walls bore the flags of participating nations, the silent emblems of authority and alliances. The air mingled with the hushed voices of dignitaries already inside who spoke in measured tones, their words wrapped in feigned warmth.

Beyond the threshold, the hallway buzzed with activity. Delegates loitered in small groups, their hands in constant motion—gesturing, smoothing their ties, adjusting their cuffs—as they spoke with carefully curated expressions. Some leaned in as though exchanging secrets, while others laughed at remarks that held no humor. Every smile was a calculated move, each handshake an unspoken agreement that could just as easily be broken when the time for bargaining arrived.

Security personnel in plain clothing moved along the perimeter, blending into the background with quiet vigilance. Their eyes flickered across the faces in the room, tracking movements, noting details. Alongside them stood the Vatican Knights: Isaiah, Jeremiah, Moses, and Solomon. Their presence was distinct—clad in uniforms that were a contradiction in themselves. From the waist up, they bore the image of piety, donned in clerical shirts with Roman Catholic collars. Below, their attire told a different story—military cargo pants and combat boots, a silent nod to the battlefield. Their posture was composed as their hands rested at their sides, yet the reputation that followed them spoke of something far more imposing.

Omar Al-Shami moved with careful steps, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on the Vatican Knights. For a brief moment, he hesitated, though his expression remained neutral. Yet, the slight tension in his stance betrayed him. Stories of their kind had traveled far. They were known in hushed voices across the Middle East, their legend intertwined with a name that instilled both fear and intrigue of one man in particular, the Devil's Magician.

The moment stretched between them, silent and unbroken. The knights did not move nor acknowledge him beyond their steady watchfulness. Then something unreadable flickered across Omar Al-Shami’s features before he turned away, continuing through the room. As he rejoined the others, his hand extended toward a delegate, his face once again carrying the well-practiced expression of diplomacy. But for that single moment, standing before the Vatican Knights, his unease had been evident.

* * *

Bouchard moved with deliberate steps, leading Waleed’s force through the corridor, his breaths steady though his pulse had quickened. The hallway was eerily quiet, emptied of its usual bustle. It was a route Bouchard had personally assured Chief Commissioner Marc Lefevre of the SDLP that it would be locked down, secured, and cleared of any possible threats. Now, he guided those who had no business being there, their presence a shadow slipping through the cracks of protocol.

The polished floor reflected the dim lighting overhead, their movements soundless save for the faintest scuff of boots. The corridor stretched long and uninterrupted, the silence giving the impression of deeper secrecy. Palace staff moved in and out of adjoining rooms, dressed in their customary attire, their minds occupied with duties that left them unaware of the group passing through. Bouchard kept his head straight and his expression firm, relying on the suit he wore and the authority it projected to avoid any unwanted inquiries.

The group continued to move forward with their pace steady but unhurried while maintaining the air of legitimacy, though Bouchard had to will himself to appear unfazed. The palace had layers of security, each more intricate than the last, but knowledge was power, and he had spent years walking these hallways—every twist, every turn, logged into his memory.

As they rounded a bend, something unexpected tightened in Bouchard's chest when he spotted a familiar figure standing just ahead—Vivienne Girard.

She was flanked by three DGSI agents, each sharply dressed, their stance speaking of discipline and awareness. Their conversation was low and efficient, words clipped and deliberate as they discussed procedures and protocol. But then Vivienne’s gaze lifted, landing on Bouchard and his team. Slowly, her eyes narrowed as her expression shifted from casual focus to something more precise, more searching.

She lingered on Bouchard, studying him, then let her gaze drift to the men flanking him. It was not suspicion yet, but something closer to calculation—most likely a question forming before the words could take shape.

Bouchard did not slow his approach, nor did he falter, but something in his gut twisted as Vivienne continued to watch him through a curious eye, the moment stretching uncomfortably between them.

Bouchard came to a halt, his team standing firm behind him. Vivienne Girard held her position, her gaze close to piercing as she assessed him and the men at his back. They were clad in full tactical gear, the emblem of the Brigade de Recherche et d'Intervention visible on their shoulders. The weight of the moment settled between them as the distant murmur of palace activity carried through the corridor.

“Vivienne,” Bouchard greeted with a practiced ease, offering a small nod. “Everything all right on your end?”

She didn't return the pleasantry, instead letting a moment pass as her eyes moved from him to the men behind him. One brow lifted, her skepticism clear. “I should be asking you that question since you seem to be out of place, Charles. Why would that be?”

Bouchard kept his expression neutral. “Final sweep,” he said casually. “Ensuring nothing’s out of order before things move forward.”

Girard’s lips pressed together as she tilted her head slightly, her appraisal lingering. “Final sweep, huh? That’s interesting. Because last I checked, Chief Commissioner Lefevre assured me that all tactical units were to remain outside the palace. That was the agreement. No visible armed personnel near the delegates.” Her tone remained even, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.

Bouchard shrugged lightly. “No worries,” he answered. “We’re keeping a low profile.”

Girard’s gaze flickered over his team once more. "He also mentioned that your assignment was to lead a plain-clothed unit. So, imagine my surprise when I see you here with a fully geared BRI tactical team . . . and breaking protocol.”

Bouchard barely hesitated. “Plans change for the sake of not being predictable.”

“Predictability is one thing," she countered. “Ignoring strict protocol is another. The presence of tactical forces inside the palace goes against every security measure agreed upon, especially with Chief Commissioner Lefevre. The whole point was to keep a strong exterior presence so the dignitaries wouldn’t feel like they’re walking into a militarized zone. You know this.”

Bouchard kept his stance relaxed, but inside, his thoughts churned. He had hoped to slip by unnoticed, but Girard wasn’t one to overlook inconsistencies. He met her gaze, considering his next words carefully. Around them, the tension of the corridor thickened.

Girard’s eyes drifted downward, her stare settling on the weapons held by Bouchard’s unit. AK-47s, each outfitted with Dead Air Wolverine PBS-1 suppressors—durable, efficient, and foreign to the standard issue of the BRI. These were not the compact, high-speed HK MP7s the unit was known for. Her brow furrowed slightly, her mind clearly piecing together the inconsistency.

When Bouchard followed her gaze, he saw it now—the realization dawning in her expression, the conclusion that was forming behind her eyes.

Then his breath shallowed because he realized that she knew.

His shoulders dropped slightly, the fight within him conceding to the weight of his own choices. His voice, although hushed, broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Vivienne.”

Her gaze, both guarded and dissecting, snapped back to his. A silent pause hung between them before he spoke again, his words almost a plea. “They have my children.”

A slow inhale, her body tensing as her hand inched toward her holstered sidearm, careful, measured. A movement so deliberate, so restrained, it might have gone unnoticed by the untrained eye. But Bouchard saw it and understood her intentions.

His throat tightened. “I always liked you, Vivienne.”

In one fluid motion, he raised his weapon—a suppressed sidearm. The barrel leveled between her brows. His finger flexed. A muffled pop sounded, quick and final.

Her body crumpled, a slight exhale escaping her lips before she hit the polished floor as a small, bloodless wound smoked lightly at the point of impact.

Then the hallway erupted in muted flashes. The remaining agents, caught in the unavoidable fate of their station, were cut down in swift succession. Their bodies jerked as the rounds struck, their movements reduced to nothing but lifeless collapses against the marble tile as the smell of gunpowder clung to the air, subdued but present.

Bouchard stood motionless with his arms heavy at his sides. His ears rang—not from the suppressed fire, but from the act itself, the finality of his choice. His mind raced back to his children, their faces, their voices. Would they ever know why? Would they ever understand? Or had he just damned himself beyond redemption?

The bodies were quickly gathered as Waleed’s men moved with efficiency, dragging the fallen into the nearest rooms, and then shutting the doors behind them to erase evidence of what had just transpired. The corridor returned to its natural stillness.

Waleed approached with his voice low and firm. “We move. The summit is about to begin.”

Bouchard hesitated for the briefest of moments before nodding. He turned toward the path ahead, leading them deeper into the palace, and deeper into the abyss of his own making.

* * *

The facilitator stood at the head of the long table, a composed figure in a tailored suit, his expression neutral as he surveyed the gathered delegates. The murmur of quiet conversation softened as he lifted a hand, drawing their attention. With a measured nod, he announced that the session was about to begin.

The heavy door swung shut with a muted finality, the locking mechanism engaging with a subtle click that seemed louder in the sudden hush. Within the room, the mantle of diplomacy settled over the assembled figures. Some straightened in their seats, adjusting papers and clearing throats, while others remained at ease, exuding practiced confidence. Along the walls, the flags of various nations stood to proclaim the respective nations involved.

Beyond the chamber, the palace continued its function as security teams moved along their designated routes, their vigilance having been dulled by the passing of time without incident, which had bred a quiet complacency and a steadfast belief that their layers of protection were impenetrable. Radios crackled with check-ins, affirmations that all sectors remained secure. Men in dark suits and earpieces watched corridors and doorways, their eyes scanning the areas without urgency.

No one knew that the first line of defense was already gone, reduced to silence by precision and ruthless efficiency by Bouchard’s kill squad as they made their way closer to the chamber, Waleed’s team moving with a soldier’s discipline as they advanced through corridors once deemed untouchable, the unit easily bypassing safeguards.

As the window of opportunity was now beginning to close and the risk of exposing Waleed’s team of assassins grew, they would make one final statement that would echo across nations far beyond these walls.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

In the diffused glow of the underground lair's dim lighting, Khalid and Fahad sat hunched over their laptops, the screens casting a faint blue light across their faces. The live-feed flickered, its image grainy and lined with static interference, as the signal struggled through layers of concrete and steel. Even through the distortion, they had seen everything.

The execution of the guards. The smooth entry into the Palais de l'Élysée. The moment of hesitation before Bouchard raised his weapon against Vivienne Girard, followed by the sharp flash of gunfire. Her body falling into a boneless heap. And the swift elimination of her team. One by one, obstacles removed, clearing the path to the negotiation table.

Khalid’s fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the keyboard as he watched Waleed’s helmet cam feed move steadily through the palace corridors. He knew the point of no return had been crossed. Waleed, Momar, Hussein, and Abdul were now too deep, their path carved in blood and deception. There would be no slipping away into the shadows. No retreat.

It was only a matter of time before the bodies were found since the security forces outside patrolled in rotations, their sweeps methodical. The guards who had been taken down near the security entrance would be discovered within minutes. The moment that happened, everything would shift. A Level One security measure would be activated—the wailing keen of alarms piercing through the palace as tactical teams flooded the interior, rushing dignitaries from the chamber in a protective sweep. Chaos. Panic. Containment.

But Khalid knew it would be too late.

By the time the alarm was raised, Waleed’s team would already be in position. The palace would implode from the inside out, the blast of Semtex tearing through walls and bodies alike. Nothing would stop what was coming.

Khalid kept his eyes on the laptop screen, tracking the slow, steady movement of Waleed’s team. Step by step, they advanced toward the negotiation room. With each passing second, the inevitable drew closer.

Khalid exhaled softly and closed his eyes. In the silence of the underground hideout, his final thought was one of reverence.

Allahu Akbar.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Palais de l'Élysée

Paris, France

Voices.

Bouchard stepped out from the cover of a recessed doorway and into the open hallway that led to a grand and circular foyer before the summit chamber. His posture was easy, his stride unhurried. Every motion carried the air of someone who belonged amongst them, and a man with authority in a place where few questioned him.

Around him, the palace corridors hummed with movement. Plainclothes operators in sharp suits stood in small clusters, their eyes scanning everything, their earpieces confirming their roles. Though they blended into the grand setting, Bouchard saw them for what they were—security professionals, each trained to recognize a threat before it could act.

He counted them. A dozen here. Many more likely posted along branching corridors, unseen but close. These men were the final layer of security between the outer defenses and the negotiation chamber. Unlike the guards at the entrance, these weren’t standard enforcers. These were the ones who didn’t miss details. The ones who moved with a quiet confidence that suggested experience.

Bouchard’s gaze shifted forward, locking onto the set of double doors at the far end of the corridor. There, stationed directly before the entrance, stood two men, distinct from the others. Both were built like siege towers—broad shoulders, thick arms, and bull-like necks that stretched the fabric of their tailored suits. They were still and silent, their eyes moving only when necessary.

Behind Bouchard, Waleed and the others remained just out of sight, waiting. Their patience wasn’t endless, but having already come this far, they knew the moment of action was drawing closer.

Then it happened.

The alarm tore through the palace like a siren’s wail, bouncing off the marble floors and towering walls. The outside bodies had been found.

A ripple of movement spread through the security teams. Hands went to earpieces. Eyes sharpened. The stillness shattered as personnel readied for orders.

Bouchard didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Because at that moment, all eyes turned to him.

* * *

Bouchard lifted his right hand in a subtle but unmistakable motion to Waleed. The signal.

At the doors to the negotiation chamber, the two security men turned, keying into their earpieces, their instincts heightened by the blaring alarms. In the same motion, they reached for their sidearms, ready for the unknown threat now gripping the palace.

Waleed didn’t hesitate. He turned to Hussein, eyes locked onto the teen’s anxious face. Hussein’s hands trembled, barely perceptible, but Waleed saw it.

“This is it,” Waleed told him with a measured voice, his words meant to steady rather than stir. “Your time for Paradise has come, Hussein. Allah waits for you.”

Hussein’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. Then his eyes darted to the floor and to the walls, anywhere but Waleed’s gaze.

Waleed stepped closer, his voice firm. “The people of Palestine will sing your praises. Your martyrdom will be remembered among the greatest. You hesitate now, but when you walk through those doors, you will be one with history . . . A name to be remembered.”

Hussein closed his eyes. His breaths came sharp and fast, then slower. A rhythm. A cadence of finality.

Then he moved.

His boots carried him swiftly down the hallway past the scrambling security details and palace personnel, past men barking orders into radios, past the operators pivoting toward new orders. No one stopped him. His uniform made him one of them, the deception holding.

As Hussein stepped forward, he positioned himself in the center of the foyer that was situated before the chamber.

The perfect point.

The detonator was firm in his grasp, the ridges of the button sharp beneath his thumb. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, his breath shallow.

From the hallway, Bouchard turned and bolted away to seek cover.

In the foyer, Hussein raised the detonator.

“Allahu Akbarrrrrrrrrrr!”

His thumb drove down.

The world erupted.

* * *

Unsettling murmurs spread through the room as the alarm blared. Delegates turned to one another, some demanding answers, others scanning the chamber for security.

“What’s going on?” someone from Israel asked, their voice tight with unease.

Chairs scraped against the polished floor as officials rose, shifting in uncertainty. Faces twisted with concern as some glanced toward the exits, while others looked to the security personnel stationed inside.

Then, the twin doors at the front of the room shuddered.

They creaked open—just slightly at first.

Then a voice, loud and raw with purpose, tore through the air:

“Allahu Akbarrrrrrrrrrr!”

The explosion hit like a collapsing star.

The doors blew inward with a force that shattered the air itself, ripping them from their hinges and sending them hurtling across the chamber. The two broad-shouldered guards who had been moving to secure the entryway were caught mid-step, the impact folding them like rag dolls, their bodies hitting the floor before they even had a chance to react.

One of the massive doors, spinning through the air, clipped a negotiator at the temple with an awful sound of bone breaking. The other caught a man square in the chest, sending him sprawling, dead before he hit the ground.

Then came the ball bearings.

Metal fragments cut through the air like a storm of needles, their speed turning them into silent, merciless killers. Two more bodies danced violently, their torsos riddled with holes before they fell limply to the ground. Behind them, the far wall became a constellation of punctures while dust and debris erupted into the air from the impact.

Screams rang out.

Some dropped instinctively. Others were thrown down by the concussive force, arms flailing as they hit the floor. The air suddenly reeked of burnt metal, pulverized wood, and the overpowering scent of newly minted copper pennies.

The Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Angulo, stirred amid the chaos. His vision swam as he pushed himself up on shaky arms. Then, feeling a sharp pain piercing his skull, he touched his forehead, his fingers coming away slick with blood. Somewhere in the carnage, he lost his zucchetto.

The chamber, once a place of diplomacy, had become a scene of ruin.

A hand reached down through the haze, steady and sure.

Cardinal Angulo blinked against the dust, his vision unfocused as he looked up. Blood trickled down his temple, warm against his skin, while the ringing in his ears drowned out everything but a distant, hollow voice calling his name.

It was Isaiah, his face a blur, but his Roman Catholic collar was stark as he reached down. The Vatican Knight’s grip was firm as he pulled the cardinal to his feet. Cardinal Angulo wavered, his balance unsteady, but Isaiah held him upright. Around them, others struggled to rise, their faces streaked with blood, their clothing heavily dusted. Some wept, others groaned as they found their footing.

Figures moved through the smoke—shadows taking shape in the shifting light. Jeremiah, Solomon, and Moses emerged, the other three Vatican Knights, their movements swift and efficient as they pulled survivors from the devastation. Two more security personnel worked alongside them, guiding the dazed and wounded toward a hidden decorative panel that opened like a door at the rear of the chamber.

An escape route.

Fragments of wood and glass crunched beneath hurried steps as the first survivors reached the open panel, disappearing into the passage beyond.

Isaiah gave Cardinal Angulo a steady look, then nodded toward the exit.

It was time to move.

* * *

Waleed moved through the settling haze with his rifle up and his eyes locked on the last of the fleeing delegates. The open panel at the back of the chamber stood open, figures vanishing through it.

He squeezed the trigger.

Gunfire ripped across the wall, trailing the final runner as bullets chewed into the wood, sending splinters flying. The last figure slipped through the opening just as a burst of rounds shredded the frame, but the target was gone.

Waleed rushed forward, vaulting over the fallen without hesitation. Momar and Abdul followed close behind, their footfalls swift and sure as they cut through the wreckage, smoke curling around them in air thick with the scent of spent gunpowder.

The decorative panel appeared ahead, an opening that hadn’t been on the palace schematics.

A problem.

Waleed didn't slow and neither did the others. For whatever lay beyond that threshold, they would deal with it quickly and efficiently.

When they arrived at the opening, they pressed themselves against the wall with their eyes locked on the opening. Smoke still curled from the ruined chamber behind them; but here, in this space between chaos and pursuit, everything felt eerily still.

Waleed signaled with a glance to Momar, who gave a slight nod in return. Then, raising three fingers, Waleed counted down.

. . . Three . . .

. . . Two . . .

. . . One . . .

Momar lunged forward, pivoting as he crossed the threshold. His rifle swept in an arc from left to right, the muzzle flashing as he let off a controlled burst. When his magazine ran dry, his hands moved with practiced speed, ejecting and slamming a fresh one into place.

Silence.

No return fire. No figures slumped in the corners. Only the lingering haze of gunpowder and the distant sound of footsteps fading deeper into the palace.

The chase was on.

One by one, the others moved through with their weapons high, clearing angles as they advanced. At the back of the group, Bouchard hesitated. He could feel the awful weight of the moment, the tipping point where hesitation had no place.

Lifting his gaze, he spotted a CCTV camera mounted in the corner. Its small red light glowed, a quiet witness to everything.

A record of betrayal.

He stepped through, leaving the past behind, knowing there was no turning back.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

The grainy feed flickered on the screen, distorting for a moment before stabilizing. Khalid watched as Waleed and the others reached the back of the chamber, closing in on what should have been a dead end—only for the last of the delegates to vanish through an unseen passage.

“What is this?” His voice was low at first, but it carried an edge sharp enough to cut.

The hidden panel and the passageway behind it hadn’t been on the schematics. It hadn’t been part of their plan.

Khalid’s pulse pounded in his ears as he turned sharply toward Fahad, his face half-lit by the dull glow of the monitors.

“You told me you had everything,” Khalid snapped.

Fahad barely had a moment to react before Khalid grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him up, nearly lifting him off his feet. The chair skidded back, scraping across the floor.

“You swore to me!” Khalid roared, his face inches from Fahad’s.

Fahad’s hands shot up, gripping Khalid’s wrists as if that would somehow steady him. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his skin paling. “I—I didn’t know. It wasn’t on the records I pulled.”

Khalid’s grip tightened.

Fahad winced but forced himself to speak. “They must have omitted it from the digital archives to prevent exactly this kind of breach. It’s a safeguard! I had no control over it!”

Khalid stared at him, his eyes bloodshot, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them with something dangerous.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d grabbed him, Khalid shoved Fahad back into his chair, the force of it sending the man rocking before he steadied himself.

Fahad swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the screen. Khalid’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer, then shifted back to the live feed.

The plan had been perfect, he thought.

Now, it was unraveling before his eyes.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

The Palais de l'Élysée

Paris, France

The narrow corridors stretched ahead, dimly lit by flickering overhead bulbs. The air was thick with dust and the acrid scent of smoke, remnants of the chaos left behind. Footsteps echoed against the concrete floor as the group moved swiftly, their pace urgent despite the injuries that slowed some.

Isaiah bore much of the cardinal's weight, the man's arm hooked over Isaiah’s shoulders as the cardinal’s steps faltered a bit but remained determined to stay afoot. Blood continued to trickle from a wound near the cardinal's temple, staining the fabric of his garments. Isaiah, steadfast and focused, adjusted his grip and aided the cardinal forward with unyielding strength.

Ahead, the other Vatican Knights guided the battered delegates, their suits streaked with dust and their faces smeared with blood. Some limped, others leaned on those stronger, their exhaustion evident in every strained step. The two remaining security officers from the Service de la Protection moved alongside them, their eyes sharp as they scanned every turn, every shadow.

The hallways twisted and branched off into unfamiliar passages, industrial in their design. Pipes ran along the low ceilings, some leaking slow drips of condensation onto the cold floors. The further they went, the more the palace above felt like a world now left behind in favor of these hollow, unguarded spaces.

But even here, in the hidden underbelly of the structure, safety was not guaranteed.

So, they kept moving until they could move no more as Isaiah came to a halt at a bend in the corridor, his eyes looking down the passage they had just come from. The sounds of pursuit were drawing closer—the steady pound of booted feet.

He turned back to the group whose faces were lined with exhaustion and streaked with blood. Fear gripped them all, some more visibly than others. Then, shifting the cardinal’s weight off his shoulders, he passed him to one of the security officers, who, though battered, accepted the burden with a firm grip.

“Get everyone to safety,” Isaiah told him. “The Gendarmerie and RAID are most likely moving in, but the wounded are slowing us down, so the units won’t reach us in time.”

The officer’s expression tightened as he grasped the implication—that their escape was slipping away, and the enemy was closing in fast.

“Jeremiah and I will stay behind to slow them down,” Isaiah continued. “Moses and Solomon will help you get the others to safety.”

The officer hesitated, then reached for his sidearm, offering it to Isaiah. “Take it.”

Isaiah shook his head. “Hands and feet are all we need.”

The officer’s grip on the weapon tightened, his lips parting as if to protest, but a weak gesture from the cardinal stopped him. The old man, still bleeding, managed to lift a hand in a faint, dismissive wave.

“They know what they’re doing,” the cardinal stated, his voice strained. “Let them do what they do best.”

For the first time, a trace of acknowledgment, even respect, passed between the two men, the connection visible in the cardinal’s weary eyes as Isaiah met his gaze. There was no time for words, only action.

Isaiah turned to Jeremiah. No words passed between them and none were needed. The mission was clear—protect those who could not protect themselves.

As one, Isaiah and Jeremiah pivoted seamlessly, guided by unspoken rhythm as they moved toward the approaching danger, their footfalls silent.

Cardinal Angulo watched them go, his expression blank for a moment before he wiped a bloodied hand across his brow, clearing the streaks that trailed down his face. Then, with a nod, one filled with something more than just acknowledgment—perhaps gratitude, perhaps understanding—he turned with the others and moved toward whatever safety lay ahead.

* * *

Waleed and Momar moved swiftly while Abdul lagged behind, his pace slower, but they paid him little mind—whether he kept up or not no longer mattered now that the mission had been compromised. Up ahead, the moans and panic chatter grew louder, though the sound was distorted by the tunnels, making it difficult to tell their origin.

Waleed and Momar had trained for this moment, shaped by conflict and molded into something sharper than mere men. They had spent years refining their bodies, perfecting their strikes, ensuring their hands could kill as effectively as their weapons. Every lesson had been in service of this war, and their purpose clear as their conditioning urged them directly into the heart of conflict without fear of consequence.

As they rounded a bend, the path divided into three hallways that stretched before them, all identical in their faint glow and concrete walls. The voices of those who had taken flight seemingly echoed from all three directions, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.

Waleed’s boots scraped against the concrete as he came to a halt at the fork in the path. His breath was steady and controlled as his eyes scanned each corridor with measured intent. The walls stretched into the feeble glow, their length vanishing into shadowed unknowns. The distant echoes of fleeing steps continued to rebound from all directions, distorted and misleading.

Behind him, Momar and Abdul caught up, but Waleed ignored them, his focus remained locked on figuring out which way the dignitaries had fled, their presence so close he could almost feel them.

To Waleed, they were nothing more than symbols of power to be stripped of meaning beyond what their deaths would provide. The Vatican, Lebanon, Israel—empty names attached to bodies that would soon litter the palace grounds. The very meaning of their existence meant nothing to him beyond the headlines their deaths would create, driven by a mission demanding sacrifice that he had no intention of failing.

His eyes narrowed as he shifted his grip on his weapon, his eyes calculating. The uncertainty of where the echoes were coming from gnawed at him, and hesitation was a luxury he couldn’t afford at the moment.

Waleed tightened his grip on his rifle as he scanned the tunnels one last time. The echoes had faded, but he knew their targets were near. With time running out, he turned to Momar and Abdul, his voice sharp. “There’s no doubt members of the Gendarmerie Nationale and the Service de la Protection are closing on our position,” he told them. “We’re locked in.”

Momar stood firm while Abdul shifted his stance, his fingers twitching near his weapon.

“Many of them are wounded, which will slow them down,” Waleed continued. “So, catching them will be easy.” He turned back to the tunnel branches. “The only question is, which corridor to take.”

He looked at each path again, his decision swift. “We split up. One tunnel each. We converge on them from every direction.”

Momar gave a curt nod, accepting the order without hesitation, needing no further convincing as he understood both the purpose and necessity of their mission.

Waleed stepped closer, lowering his voice. “In the name of Allah, we make this sacrifice—not just for Palestine, but for the whole Middle East.”

A moment passed between them, unspoken but understood, and then they embraced briefly — a farewell and an acknowledgment of the fate they had chosen. It was an instant where there was no need for words.

Momar turned without looking back, disappearing into the tunnel’s shadows, his footsteps fading quickly into the distance.

Waleed turned to Abdul, the boy standing rigid and his face drawn tight with fear.

Waleed studied him, recognizing the hesitation and uncertainty creeping in—a boy forced to become a man before his time.

He had seen that look many times before and knew what it meant.

And he knew what had to be done.

Waleed placed a firm hand on Abdul’s shoulder, feeling the boy tremble beneath his grip. The dim tunnel light barely touched the sharp edges of Abdul’s face, but Waleed could see the fear settling deep in his eyes.

“You must remember why we do this,” Waleed said, his voice steady. “We are chosen. We are vessels of Allah’s will. And He is watching, preparing to welcome us into Paradise.”

Abdul swallowed hard, his fingers twitching.

“There will be no pain,” Waleed continued, tapping the vest just over the concealed thumb plunger. “It will happen too fast for your mind to register. One moment here, the next—” He gestured upward with his hand, as if unveiling something magnificent.

“The gates of Jannah will open before you. You will step into a land where rivers of milk and honey flow, where gardens stretch beyond sight. There will be no hunger, no thirst, no sorrow—only endless peace. And the angels will greet you with open arms.”

Abdul nodded as his lips parted slightly, but the tension in his face did not fade. The hesitation remained just beneath the surface.

Waleed frowned, knowing that doubt was always dangerous.

He leaned in slightly with his tone sharpening. “But if you fail in this, if you allow fear to guide you instead of faith, then know this—Jahannam awaits.”

Abdul’s eyes widened.

“There, you will burn, and you will suffer, over and over, for all eternity. The fire will consume you, only for your body to be restored, just so it can be torn apart again.” Waleed’s grip tightened. “That is the fate of the weak.”

Abdul’s breath came in quick, shallow bursts. Then he shook his head, barely more than a twitch. “I will do as Allah wills.”

A pause stretched between them. Then Waleed lifted his chin slightly and pointed to the tunnel Momar had not taken.

“Go.”

Abdul hesitated just long enough for Waleed to see the fear still holding onto him. But then, with a final nod, he turned and hurried into the tunnel, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Waleed watched until the shadows swallowed him. Then, without another thought, he turned and took the last path, vanishing into the darkness.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The palace moved with a sense of urgency. Boots struck the marble floors as rapid footsteps echoed through the vaulted halls while security forces mobilized. Tactical teams, plain-clothed agents, and riot-clad officers surged toward the summit room, each unit moving with intent. Though the initial scramble carried an air of chaos, precision quickly took hold as training overtook instinct.

Members of the Gendarmerie Nationale and RAID poured into the corridors, weapons raised, scanning every shadow for movement. Service de la Protection agents, moving in coordinated pairs, swept the hallways leading to the negotiation room, their formation tight as they prepared to give chase. Down the stairways and through narrow passageways, the hunt began.

DGSI operatives, some in civilian attire, blended into the movement, their eyes sharp and their hands steady on concealed weapons. They moved like predators, cutting through the confusion with quiet efficiency. Every hallway, every possible escape route was accounted for.

Near the exits, security teams formed barricades, setting up positions with shields raised and rifles braced. The palace was no longer a place of diplomacy—it had become a battlefield, the walls holding the echoes of orders barked and radios crackling with updates.

Then, as though an unseen signal passed through the ranks, the movement synchronized with no wasted motion or hesitation. Every step had purpose as teams converged with speed and clarity, the hunters closing in.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Momar reached the four-way junction, his eyes glancing to each tunnel stretching into the distance. This place was a crucial intersection, an artery that connected all four points of the palace—north, south, east, and west. If the delegates were escaping to the surface, they would have come through here.

But something was off. The air was too still. There were no hurried footsteps, no trailing voices—only the faint hum of distant lighting fixtures. And it was here that he realized that he had chosen the wrong tunnel.

Then he heard them.

Boots. Many. Moving fast.

The sound came from all directions, filling each corridor with an encroaching rhythm. Then shadows flickered against the walls as figures moved into position, surrounding him.

Momar exhaled slowly, feeling no fear but only certainty that this moment had always been inevitable.

With measured precision, he placed his modified AK-47 on the ground and nudged it aside with his foot. Then, moving with the same steady control, he lowered himself to his knees.

His fingers slipped into his vest, finding the small, familiar shape of the thumb plunger. He let his eyes drift upward, toward the ceiling. Beyond it, past the layers of stone and steel, lay the open sky. Somewhere beyond that, paradise awaited.

Raising his arms outward, his hands open, he began to chant in Arabic. His voice carried through the tunnels, unwavering, each word spoken with conviction.

The plunger rested firm in his grasp, his arms spread wide.

And he waited.

* * *

The security forces converged on the junction from all directions, boots pounding against the concrete as they closed in. The area filled with the shouts of officers, their commands sharp and urgent, echoing off the tunnel walls.

“À terre! À terre maintenant!”—"On the ground! Now!”

But the man in the center of the junction didn’t move.

Kneeling with his arms outstretched, his head tilted slightly upward, he remained still, murmuring in Arabic. The glow of overhead lights flickered against his face, catching the steady rise and fall of his lips as he recited a prayer. He gave no sign that he heard the voices screaming at him, that he even registered the dozens of laser sights crisscrossing his body.

The officers fanned out with their weapons aimed and locked, closing the distance with calculated precision. Their steps slowed as they neared, reading the situation, uncertain of his intent. He was unarmed—or at least appeared to be, with his rifle lying discarded to the side, as if surrendering. His hands, though raised, were curled slightly, fingers barely moving with each word of prayer.

“Putain de merde . . .” one of the officers mumbled under his breath, adjusting his grip on his weapon. Something wasn’t right.

Still, they advanced, feet shuffling cautiously.

Breaths were held.

Momar kept his eyes shut, focusing only on the final words of his prayer as the moment was upon him, the waiting now over.

First, he inhaled deeply.

Then he opened his eyes.

The dim corridor came into sharp relief with every detail snapping into focus—the barrels of rifles trained on him, the tactical gear strapped tight to armored chests, the tension in the men’s faces.

They were close enough, Momar considered, as his grip tightened around the plunger hidden in his palm.

After exhaling, he cried out: “Allahu Akbarrrrrrrrrrr!”

The sound had barely left his lips before his thumb drove down.

A split second of stillness.

Then—obliteration.

A blinding eruption swallowed the corridor in a violent storm of fire and steel. The shockwave tore through the tunnels, ripping concrete from the walls, sending bodies airborne before they were vaporized. The deafening roar swallowed screams, devouring all sound beneath its crushing force.

Above, in the grand halls of the palace, the ground convulsed. Marble fractured with a sickening crack, spiderweb fissures splitting the polished floor as the foundation groaned under the blast’s force. Statues swayed before toppling, their heavy forms shattering upon impact. The chandelier in the central hall trembled, its golden frame rattling, crystals raining down in a symphony of destruction.

People were thrown to the floor as the palace seemed to lurch, an upheaval. The walls trembled. Dust billowed from the ceilings as the once-majestic corridors of the summit now bore the scars of war.

And beneath it all, in the tunnels now turned to ruin, nothing remained of the men who had stood there moments before.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

First, the tunnel rumbled.

Then came the blast.

The concussive wave surged through the underground passage, slamming into Isaiah and Jeremiah with brutal force, the impact knocking them off their feet and throwing them against the rough concrete. A moment later a deafening roar followed as a shockwave of air and heat rushed past them like a current, relentless and overwhelming.

Then the overhead lights burst in a rapid chain reaction, the sound sharp and splintering, like ice cracking beneath unforgiving pressure, causing shards to rain down as tiny fragments scattered across the floor.

And then—darkness.

The tunnel settled into pitch black, the absence of light absolute.

Isaiah landed hard and rolled onto one knee, his breath steady despite the surrounding chaos. Nearby, Jeremiah stirred with controlled, precise movements—both men had trained extensively for moments like these.

For most, darkness was a disadvantage.

For the Vatican Knights, it was an ally.

A faint smell of smoke continued to hang in the air, carried by the dying echoes of destruction. Isaiah turned his head slightly, listening. The tunnel walls groaned in the aftermath, but beyond that, silence reigned.

Then, in a hushed tone, Isaiah spoke. “That was military grade,” he said.

No response was needed as both men understood what it meant. A detonation of that scale meant heavy casualties. It also meant the enemy wasn’t here for a symbolic gesture—they were here to level the playing field by any means necessary.

A quiet moment passed, then Isaiah said, “Time to move . . . And watch yourself now that we know they’re likely packed for self-sacrifice.”

With that, the two split into the shadows, silent, unseen, disappearing into the tunnels like phantoms.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

The tunnel trembled with a deep, rumbling shudder that ran through the earth and rolled through the concrete walls, shaking the entire structure. Dust rained from above in thick clouds, swirling in the dim light, coating Waleed’s uniform and settling in his throat. The bulbs overhead flickered—once, twice—before steadying again, their weak glow fighting against the darkness on all sides.

He exhaled through his nose, coughed, then lowered his head as understanding set in. Momar's completed task was made evident by the force of the blast and the perceptible shift in the air. The walls shook with the power of his sacrifice, and the ground trembled with the certainty of his ascent to Paradise. Standing idle, Waleed let the moment wash over him as the dust settled on his clothing, the silence stretching in the aftermath.

But this was far from over as long as he and Abdul drew breath, with more to be done. Though the message had been sent, it had yet to be carved into the fabric of history with finality, for a statement was only as strong as the blood spilled to deliver it.

Lowering his head, he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with distant traces of smoke. Then Waleed, for a brief moment, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer beneath his breath. He brought his fingers up and grazed the edge of his vest, feeling the bulk of what lay beneath, the tool that would ensure his place in eternity. Then he considered the cause and the endless war and the suffering that had shaped his path, believing that his life had never truly been his own but belonged to a nobler cause, and to something that was far greater and more deserving than his own life.

Lifting his chin, Waleed moved forward with swift, measured steps, his body weaving through the dimly lit corridor as the overhanging glow created eerie shadows across the walls.

Soon, he would find those responsible for the plight of his people and finish this off with history becoming inked in their blood.

With his breath steady and his purpose clear, Waleed pressed forward and vanished into the depths of the tunnels.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The palace groaned from the blast, the stone and steel absorbing the shock before settling once more. Dust swirled in the air, stirred by the pounding boots of security forces surging toward the heart of the chaos. Sirens wailed from deeper in the halls, the distant echoes of shouted orders filling the corridors. But Charles Bouchard moved in the opposite direction, his stride quick and his breath painfully sharp in his chest.

He had done his part. The doors had been opened, the path cleared, and the enemy let inside without resistance. Now, there was nothing left but to get out, the mission having never been his to begin with, only the role he had been forced to play. The others, he told himself, could fight and die for their cause—something he wanted no part of.

His hands trembled as the air reeked of smoke and something metallic, the aftermath of destruction hanging thick around him. Every instinct screamed at him to move faster, to slip past the converging waves of officers, to blend into the confusion. But the exit felt miles away, the corridor stretching longer with every step.

Then he saw them.

The figures emerged ahead, blocking his path—seven in total, the gleam of metal catching the dim lighting as their weapons fixed on him in unison. At the center stood Chief Commissioner Marc Lefevre, his stance firm and his gaze pinning Bouchard with an expression carved from stone. The SDLP agents flanked him with their eyes just as sharp and their fingers steady on the triggers of their sidearms.

Bouchard’s steps faltered as his stomach turned cold.

Slowly, he lifted his hands slightly, not in surrender but in something closer to helplessness. Words formed on his lips, his mouth opening as if they could somehow turn back time and erase what had been done, and to make them see the impossible choice he had faced.

But the steel in Lefevre’s gaze did not soften.

The Chief took a step forward, his voice carrying no rise in volume and no emotion, his words measured and his message clear.

“You don’t understand,” Bouchard pleaded, his voice cracking as the lump in his throat threatened to choke him. “They took my daughters. They told me—showed me—what would happen if I didn’t comply.” His breath hitched. “I had no choice.”

Lefevre’s expression remained unmoved. “And how many others did you give no choice?” His voice held no venom, only the stark weight of truth. “How many fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers were stolen because of your actions?”

Bouchard shook his head rapidly, desperation spilling into his every motion. “If I had told you—if I had confided in anyone—they would have been killed. There was nothing I could do.”

Lefevre studied him, his stare unwavering. “When you deal with people like this, they were likely dead the moment this started.”

Bouchard’s face crumpled, the words a final, crushing blow. Then his breath came in uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling with the weight of everything he had done. Then his knees threatened to buckle, his body barely holding itself together.

Lefevre gave a small nod as two SDLP agents stepped forward with swift and efficient movements. Strong hands grabbed Bouchard’s arms, pulled them behind his back, and then cold steel clicked shut around his wrists.

He didn’t resist.

There was nowhere left to run.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Jeremiah moved like a shadow within the tunnels, his footfalls controlled, his breath steady. The air continued to hang thick with the remnants of the explosion, as dust and fine debris swirled lazily in the dim corridor.

Then—footsteps.

Not many. From only one.

Jeremiah looked upward, seeing thick pipes running along the ceiling, heavy enough to bear his weight. Without hesitation, he leaped and caught hold of the nearest pipe. With muscles flexing as he hoisted himself up, he shifted until his body lay flush on top of the cold metal. A jaguar in waiting.

Through the gaps between the pipes, he saw a figure moving in the distance. The dim overhead bulbs barely pushed back the darkness, illuminating the tunnel in brief intervals. The silhouette came in and out of the glow, a phantom slipping between shadows.

Then it stopped.

Jeremiah held still as he realized that the figure had sensed a disturbance in the air, a warning only instinct could provide.

The shape raised its weapon, the barrel sweeping from left to right, searching. Jeremiah remained motionless as his eyes tracked every move. Tactical units never operated alone, not from the Brigade Criminelle, the Gendarmerie Nationale, nor the Service de la Protection. A single operative moving through the tunnels, separate from a team, triggered his suspicion.

The figure moved cautiously, clearing each space with precision. The way he held his weapon, the way his stance shifted—experienced but uncertain. Not a soldier accustomed to moving with allies, but a hunter accustomed to working alone.

As the figure passed beneath his perch, Jeremiah caught a glimpse of the weapon. A modified AK-47. Not a standard issue for any of the palace’s security forces.

Then his suspicion hardened.

This was no officer.

This was something else.

Jeremiah, waiting from above, did so with his body coiled and ready to strike.

The operative continued to move forward with a methodical caution with each step measured and each movement calculated. The feeble glow from the overhead bulbs illuminated the modified BRI vest he wore, the tactical gear carefully selected to blend in. His weapon stayed up, fanning left, then right, a hunter reading the silence. Then, as his pace slowed when he passed beneath Jeremiah’s vantage point, something in his body language signaled a heightened awareness, but it came a fraction too late.

Jeremiah moved.

Gripping the pipe, he swung down in one fluid motion. His boot connected with the rifle, sending it spinning from the operative’s grasp and sending it skidding across the floor. Before the man could react, Jeremiah’s other foot drove into his chest, the impact sending him crashing onto his back, his breath leaving in a sharp grunt.

Jeremiah, releasing the pipe, landed smoothly, his balance perfect with knees slightly bent, his arms loose and ready. The operative rolled and regained his footing in a swift, practiced motion, his stance shifting into one prepared for combat. They squared off with eyes locked, bodies poised, the air between them suddenly hot, syrupy, and teeming with tension.

They circled, slow at first, steps careful, assessing. The space between them narrowed with each calculated rotation, their tension winding tighter. Waleed’s fingers drifted toward his belt. With measured control, he withdrew a blade, the steel catching the dim light as he pointed it at Jeremiah’s chest.

Jeremiah’s gaze remained steady, tracking every movement. Whereas Waleed’s expression remained hard, but something flickered within his eyes—a moment of realization. His focus dropped briefly to the clerical collar at Jeremiah’s throat, then to the insignia stitched on his shirt pocket. The symbol of the Vatican Knights.

Recognition passed through Waleed, causing his breath to hitch, as the reality of his opponent suddenly became apparent. A whisper of something urgent left his lips in Arabic, his voice so low it was as though he was mouthing his words, but the weight behind the message was clear: Only one leaves this circle.

They continued to orbit each other, neither willing to be the first to strike knowing that the next move would determine everything.

Then, to seize the moment, Waleed lunged first, his knife a silver streak in the dim tunnel light. The blade jabbed forward, a quick, vicious thrust aimed for Jeremiah’s midsection. Jeremiah pivoted just in time, his torso twisting out of range as the tip of the knife cut through the empty space where flesh had been an instant before.

Waleed followed up with a horizontal sweep, the blade slicing through the air at stomach level. Jeremiah sprang back, his boots barely making a sound against the concrete as he avoided the cut by inches. A vertical slash came next, downward and brutal, meant to split him from shoulder to hip. Jeremiah sidestepped, ducking low, his instincts razor-sharp as Waleed pressed the attack, jabbing again and again, pushing Jeremiah deeper into the shadows with each strike coming faster and more relentless, forcing Jeremiah to keep moving.

Then the moment came.

Waleed overextended on a thrust, the knife angling too far forward. Responding to the opportune moment, Jeremiah struck with his left hand and clamped it over Waleed’s wrist in an Aikido kote gaeshi grip, then twisted it outward with expert precision. The tendons in Waleed’s forearm strained, causing his fingers to spasm as the control over his weapon weakened. Then Jeremiah’s right elbow came up and smashed into Waleed’s jaw with a sharp crack.

Waleed staggered, but his grip remained firm on the knife. Jeremiah shifted fluidly, seized Waleed’s trapped arm, and yanked it across his body in an Aikido irimi nage motion. Waleed’s balance teetered, his body momentarily weightless before Jeremiah drove his knee into Waleed’s ribs with a powerful Tae Kwon Do ap chagi. The impact sent Waleed stumbling back, his breath instantly leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.

Jeremiah pressed forward with his hands moving with practiced efficiency, and intercepted Waleed’s next wild slash, trapping the blade arm once more. A palm strike to Waleed’s shoulder destabilized him further, followed by a Tae Kwon Do yop chagi—an explosive side kick to Waleed’s sternum that sent him skidding backward, his heels scraping against the concrete as he struggled to stay upright.

Waleed fought to recover, his knife hand jerking up for another desperate attack, but Jeremiah was faster, sweeping the blade aside with an Aikido shihonage technique and twisting Waleed's wrist to send another jolt of pain radiating up his arm. Then came the strikes—sharp, punishing blows delivered with precision. A hammer fist crashed against Waleed’s temple, disorienting him further. Then a rapid elbow strike followed to the solar plexus, folding him slightly, his knees threatening to buckle.

His movements grew sluggish, his attempts to retaliate becoming sloppier while the sharp edge of his aggression dulled with each punishing blow as Jeremiah’s fists continued to target the body, the ribs, and the head—each impact stripping Waleed of strength. His breath was now coming in short, ragged bursts, and his footing unsteady as his vision began to darken along the edges.

Then Jeremiah finished it.

A final, devastating Tae Kwon Do dollyo chagi—an arcing roundhouse kick—caught Waleed clean against the jaw. His head snapped to the side as his body lifted off his feet, the sheer force of the strike sending him airborne for a split second before he crashed to the ground in a heap.

He landed hard, sprawled on his back, gasping, consciousness slipping as his fingers twitched toward something in his vest.

Waleed’s fingers fumbled against the fabric of his vest, jerking at the strap that concealed the detonator. His muscles trembled from exertion and pain, but his purpose remained clear as his thumb found the ridged button, pressing down—

Jeremiah moved.

Crossing the space between them in a blur, he struck Waleed’s wrist, forcing the detonator aside though not from his grip. The impact jostled the device, knocking it off-course, but the man’s fingers still curled around it, stubborn in their mission.

Jeremiah’s hands immediately shot forward, one locking onto Waleed’s chin, the other gripping the back of his skull. With controlled force, he twisted. The crack was sharp and final as Waleed’s body suddenly went limp, his fingers releasing the detonator. As he lay there staring upward, his unseeing eyes fixed on nothing.

In the silence, broken only by the distant sounds of chaos still unfolding elsewhere in the palace, Jeremiah crouched beside the corpse. Moving carefully, he retrieved the detonator and set it aside. Then, methodically, he unfastened the vest’s modified pockets and peeled them open to reveal the carefully arranged bricks of Semtex lining the fabric. Each compartment was packed with lethal potential that was capable of leveling everything in the immediate vicinity.

Jeremiah’s chest rose and fell in a measured breath, suddenly realizing that he had diverted a situation that was seconds from catastrophe.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

Inside the subterranean stronghold, Khalid and Fahad stood over the laptop with their eyes locked on the live feed streaming from Waleed’s helmet cam. The signal flickered, grainy at times, but still clear enough to follow.

Through the lens, Waleed moved fast, his vision bouncing with each step as he raced down a narrow corridor lined with aging pipes. The feed steadied as he slowed, sweeping his weapon from left to right, the barrel tracking the darkness.

Then movement. A shadow dropped from above, sudden and forceful. The view jolted, spun, then slammed against the ground, the ceiling flashing past in a blur. A figure landed, steady, balanced.

The fight unfolded in rapid succession—Waleed’s rapid knife thrusts, each missing their mark, his blade cutting nothing but air. The opponent moved with sharp precision, deflecting, striking, forcing Waleed back with a flurry of blows.

For a brief moment, Waleed’s camera caught a clear shot of the enemy’s collar, the insignia stitched onto his pocket.

Khalid exhaled through his nose. “A Vatican Knight.”

The fight continued as Waleed’s motions grew frantic, his thrusts sloppy and his reactions slower. Then his hand darted for his vest, fingers finding the plunger. The image jolted again. His thumb hovered over the trigger—

A sudden strike. The feed wrenched sideways as the detonator was knocked loose. Then another jarring motion, a blur of movement, and a sharp snap.

The camera stilled, its angle now fixed on the ceiling. Pipes stretched above in tangled rows, their metal surfaces dull under flickering light. The frame didn’t shift again.

Waleed wasn’t moving.

The screen remained frozen on that final image, the silence in the stronghold stretching long after the fight had ended.

Then the screen flickered, a brief staticky distortion before the image settled again. Khalid and Fahad watched as a face entered the frame and looked down at Waleed's unmoving form and directly into the helmet cam. Even through the grainy feed, the Vatican Knight's features were unmistakable—calm, focused, taking in the scene with sharp eyes.

They saw his hands move, pulling back the Velcro tabs of Waleed’s vest. The camera angle barely shifted, but the Semtex was now exposed. And then the Vatican Knight exhaled, his reaction subtle but telling. Relief.

Khalid sat back with fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table. “We missed our opportunity.”

Fahad’s gaze stayed fixed on the laptop’s screen. “Did we?” Then he gestured to another laptop nearby, its screen showing a chaotic and live feed from France Télévisions, the Palais de l’Élysée under attack. Smoke curled in places while emergency strobes lit the scene. “We achieved the means.” Fahad added, his voice controlled.

Khalid’s head turned sharply, his expression darkening. “The means?” His voice carried an edge now, his restraint beginning to crack. “Waleed wasn’t running through those corridors to escape. He was hunting. The targets got away.”

Fahad didn’t flinch. “Or maybe he was running because he knew he was going to die.”

Khalid’s jaw tightened, causing the muscles in the back to work. “His cause was not survival,” he finally said. “His cause was to dispatch the negotiation team. He was to sacrifice himself in the name of Allah. That was everything. Waleed would never run from his mission. You know that as much as I do.” He took a breath through his nose, then, with sudden fury, snatched the laptop from the table and hurled it to the ground. The screen shattered on impact, pieces skidding across the concrete floor.

The sound echoed through the underground space, then silence followed.

Fahad remained still, then said quietly, “There is another.”

Khalid’s stare pierced through him.

“There is still Abdul,” Fahad continued.

For a moment, neither moved. Then, with a final glare, Khalid turned, disappearing into the shadows with purpose.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Abdul ran, his breath coming in sharp bursts as his boots slammed repeatedly against the stone floor. The corridor stretched ahead, dim and narrow, a forgotten artery of the palace unseen in the official blueprints. It was the palace’s secret, a path not indicated in the archives Fahad had uncovered.

Then he heard them, up ahead. The shuffle of wounded bodies struggling forward, their movement strained. Their presence pulled at him, filling his chest with fierce pride. Where Momar had fallen, where Waleed had failed, he would succeed and see this through.

He . . . was . . . the one.

But terror gnawed at the edges of that pride. His end was near, something he believed he had accepted long ago when he first sat before a computer listening to the rants of an online recruiter whose words made perfect sense at the time. But now, so close to the moment, the thought curdled inside him like something sour.

His steps quickened despite his uneven stride, his body not built for speed. His gait held the awkwardness of someone forcing momentum beyond their limits, but still, he moved forward with his weapon raised, its barrel steady, and whispered a prayer under his breath.

Then, like magic, a shape formed ahead, emerging from the shadows as if born from them. It stood still, waiting, black as the void except for the flash of white at the throat—a Roman Catholic collar, stark against the darkness, a sight that struck Abdul like a hammer.

His mind fractured, thought scattering in every direction. One part screamed at him to act and to finish what he started. Another clawed at the terror creeping up his spine, this confrontation too sudden, too unnatural. He hadn’t heard movement or sensed its approach. One moment, the corridor had been empty. The next, the figure was there.

His fingers curled tighter around the AK-47 as instinct took over. Then, raising the rifle, the barrel jerking up, his mind having no plan—just action, he squeezed the trigger.

The tunnel exploded in fire and thunder, the muzzle flashes searing bursts of light against the stone walls. Abdul screamed, a sound neither fully battle cry nor terror, but something in between. The weapon bucked in his grip as he emptied rounds into the void, trying to destroy what he didn’t understand.

* * *

The wounded struggled forward with their steps uneven. Some leaned on those who were stronger, whereas others were barely able to hold themselves upright. Ahead of them, the corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, the dim light from the stairwell their only beacon.

Moses kept his arm locked around Cardinal Angulo, the old man’s robe smeared with dust and blood. Beside them, Solomon supported Omar Al-Shami, whose fine suit was torn. Together, they moved with their pace frustratingly slow, often pausing every few steps as one among them would end up faltering.

Cardinal Angulo exhaled sharply as he gathered his strength to meet Omar’s eyes. “This is why peace is so crucial,” he said, his voice steady. “For this very reason where the innocent falls victim to senseless ideologies.”

Omar nodded, his grip tightening on Solomon’s arm. “I agree,” he answered. “It has to stop.” But the words felt strange as they left his lips. He had spoken them many times, in negotiations, on stages, behind polished podiums. Yet now, dragging his battered body through a war zone, he felt them in a way he never had before.

The reality settled in his mind with a heaviness he hadn’t expected. For years, he had spoken of war in the abstract—casualties were numbers, victories were ideas, losses were bargaining chips. But now, for the first time, he was in it. Not behind a desk, not in a meeting, but here with his blood mixing with the dust and his ears still ringing from the chaos of battle.

This was different.

This was real.

Then the sharp crack of gunfire echoed behind them, the sound echoing through the tunnel, a sound close by.

Moses turned, his voice cutting. “We have company, people!”

Their exhausted march turned into a desperate push forward as the stairs appeared just ahead, salvation finally within reach.

* * *

The bullets ripped through the corridor, peppering stone and steel as a frenzied stream of fire with no control. They stitched across the pipes overhead, punching holes through metal. Steam hissed out in sharp bursts, filling the tunnel with a thick, scalding fog.

Abdul continued to swing the rifle in wild arcs, blind to his own mistake, burning through his magazine in seconds. Spent casings clattered to the ground, his shots spraying nothing but air and vapor. Then—click.

Then another.

And another.

The realization took too long as he stared at the rifle as though it had betrayed him, his breathing loud in his own ears. His fingers twitched, useless on the grip, waiting for more rounds that would never come. He didn’t think to reload, believing the rifle would work again if he just kept holding it.

Then he looked up.

Steam from the pipes hung thick in the air, shifting in slow, creeping eddies, his vision now blurred as the heat stung his eyes. But beyond the haze, a figure remained.

Still and watching.

A black shape, untouched by fear or hesitation.

Then, without warning, it moved with an impossible speed.

Abdul barely had time to react before the figure was upon him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Notre Dame Cathedral

Paris, France

Kimball sat in the dim hush of Notre Dame, the cavernous space stretching high above him, the flickering glow of candles casting restless shadows against the refurbished stone. His backpack rested beside him, as his gaze remained fixed on the crucified figure above the altar, its expression one of silent suffering.

Was there anything more than this? Kimball asked. Existing. Moving through life without direction. Breathing, eating, sleeping, but never living.

He received no answer from the image, only the restless hum of his thoughts circling the same empty space they always did.

Then a sound reached him, muffled and distant—like something collapsing far away. It was brief, there and gone, not loud enough to stir anyone else.

Kimball barely registered it, thinking that the city was simply going about its endless motion.

He turned back to the altar and to the frozen agony in the carved face above him, his own questions weighing heavier.

Why am I even here?

He would soon get his answer.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The Palais de l'Élysée

Paris, France

Isaiah closed the space between them in a blur, slapping Abdul’s weapon aside. The rifle fell to the floor as Isaiah drove his fist forward, striking Abdul square in the chest. A second jab landed just beneath the ribs, followed by another—fast, punishing blows that sent shockwaves through Abdul’s body. The vest absorbed some of the impact, but not enough. Isaiah’s fists hammered through the padding, each strike a sharp, driving force.

Abdul staggered, his breath tearing from his throat in ragged gasps a moment before his legs buckled, the teen going to the ground, coughing and clawing his fingers weakly at the vest.

Isaiah saw Abdul’s hand slip inside the vest and pull free a small device that Isaiah recognized instantly. A detonator.

Abdul’s thumb found the plunger as his face contorted with both fear and triumph, an unusual combination.

Then he drove the button down.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Moses reached the top of the stairs and ran his hand along the wall, fingers searching until they found the hidden seam. With a firm push, the panel shifted inward, revealing a concealed passage into a vast, untouched corridor. The other side was pristine, its gilded moldings and polished floors starkly different from the ruins elsewhere.

One by one, they emerged. The cardinal was first, helped through by Moses, his robes dirtied and streaked with blood. Others quickly followed, their faces pale, their bodies weakened, and their steps unsteady as dust clung to their clothes while sweat traced lines through the grime on their skin.

Omar Al-Shami, supported by Solomon, stepped forward but then broke away, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed onto his knees, his hands rising in supplication. His voice wavered as he whispered Islamic prayers, tears streaking down his face while his raw, unrestrained sobs echoed through the corridor.

He wept, not for those lost or for the cause he once firmly believed in.

He wept for himself.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Abdul’s thumb pressed the plunger again and again, his mind becoming frantic. Nothing. No explosion. No fire ripping through the corridor. Just the hollow clicks of failure.

Isaiah moved in and clamped his hand onto Abdul’s wrist and twisted. The kid cried out, his fingers spasming open, causing the detonator to slip from his grasp. It fell onto the floor, harmless. Then Isaiah's eyes darted to the vest, where two of the wires had disconnected and dangled loose — that was all it had taken to stop the device from working.

Isaiah exhaled and, without hesitation, knocked Abdul’s helmet away. It skidded across the floor, spinning to a stop. The face staring up at him made Isaiah pause.

A kid.

Not a man hardened by years of combat, not some veteran of blood and fire. A teenager, barely past childhood.

Isaiah’s mouth went dry as he noted the Middle Eastern features. “How old are you?”

Abdul didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes darted nervously about, searching for an avenue of escape.

“How many more?” Isaiah asked in flawless Arabic, his tone measured. “Who else is here, inside? How many besides yourself?”

Abdul hesitated, then gave a shallow nod. “Three. But the others, I think, are gone.” His voice wavered. “But there are two more elsewhere. They’re the ones who give the orders.”

Isaiah watched him. Fear had set in, pushing aside whatever resolve had once been there. This wasn’t some mindless zealot. Just a kid who had been made into one.

Isaiah thought about how easy it was. How the internet had become a battlefield of its own. How words, twisted and poisoned, had found their way into young minds, reshaping them, leading them to believe that death was a doorway to something greater.

But standing here, stripped of the lies, Abdul was only a boy, scared and lost.

Isaiah crouched in front of Abdul, his voice holding steady and not meant to frighten. “Tell me about these two. The ones in charge. What are they planning?”

Abdul’s eyes flitted to the detonator lying useless on the ground, then back to Isaiah. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You just said there were two more,” Isaiah reminded him. “You know something.”

Abdul clenched his jaw. “I was only prepared to die in the name of Allah. That was my purpose.”

Isaiah leaned in, their foreheads nearly touching. His voice dropped, not in anger, not in accusation, but with something else—something calm, something steady. “If there is one thing you need to know, then know this: There is no God that would ever condone the killing of another man.”

The words struck. Isaiah saw it in Abdul’s face, the way something flickered behind his eyes. A hesitation. A fracture in whatever had been drilled into him.

A long silence stretched between them before Isaiah spoke again. “Where are they?”

Abdul's voice was barely above a whisper. “At the Le Petit Délice. Once a bakery. About two, maybe three blocks from the Notre Dame Cathedral. The store’s been closed for some time. But you’ll find them below, in a tunnel system that runs beneath the stores and the street.” After a pause, he added, “There are two girls held there against their will. People Khalid will kill if this operation didn't go as planned. And it didn't. I’ve never seen them, but he talks about them all the time—says they were the pawns moved to capture the king. Now, they’re useless to him.”

Isaiah, pausing as if mulling something over, extended his hand and said, “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Abdul looked at the hand, then at Isaiah’s face. His own fingers trembled as they reached forward. When he grasped Isaiah’s hand, a feeling settled over him, something he couldn’t explain—something quiet, something still.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The Notre Dame Cathedral

Parris, France

Kimball Hayden stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. The weight of it sat comfortably against his back, its familiar heft grounding him. He took one last glance at the altar, at the figure of Christ hanging there, before his phone buzzed against his thigh.

He pulled it from his pocket. The screen read ‘Isaiah.’

Kimball answered, his voice echoing in the quiet of the cathedral. “Isaiah.”

“Where are you?” Isaiah’s voice came through steady, but something about the way he asked put Kimball on edge.

“I’m at the Cathedral. Why?”

“Are you sober?”

Kimball’s grip on the phone tightened, the man fighting for calm. “I’m all right,” he told im. “Why are you calling?”

“The summit was hit.”

“Define hit.”

“Infiltrated. A Hamas cell got inside. There are a lot of dead.”

Kimball glanced up at the light streaming through the stained glass, colors shifting across the stone floor. “How many?”

“Enough,” Isaiah said. “The faction leaders—what’s left of them—those who are calling the shots are stationed elsewhere. The ones who are still out there.”

“And you called me for what reason?”

Isaiah hesitated. Then, “If there was ever a need to the call of duty, Kimball,” he said. “If there was ever a moment to protect the innocent . . . then the time is now. I know you put up the collar, but we’re unable to respond given the current circumstances here at the palace.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”

Isaiah didn’t answer right away. Kimball could hear voices in the background, the low urgency of men coordinating, managing the aftermath. Then Isaiah spoke, his tone measured.

“There are two girls. Daughters of a man inside the Brigade Criminelle. His clearance got the cell inside, his influence kept them undetected. Now he’s failed, and they’re holding his daughters. If this Hamas leader is the kind of man we think he is, he’ll kill them himself rather than let them become liabilities.”

“First responders?”

“Right now, the palace takes priority. Their response time maybe several minutes out, maybe longer. Either way, it would probably be too late.”

“You’re asking me to intervene?”

There was a pause on the other end, then Isaiah said, “Kimball, I know you’ve put up the collar and that you’re no longer a Vatican Knight, but if you want to make a difference, then this is it. This is the moment.”

Kimball looked down at his boots. “Where are they? And keep in mind that I may be too far away to make a difference and not reach them in time.”

“They’re in a tunnel system beneath a shuttered bakery called Le Petit Délice.”

Kimball frowned. He knew the place, even liked its baked goods, having frequented the bakery many times in the past. He hadn’t known it had closed, however. But he knew exactly where it was. In fact, if he hustled, it was a two-minute jaunt from the Cathedral.

Looking up at the statue of Christ hanging above the altar, Kimball wondered if all of this was predetermined in some divine way—to be so close in a time when he was needed most. To once again become a savior to those who could not protect themselves.

Suddenly, as the biblical beams of light shone through the stained-glass windows to light up the aisle of the nave as though to show him the way forward, Kimball Hayden no longer felt wayward, but as a man with a mission.

A man with purpose.

“I can do this,” Kimball told him evenly as he continued to stare down the lit aisle.

“First responders have been notified, but right now, you’re their best chance given the small window to operate in. Like always, Kimball, time is not a luxury.”

Kimball ended the call without a goodbye. He lowered the phone, staring down the aisle bathed in slanted light, as though something unseen had traced a path just for him. A trail made of illumination, cutting through the gloom of the cathedral.

He unslung his backpack and placed it on the pew, unzipping it with a slow, practiced motion. His hand moved inside, fingers brushing past the contents until they found the worn leather sheath of his KABAR. He pulled it free, unsheathing the blade halfway, the steel catching a glint of the stained-glass colors. A relic from another time, another war, yet it felt as much a part of him as his own hand. An extension of his will.

He set it aside and reached deeper, searching, until his fingers closed around something small, something sacred. He withdrew it carefully—his Roman Catholic collar, soiled and bent, yet whole. The sight of it stilled him. It wasn’t just a symbol. It was a reminder. A tether to something greater than himself.

For a moment, he only stared at it.

Then, without hesitation, he lifted it to his shirt, tucking it into place at the base of his throat. The familiar pressure against his skin settled something dark inside him.

Zipping up the backpack, Kimball slung it over his shoulder and turned toward the doors. The light marking the aisle didn’t flicker or wane. It remained steady, guiding him forward, as he ran for the exit.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Khalid’s Subterranean Stronghold

Paris, France

Khalid paced the length of the corridor, his footsteps uneven and his breath shallow. The low whispers of the girls carried through the thick metal door, muffled yet unmistakable. He could hear them moving inside, shifting, murmuring to each other in hushed voices. They weren’t crying, something that surprised him. Or better yet, perhaps they had run out of tears.

His fingers raked through his hair, over and over, pulling slightly at the roots before dropping back to his sides, only to rise again a moment later. It was a habit he couldn't shake, a physical way to keep from unraveling. To a degree, the mission had failed — even more so, the delegates still breathed.

And now he stood here, on the other side of that door, trapped in a different kind of war.

He had sworn not to hurt the girls. He had told himself—promised himself—that he would not become the same kind of monster that had torn his own family apart. He had seen firsthand what men like that could do, how they left behind nothing but grief and ruin. He had lived with that loss every day since.

But the mission was broken, shattered beyond repair. The ones who had stormed the palace lay dead. His men were gone. His leaders silent. The message—the warning that was meant to resonate across the world—had died before it could be spoken.

And now, there were only these two girls.

Khalid stopped, bracing his hands against the edge of the table. His eyes landed on his mask, the one with the built-in voice modulator, a necessity to conceal his identity. He had worn it from the beginning, never once letting them see his face. The plan had always been to let them go. Eventually.

His gaze shifted.

Beside the mask, a military combat knife rested on the table, its black handle worn, its blade sharp.

Khalid stared at it, unmoving. Then, he lifted the knife from the table and turned it over in his hand. The handle fit nicely against his palm, though worn from years of use. Then he ran his thumb along the edge, feeling the smooth bite of honed steel. A blade like this could cut through flesh with ease, he thought. Through muscle. Through bone.

Through the spinal column at the base of the skull.

His grip tightened as he considered the possibility. The thought of severing the head clean, sending it back as a message. He had promised as much—to return them in pieces, spaced out over weeks. The world would take notice then; the delegates who still stood would understand what failure looked like.

But even as he turned the knife again, flipping it in his palm, something inside him resisted.

He had seen enough death and lost too much to it.

Would this really be justice?

His jaw clenched as frustration mounted. His mind refused to settle, one thought pushing against the other, neither side winning. The knife felt heavier now, a thing of purpose waiting to be set loose, but he couldn’t bring himself to act.

With a sharp breath, he dropped the blade onto the table. The clang of steel against wood barely reached his ears before he slammed his fists down beside it.

The table shook.

He hit it again and again, the rickety legs groaning beneath the abuse while dust shook loose from the corners. Each strike sent a jolt up his arms, like electrical charges, short bursts of pain, but he kept going as if punishing the table would somehow force a decision from his mind.

His breath was coming hard now, the air thick in his lungs.

Then, finally, he stopped.

Khalid straightened, his shoulders rising and falling with each deep inhale, his hands stinging.

Reaching for the knife again, he lifted it slowly, his fingers curling around the handle as he stared at the blade, his red-rimmed eyes reflecting back in the steel.

And in that moment, he knew what had to be done.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Kimball moved quickly, his strides long and measured as he covered the distance to Le Petit Délice in less than two minutes. The streets were quiet, not unusual for this hour, but the silence felt different. Weighted. A pause before something inevitable.

The bakery stood as he remembered it, though time had not been kind. The sign above the door, once a cheerful script, was now faded and cracked, the lettering barely legible. The windows were covered with brown paper that curled at the edges, brittle from neglect, indicating the shop had been closed for some time.

Reaching the door, he tried the handle. Locked, as expected.

Kimball slid his backpack from his shoulder and unzipped it, fingers moving with practiced ease. From inside, he retrieved his combat knife. The blade, worn but sharp, caught a sliver of light as he positioned it against the glass near the lock. With a precise motion, he struck.

The sharp crack of breaking glass shot through the stillness, louder than it should have been. Kimball winced, his expression tightening as though the reaction alone might somehow soften the sound as the shards tumbled inward, scattering across the floor.

He waited and listened. Nothing but the distant and nearly imperceptible sound of multiple sirens three miles away, at the Palais de l'Élysée.

But nothing else.

Reaching through the broken pane, he found the knob and twisted. The latch gave with a muted click and the door creaked open.

Kimball Hayden was in.

* * *

The red light flickered to life on the corner of the laptop screen, small but urgent. Fahad’s eyes moved to it, his fingers pausing over the keyboard before moving swiftly, breaking away from the live news feeds to pull up the security footage.

A grainy black-and-white feed filled the screen, showing the entrance of the bakery above. Fahad watched as a large figure moved carefully through the space, gliding through the shadows with practiced ease. The man’s posture was controlled, searching without hesitation as a knife gleamed in his grip. The way he held it told Fahad that he wasn’t some common intruder.

He tracked the man's movements as he set down a backpack on the floor, then zoomed in, adjusting the resolution to capture his face, revealing strong, angular features that framed a jaw set with quiet purpose. Fahad narrowed his eyes and zoomed in further. That’s when he saw it—the Roman Catholic collar.

Fahad’s stomach knotted. The man wasn’t dressed like a soldier—no tactical gear, no insignia—but the collar around his neck was telling. This wasn’t just some intruder. This was a Vatican Knight.

Fahad’s fingers moved fast across the keyboard, triggering a frequency that sent red lights flashing throughout the subterranean stronghold, a silent alarm of the highest significance. Khalid would know what it meant.

Still watching the screen, he reached beneath the table, his hands finding the rough, familiar grips of his weapons. Two machetes, honed to a fine edge, as Fahad was no stranger to the art of killing from the shadows.

It was where he thrived.

Moving away from the table, Fahad went to greet his new guest.

* * *

The knife was still in his hand, its edge catching the vague glow of the overhead bulb as Khalid stared down at it, turning it slightly, watching the steel glint, his grip tightening as his mind churned constantly on what to do.

The girls muffled whispers from behind the locked door reached him, yet he remained motionless as he continued to war with himself. He had promised himself not to harm them. But what was a promise worth when the mission had failed, and his people cut down before they could deliver the message he perceived would change everything?

He exhaled sharply and looked up.

The red light above the door flicked on. A small thing, barely brighter than an ember, but it burned with significance, enough to cause his pulse to kick up.

An intruder.

Khalid lifted his gaze from the glowing bulb to the door of the cell. The knife in his hand suddenly felt heavier, more substantial. He could end it now and send a message, even a small one, with meaning.

With his jaw tightening, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, needing to see the threat for himself, moving quickly toward the central chamber.

But he would be back with rage in his heart and an agenda to fulfill.

* * *

Kimball moved through the darkened bakery with his knife steady in his grip. The air was thick with age, and dust clung to every surface, disturbed only by a set of footprints imprinted in the fine layer coating the floor. Slowly, he followed them, careful not to disturb the pattern.

At the rear of the shop, his gaze swept upward. Two cameras sat mounted on the walls. Whether they were functional or relics of the bakery’s past, he couldn’t be sure. But it didn’t matter. If someone was watching, they already knew he was here.

His attention dropped back to the footprints that led to a shelved wall stacked with long-expired canned goods and bags of flour gone stiff with time. Kimball had seen hidden passages before, walls designed to blend so seamlessly that most would walk past them without a second thought.

Running his fingers along the shelves, feeling for inconsistencies—a gap, a ridge, anything—his hand paused over a slight depression near the edge of one of the shelves. When he pushed, a faint click sounded.

The shelving unit shifted outward by an inch. Just enough for him to slip his fingers through the gap and pull, the panel moving easily under his strength.

Beyond the concealed doorway, a stairwell descended into the earth, its path lit by a string of weak bulbs casting dim halos against the rough, uneven walls. The air rolling up from below was damp and stagnant, carrying the scent of mold and old stone.

Kimball, stepping forward with his knife in hand, began his descent.

* * *

Fahad moved through the dimly lit corridor with his grip firm around the handles of his machetes. The blades twirled in his hands with effortless ease, each rotation smooth, precise, and never once faltering, the sharp edges gleaming under the bulbs and tracing arcs of spiraling light as they sliced through the air.

This was not for show. This was muscle memory, drilled into him through endless repetition. He had spent years honing his wrists to snap with perfect timing, his fingers to shift pressure at just the right moment, allowing the blades to move as if they had a will of their own. There was no hesitation, no misstep—only control.

Not only were they the weapons of his choice; they were an extension of him, eventually mastering their use through blood and sweat by cutting through countless enemies. And with the same precision he now displayed, the steel would once again slice through flesh and bone at his command, leaving nothing but ruin behind.

He was sure of this as his pace quickened, taking the tunnel that served as the sole way in or out of this place, meaning the intruder would have to cross his path.

A Vatican Knight.

He had heard the stories about them—legends whispered across war-torn lands that were shared in dimly lit rooms where men spoke of nightmares about a force that swept through factions like a storm, unrelenting and brutal. Some claimed they were more than men, something beyond flesh and blood, cutting through the strongest defenses as if they were nothing. Others dismissed the tales as fear-fed exaggerations.

Though Fahad had never faced one himself, he dreamed of doing so to test his might and the might of Allah through the use of his blades. It was a thought that sent a charge through him, not of fear but of readiness, having fought enough battles to know that no one was invincible. The Vatican Knight was nothing more than a man whose flesh could be cut and his bones broken.

Fahad reached the end of the corridor where the dim bulbs overhead gave way to deeper darkness. The passage stretched ahead, swallowed in shadow, a void where the walls and floor seemed to disappear. He stopped just at the edge of the faint light, his stance firm but his blades still moving. The machetes spun in his hands, catching the weak glow with every turn, a rhythmic display of skill meant to be seen. This was not just habit but a message—a warning, to whoever stood within the shadows. If the Vatican Knight was watching, he would know what he was up against.

In the quasi-shadows of the hallway, Fahad's grip shifted slightly so that the steel pivoted between his fingers, smooth and fluid, as if the weapons had been born in his hands, the motion refined over years until it required no thought, just instinct.

Let the intruder see me.

Let him reconsider.

Then, from the depths of the corridor, a figure emerged.

Kimball Hayden stepped forward with his approach measured, the overhead bulbs behind him showcasing his features that seemed cut from stone—harsh and sharp, his expression giving nothing away. In his hand, the dull gleam of a KABAR combat knife, held firm, his fingers wrapped around the handle as if it were a natural part of him.

He closed the distance until there was ten feet between them, a stillness settling between the two as neither moved nor spoke.

Then Fahad’s machete blades spun once more, a silent challenge.

Kimball did not react, his stare steady as he pinned Fahad with the kind of focus that only came from years of knowing exactly what he was capable of.

Fahad slowed the motion of his blades, the spinning coming to a controlled stop. He turned one machete in his grip and extended it outward, the tip aimed directly at the collar resting against Kimball’s throat. “I know what you are,” he said in clipped English, his voice smooth but edged with something harder. “You don’t need a uniform. That collar alone tells me everything, knowing that your kind is protecting the Vatican’s Secretary of State not far from here, yes?”

Kimball remained still, his grip steady on the KABAR as the former Vatican Knight had no response to offer.

Fahad tilted his head, enough so that the glow of the weak bulbs reflected in his dark eyes. “I’ve heard tales of men who move like ghosts, who tear through armies as if they were nothing. A force that comes without warning and leaves nothing standing.” He paused, and then, “I don’t believe in ghosts.” The machete stayed pointed at Kimball as Fahad took a step closer, closing the space between them just a little more. “You’re not untouchable,” he added. “You’re not some legend to be feared. Like everyone else, you bleed like any man, and I’m going to prove it." He twirled his blade once before tightening his grip. “Piece by piece, I’ll make sure you know what it’s like to be taken apart.”

Kimball finally spoke, his tone even. “You shouldn’t get too cocky.”

Fahad let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh as he glanced at the knife in Kimball’s hand, then smirking. “You brought a single blade to face two of mine, and you think I’m the one getting ahead of myself?”

He stepped to the side, just slightly, shifting his stance, readying. The flickering lights cast shadows along the walls, stretching their figures into jagged shapes as the moment before the fight settled in, thick and silent.

Then Fahad lunged forward and closed the gap in an instant, his machetes slicing through the air. The left blade came first, sweeping in a horizontal arc meant to cut through flesh and bone. The right followed immediately after, carving diagonally, one strike feeding into the next. His arms worked independently, two weapons moving as one, a relentless flurry of steel.

But Kimball was faster.

His KABAR met the first strike, knocking the blade off-course with a sharp clash. Before the second machete could carve into him, his arm shifted, his knife snapping up just in time to deflect the downward sweep. The impact sent a vibration up both their arms, metal sparking in the dim corridor light.

Fahad didn’t stop. He twisted, bringing both blades around again, left-to-right, right-to-left, hacking in blurred succession. His strikes were a violent rhythm, a storm of sharpened edges. But Kimball moved through it with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible.

The KABAR was a blur, Kimball’s arm snapping up, down, left, right—always exactly where it needed to be. His knife caught both machetes again and again, deflecting every attack with impossible speed. The sound of clashing steel filled the corridor, a chaotic percussion of impact and sparks.

Fahad growled as frustration tightened his features. He swung the blades harder, faster, his attacks fueled by anger. The machetes became extensions of his fury, hacking and slicing with lethal intent. Still, Kimball did not falter, his one knife moving like three, batting away the strikes with effortless precision.

The space between them began to shrink, but Fahad could not land a single cut. His strikes, meant to tear and ruin, were deflected with ease, as if Kimball could see them before they happened.

With another cry, Fahad swung again, his blades a blur of silver in the dim light as sparks flared from each clash, flickering for the briefest moment before vanishing into darkness.

Fahad broke away, breathing hard. He took several steps back, machetes lowered but still ready. His chest rose and fell, his grip now slick with sweat. The confidence that had burned in his eyes before had dulled, replaced with something close to uncertainty.

Kimball, on the other hand, barely looked winded. His breathing was steady, his posture unchanged, his KABAR still held firm in his hand as he studied Fahad for a moment, then said, “Do you believe in ghosts now?”

Fahad’s jaw clenched as rage suddenly overtook reason.

With a sharp cry, he launched forward again, his blades cutting through the air in a deadly storm. He came from both sides, the machetes hacking from high and low, left and right, seeking any opening, any weak spot. Kimball met each strike, deflecting with the same impossible speed, his knife moving so fast it seemed like an extension of something more than muscle and training.

But this time, Kimball did more than just defend.

His KABAR snapped up mid-deflection, not just blocking but striking back. It darted low, forcing Fahad to twist to avoid it. Then it flicked up in a diagonal slash, grazing past his guard and nearly catching his arm.

Fahad stumbled back, but Kimball did not let him reset.

He surged forward with his knife moving like a phantom’s touch—up, down, across. His strikes came in tight, controlled motions, slipping between the arcs of Fahad’s swinging blades. He knocked the machetes aside, then drove his knife forward, forcing Fahad to retreat step by step.

Fahad fought back, but the pace had changed. Kimball was faster now. More aggressive. The KABAR was relentless as each thrust and slice pushed Fahad further into the darkened end of the corridor.

Steel rang against steel, causing sparks to fly as Kimball’s attacks overpowered him. Fahad’s arms ached, his movements slowing as his defenses grew sloppier now that every parry took more effort, and every deflection drained more strength.

Kimball didn’t slow, his blade becoming a blur as it cut through the space between them, forcing Fahad back and deeper into the shadows and into the place where Kimball thrived.

Moving with ruthless efficiency, his knife slashed through the air, his arm a blur as the blade kissed Fahad’s skin — a cut along his forearm, another at his shoulder, shallow wounds that served as reminders that the end was creeping closer. Each strike continued to force Fahad further back, his body becoming sluggish, his movements faltering.

Then fatigue began to set in, as Fahad’s arms no longer carried the strength they once had. Soon, his breathing became ragged, and his muscles burned as he swung again in a desperate attempt to turn the tide, but Kimball batted the attack aside with ease.

Then Fahad stumbled, his foot slipping. Before he could recover, he fell back, a machete slipping from his grip and skidding off into the shadows as he hit the ground hard.

Kimball didn’t let up as he stepped forward and loomed over Fahad, his massive form outlined by the dim bulbs behind him; the man a silhouette that was blacker than black.

Fahad lifted a hand with his palm facing outward in surrender.

Kimball barely reacted. His voice steady. “The girls,” he stated firmly. “Where are they?”

Fahad’s lips curled and his teeth flashed stark white against the gloom. He gave a slow, measured grin that was something close to malicious amusement. “Gone,” he said. “Khalid saw to that.”

Kimball’s grip tightened around his KABAR. “Khalid,” he repeated. “Who is he?”

Fahad chuckled, the sound low. “An extension of Allah.”

Kimball had heard that before. Men who thought they were the hand of something greater, who believed their purpose was carved in stone.

Fahad’s body tensed, then a flicker of motion as his remaining machete came up and across, a final strike aimed for Kimball’s knees.

But Kimball was already moving.

He leapt, the blade sweeping through empty air beneath him. And as Kimball rose above the sweep of Fahad’s blade, he snapped his arm forward, sending the KABAR spinning end over end until the point struck home and buried itself deep in the center of Fahad’s forehead.

Fahad went still as his chest shuddered a final breath that vacated his lungs. Then, as his body sagged, his machete slipped from his fingers. Though his eyes remained open, they saw nothing but utter darkness.

Kimball, landing lightly, stepped forward to retrieve his knife and yanked it free, wiping the blade clean against Fahad’s shirt.

Before him, darkness waited. And Kimball, finding comfort in the shadows, stepped into them and moved deeper into the subterranean facility.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Khalid had seen it all play out on the screen of the laptop, as a camera caught every display of the Vatican Knight’s power and skill set.

Fahad was a master of the blade. Among his peers, there was no rival as he moved with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural, his skill with edged weapons unmatched. Men feared him. Respected him. Yet he had always been subservient to Khalid, never daring to raise a hand against him since Fahad believed Khalid to be an extension of Allah’s will on earth. And now, Fahad was gone.

Killed with ease.

Khalid’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his mind turning over what he had witnessed. Two machetes against a single knife. A fight that should have been one-sided. Yet the Vatican Knight had torn through Fahad’s defenses like they were nothing from this man who wore the collar but not the uniform. And that puzzled Khalid. The Vatican Knights were always dressed in their garments, pious from the waist up, military from the waist down—a blend of war and faith, two opposing forces bound together for what they claimed was a righteous cause.

But this one?

This one was different.

There was something about him, something roguish. The way he moved. The way he fought.

A true Vatican Knight would have worn his uniform as a badge of honor, a declaration of his faith and his mission. But this man was an anomaly. A shadow moving through the depths of this place, tearing through obstacles with precise, brutal efficiency.

Khalid let out a slow breath as he cleansed the memory and lowered the screen of the laptop. The glow from the monitor dimmed, leaving the chamber bathed in faint light from the overhead fixtures.

There was only one way in.

Only one way out.

Which meant, sooner or later, he would cross paths with this man.

That, too, was inevitable.

Khalid stood, his movements measured as he stepped away from the table, his mind already shifting to what needed to be done. The intruder was closing in, but there was one final act left to carry out.

The girls.

He moved toward the exit with his steps light and his posture calm. He had always known this moment would come. And now, he would see it through.

One last atrocity in the name of his god.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Kimball stepped into the main chamber with his boots making soft contact with the hard floor. The space was hollowed out, a rough and functional room with little in the way of comfort. A small table sat near the center, cluttered with cables and electronics. A laptop was there, its screen dark, its lid slightly ajar. A pair of monitors were mounted nearby, their displays inactive.

His eyes drifted downward to a broken laptop on the floor, pieces of its casing cracked open, small components scattered around it. It hadn’t been set down. It had been thrown hard, the spread of debris suggesting a violent impact, the kind that came from frustration—or desperation.

He moved toward the table, flipping open the laptop’s lid. No response. The system was shut down, wiped clean of anything that might give him an advantage. Whoever had been here had left in a hurry but not before making sure nothing useful remained.

Then Kimball’s gaze lifted to the far end of the chamber.

One passageway.

A single exit leading deeper into the facility.

He didn’t waste time as he sprinted toward the corridor, his mind telling him that time was never a luxury.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Khalid stood before the heavy steel door with his fingers resting on the handle. The air in the corridor was thick and stale, the kind that settled deep in the lungs and stayed there. On the table beside him lay the mask and voice modulator, remnants of a role he no longer felt the need to play since there was no point in theatrics now. No need for disguises. The time for deception had passed.

His gaze shifted to the knife on the table, its chrome blade catching the dim light. He picked it up, turned it in his hand and watched the metal glint with each small movement. The edge was sharp and honed for a purpose that had become clearer with each passing moment.

This was no longer about the operation.

The plan had changed, shaped by something deeper, something raw. He had once believed these girls would walk free, that they were nothing more than leverage. But that was before the Vatican Knight had cut through Fahad like he was nothing. Before the path of escape had been closed. Before he had realized that martyrdom was the only certainty left to him.

If he could not leave this place, he would leave his mark on it.

Pain was a language—one that echoed louder than any words. And true sacrifice was the loudest message of all. These girls were unknown to him, yet in their deaths, they would serve a purpose greater than themselves. A warning. A lesson. A toll paid in blood for the suffering of his people.

The reasoning came easy. Justifying the act was effortless.

He tightened his grip on the knife, the smooth handle firm in his palm, and flicked the lock on the door.

The latch gave with a metallic click, and then he pulled the door open.

The sobbing met him first.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Khalid stepped inside the cell with the knife hanging at his side, its presence undeniable. The dim bulb overhead cast a weak glow, stretching his long shadow across the cold floor. Louise and Sophie shrank back against the wall, their bodies drawn tight together as if making themselves smaller could somehow make them disappear. Their eyes, wide and wet, locked onto the blade first before flicking up to his face.

For the first time, they saw him without the mask.

He was young, striking in a way that might have been charming under different circumstances. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that held no warmth as his gaze roamed over them, assessing, but not with lust or amusement. It was something calculated, like he was fitting them into a picture he had already constructed in his mind.

He let the silence sit for a moment, letting them feel it. Letting them understand.

Then he spoke.

“Plans,” he said, his voice even, almost reflective. “They always look perfect on paper. Everything in its place, every step precise, every move controlled.”

He took a slow step forward, the knife shifting slightly in his grip.

“But reality does not care for plans. It takes them, bends them, breaks them apart.” He lifted the knife slightly, as if to make his point clear. “And just as plans fail, so do expectations. People believe they are owed things—a future, a long life, the chance to grow old. But tell me, where is the fairness in that?”

Sophie clutched Louise’s arm tighter. Neither spoke.

“Some live,” Khalid continued, his voice almost musing. “Some die. And the reasons? No one truly knows. Fate, chance, the will of God—perhaps they are all the same. And unfortunately for you . . .” He gestured toward them with the blade. “You fall under the latter.”

A fresh sob wracked Sophie’s chest, and Louise squeezed her eyes shut.

“Allah wills it,” Khalid said simply. “Your deaths serve a purpose. No one is entitled to life just because they want it. Just as my plans were never guaranteed, neither were your futures. That is the way of the world.”

He rolled his shoulders slightly, the knife steady in his grasp.

Khalid’s grip tightened around the knife, but he said nothing. His throat worked as if words might come, but none did. Instead, memories flooded his mind of faces long gone. His siblings were young like these two, but ones who had not been spared, taken by men who never hesitated or questioned whether their lives should fall.

Sophie and Louise continued to huddle against each other, their bodies trembling as fear thickened in the air with a surreal weight, something Khalid could feel pressing against him, something that was both suffocating and demanding. It reminded him too much of the past with his own helplessness, of nights filled with screams that had faded into silence.

His fingers twitched, a Freudian slip betraying that a part of him wanted to let them go, to prove that mercy still existed, even in a man like him. He could see it in his mind: the girls running free with the sun against their faces, their voices carrying the story of the man who had spared them, who had chosen not to be the thing life had forced him to become. Maybe, in that story, he would not be a monster. Maybe he could be something else.

But that was a lie.

He had been shaped into something ruthless, something filled with a fire that never cooled. He was not meant for kindness.

He was meant for war.

The knife shifted in his grip. A proper hold. The point angled downward, the motion already practiced in his mind—sharp, efficient, final.

Sophie whimpered and Louise shut her eyes.

Khalid saw it in his mind before it happened: the blade rising, then falling, a swift execution of fate.

Then his breath caught while tears burned at the edges of his vision, sensing a weakness within himself when so many times before he had encouraged others to do the very same thing he was about to do, to murder the innocent. Swallowing hard, he forced the hesitation away, realizing that fate had decided his choice and this moment long ago.

When Khalid raised his arm, the girls screamed.

* * *

Water dripped in perfect intervals, a steady rhythm in the silence. Each drop struck the puddle-covered floor of the tunnel with a faint splash, the sound repeating like a slow-moving metronome. The air was heavy with the scent of mold, and the dim light from overhead bulbs glowed feebly against the uneven walls.

Kimball moved through the tunnel, shifting in and out of shadow, his KABAR raised, the blade ready. As trained, he kept his footsteps light and his breath even.

Then he heard it.

Sobbing.

It was faint at first, barely more than a whisper carried by the damp air. Then it grew, the sound bouncing off the tunnel walls, stretching and distorting as though the space around him were mourning.

He quickened his pace, the sound pulling him forward as he gripped the knife firmly, the cool steel a familiar presence in his hand. His body moved with precision, cutting through the half-light as his eyes scanned every inch of the corridor.

The sobs thickened.

Closer now.

Then he heard a voice, murmured words that were low and indistinct, threading through the air like a chant.

Kimball slowed with his pulse holding steady and his focus sharp. Ahead, the corridor widened into a chamber where a rickety table stood in the center, uneven legs sinking slightly into the wet floor. A mask sat on the tabletop, its hollow eyes staring into the gloom.

The cell door was open.

The murmuring continued . . . Then it descended into silence.

Kimball stepped forward with his knife ready.

Then a scream tore through the air, high and piercing; a child’s voice that was raw with terror.

Kimball moved.

* * *

Khalid’s breath came in labored pulls, his chest rising and falling as he stood over the huddled girls. His fingers curled around the knife handle, knuckles white, veins bulging against his skin. His eyes, red and rheumy from rage and grief, burned as he lifted the blade high, the edge catching the dim light.

“Allahu Akbar!” he screamed.

The knife started its downward drive.

Then something struck him—something massive and unstoppable.

The impact sent Khalid flying, his body crashing into the wall with a force that rattled his bones. Pain exploded through his skull as his head smacked the cold stone, splitting the skin above his right eyebrow. Blood poured down his face, hot and thick, stinging his eye.

He groaned, shaking his head as he pushed himself up with one hand. The room spun, but he forced himself upright, his vision now locking on the figure standing between him and the girls.

The man was enormous, his shoulders broad, his stance unyielding. A KABAR knife gleamed in his grip, held low, ready to strike. The collar of a Vatican Knight sat snug against his thick neck, the only part of him that resembled the holy warriors Khalid had expected. But this man was different.

Recognition flickered in Khalid’s mind as he pointed the knife at Kimball. “I know who you are,” he said, his voice steady. He wiped at the blood trailing down his temple, smearing it across his cheek. Then his lips curled enough to show ruler-straight teeth. “I’ve heard the stories.”

He studied the man’s face—the stark blue eyes, cold yet strangely calm. Eyes that could belong to an angel, yet Khalid knew better.

“In the Middle East, they say there is one among your kind,” Khalid continued, his fingers tightening around his knife. “A man of great size and strength. A man whose eyes may appear divine . . .” His grin widened, almost amused. “But it’s a lie, isn’t it? Your eyes are nothing more than a mask to conceal what truly lurks beneath.”

The former Vatican Knight said nothing.

Khalid exhaled and rolled his shoulders, feeling the pulse of his wound and the sting sharpening his focus. Then he lifted his chin, and the sound of his voice dropped lower, almost reverent. “The one they speak of,” he began, “they call him Shayṭān.”

Silence stretched between them, the tension thick.

“The Devil’s Magician,” Khalid murmured as his grip on the knife shifted, his muscles coiling. “Or perhaps,” he continued, “the devil himself.”

Kimball took a slow step back, keeping himself between the girls and Khalid. His grip on the knife never wavered as his focus remained locked on Khalid. To the girls, he said, “Go . . . Run.”

Neither of them hesitated as they scrambled to their feet, the girls still clinging to each other, and bolted out of the cell, their hurried footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor until they faded into the shadows.

Now it was just the two of them.

A single bulb flickered overhead, casting a weak and pulsing glow over the stone walls. Shadows stretched long and thin, moving with the unstable light.

Khalid wiped at the blood trickling down his temple, then he began to pace from left to right, then from right to left. His movements were slow and calculated, like a predator searching for an opening.

Kimball stood his ground, only adjusting his stance just enough to track Khalid’s motion, keeping his knife ready.

Khalid’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “In the end,” he said, “we are the same, you and I. Monsters hiding behind facades of pretty faces.”

Kimball said, “Once—maybe.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But not anymore.”

Khalid’s pacing didn’t stop. “You say that as if it means something.” He gestured with his free hand, his knife angled low but never idle. “Every war has two sides. And each side believes its cause is just.”

Kimball watched him, unmoving.

“And here you are, standing before me,” Khalid continued, “with knife in hand and poison in your heart.” He stopped pacing and met Kimball’s stare. “And I stand before you the same way.”

The air between them felt charged and heavy with something unsaid.

Then Khalid tilted his head slightly. “We both think we’re right, killing in the name of God.”

Kimball’s fingers tightened around the handle of his blade. “No god would ever condone the killing of another man.”

Khalid’s mouth twitched, amused. “Then why are you planning to kill me?”

Kimball didn’t hesitate. “Because God gave up on me long ago,” he said.

“Is that fact?” Khalid asked as he continued to pace, his eyes searching for an opening.

Khalid let out a quiet breath as he paced, his grip on the knife shifting as his fingers flexed around the handle. His bloodied temple shone under the dim light, but he ignored it, his focus remaining razor-sharp.

“Well?” he said, his voice laced with malice. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? Let’s see who God favors most. You . . . Or me.”

Kimball lowered his stance slightly and angled his knife forward, his expression unreadable. “Bring it on,” he told him.

Khalid moved quickly, the man lunging forward with his blade slicing through the air in a high arc, the edge gleaming under the light. Kimball sidestepped and angled his knife to meet the attack. Steel clashed against steel with a sharp ring, the impact sending vibrations up both their arms. Sparks snapped from the friction before Khalid twisted his wrist, rolling the blade into another strike.

Kimball parried, his knife catching the edge of Khalid’s and deflecting it to the side.

Then Khalid spun in a full circle, slashing low. Kimball hopped back, feeling the whisper of the blade just shy of his ribs. Before he could counter, Khalid was already moving again, knife carving a diagonal path toward his shoulder. Kimball blocked it easily, the force of the hit making his arm go numb for a split second.

Then Kimball retaliated by aiming for the ribs, but Khalid twisted, the blade grazing just past his side. In return, Khalid struck back with a vicious jab toward Kimball’s abdomen, but the larger man turned his body at the last moment, letting the knife pass harmlessly.

For the next few seconds, they circled each other, their feet moving across the stone floor in calculated steps. Then, they converged, their hands moving as blurs — thrusting, striking, and defending. Every movement was sharp and precise as their knives met again and again, the air filling with the rapid clashing of metal on metal, each collision coughing up sparks.

Khalid feinted left before attacking from the right, his knife coming in a quick, upward slice—a move Kimball barely dodged, feeling a barely perceptible graze from the swing against his jaw. In immediate return, Kimball countered with a horizontal slash, which Khalid deflected with an easy sweep of his hand.

Neither man slowed nor gave in, their hands moving faster and faster as each attack was met with a counter move, and each feint answered with a counterstrike. The tempo quickly escalated to a feverish pitch, the blades of their knives becoming blurs of silver streaks that cut through the air. But neither man was able to draw blood.

Then their struggle collapsed into raw power.

Kimball and Khalid surged into each other, their bodies colliding as their knives locked against opposing throats. Breath harsh, muscles straining, they each fought to drive the killing stroke home. Kimball felt the sharp point of Khalid’s blade push against his skin, just shy of puncturing. At the same time, his own KABAR hovered at the base of Khalid’s throat, its tip biting down, close to breaking through.

Khalid gritted his teeth, and his grip tightened as he fought to overpower Kimball. The flickering light caught the sweat beading on his forehead, and his veins bulged from the sheer force of his effort as he leaned in, his knife-hand shaking while trying to close the gap and drive the blade into Kimball’s flesh.

But Kimball met him with equal force, their arms locking and their bodies becoming taut with tension as fingers clamped around their handles, wrestling for the inch they needed to end it. Their blades wavered, tipping forward and then backward, neither man relenting.

Then Kimball began to push.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t rushed. It was steady. A slow, crushing force that Khalid couldn’t fight against.

Kimball’s KABAR inched forward, dimpling Khalid’s skin as the tip dug in, a single bead of red swelling around the point. Khalid’s eyes twitched and his muscles flexed as he tried to resist, but Kimball had both the strength and the drive.

The blade sank deeper.

Khalid let out a strangled gasp, his throat convulsing as the steel cut into him. His hands began to tremble, and his grip wavered. Then he coughed a fine mist of blood that sprayed warmly against Kimball’s face.

Still, Kimball pushed.

The knife drove deeper, disappearing inch by inch, parting flesh and slipping into muscle as Khalid gagged and choked on his own blood. Then his legs began to tremble beneath him as his body began to lose its fight. In some last, desperate effort to hold him back, his hands grasped Kimball’s wrist, the hold weakening.

Then, with a final shove, Kimball buried the blade to the hilt.

Khalid staggered, his body jerking as his throat tried to draw air around the steel now embedded deep. His fingers clawed weakly at the handle as a wet, gurgling sound escaped him while he stumbled back, his movements unsteady and disjointed.

Khalid fell to his knees with his eyes wild with shock, his gaze settling on the Roman Catholic collar around Kimball’s throat. He stared at it for a long moment, his mouth moving but unable to form words. Then he toppled to the side, his body hitting the ground with his eyes still open—staring into nothing.

Kimball stepped forward and planted a boot against Khalid’s shoulder, steadying the body as he gripped the handle and pulled the blade free. Without a word, Kimball wiped the knife clean against Khalid’s clothes, then slid it back into its sheath.

* * *

Kimball stepped out of the cell and into the chamber, his boots making soft, steady sounds against the concrete floor. The air here held the lingering scent of sweat, blood, and something musty, like old stone and damp wood.

The rickety table near the far wall looked ready to give way. On top of it, the mask stared back at him—its lenses a deep, unnatural red, the built-in voice modulator catching the overhead light. It looked like something left behind, a tool discarded after serving its purpose. So, he ignored it and moved on.

His attention shifted to the corner of the chamber, where Sophie and Louise huddled together, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Their wide eyes followed him, but they didn't move. It wasn't fear of what lay ahead that kept them rooted in place; it was the fear of him.

Kimball slowed, realizing what they saw. The blood misting his face, his shirt marked with red. In the dim glow, it made him look something less than human.

Lifting his sleeve, he ran it across his face, once, then again, wiping away the streaks. The girls flinched at the movement but didn’t run. When he lowered his arm, he softened his voice, keeping it low and steady. “You're safe now,” he told them in English. “I’m here to help. To bring you home.”

Louise stirred first with her grip on Sophie loosening as she slowly rose to her feet. Her eyes flicked to his collar—the white now marred with red—and something shifted in her expression.

Hope, maybe.

“You’re a priest,” she said, not quite asking, but seeking reassurance.

Kimball hesitated.

He knew what she wanted to believe. A priest had come for them, a man of God, an angel walking among devils. But that wasn’t him.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not a priest.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion crossing her face.

“But . . .” she started, looking again at his collar.

He thought of the name given to him before. The priest who is not a priest. The words passed through his mind, but he said nothing.

Behind Louise, Sophie shifted. Slowly, she stood as well, her hand still gripping her sister’s. Then Kimball extended his arm in a silent invitation.

For a moment, neither girl moved. Then, as though discovering a courage within themselves, they stepped forward and fell into him.

Their small bodies pressed close, arms clutching at his sides. Their faces buried against his shirt, and he felt the warmth of their tears seeping through the fabric. Not the frantic, panicked tears of fear, but that of relief and gratitude.

Kimball let them stay there, standing in the dimly lit chamber with his arms lightly wrapped around them. They could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, a rhythm that spoke of something unshaken, something constant.

After a moment, he stepped back and guided them toward the exit.

They moved together through the narrow hallways with Kimball leading them out of the underground maze of corridors. The damp and humid air began to lift, replaced by something fresher and cleaner. With each step, the shadows thinned, giving way to slivers of natural light seeping in through cracks and vents.

Then, finally, they reached the surface.

The bakery sat quiet, unchanged from the outside, as though the horror beneath it had never existed. His backpack rested where he had left it, so he grabbed it and slung it over one shoulder.

Outside, the sun hung warm in the sky; the brightness forcing the girls to blink while their eyes adjusted to the sudden shift from darkness to light. Kimball felt the sun too, the heat of it on his face, the sensation almost foreign to him, the welcome of the Light.

Then, in the distance, sirens.

He turned his head, listening. The wailing grew louder, closer.

It was time to go.

He looked down at the girls whose faces turned to him, searching. He gave them one last look, something firm but reassuring.

And then, “I have to go now.”

Louise opened her mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. Instead, she nodded, her fingers tightening around Sophie’s.

A moment later, the sirens arrived with tires screeching and doors flying open, as first responders swarmed the scene and found the girls waiting.

But Kimball Hayden was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Paris, France

Three Days Later

France remained in a state of shock, with the horror of the attack still fresh in the minds of its people. Streets once lively with conversation now carried an air of mournful stillness, the usual rhythm of daily life disrupted. News outlets played endless loops of footage—rescue efforts, damaged corridors, and the faces of those lost or wounded. The country, though resilient, bore the marks of tragedy.

In response, a State of Emergency remained in effect and martial law enacted as security forces carried out sweeping investigations. The government assured its people that no further threats had been detected. This attack, they said, had been the act of a single Hamas cell—one that, according to statements from Hamas officials, had operated without their sanction. Hezbollah also denied involvement, distancing themselves from any connection to the assault.

Despite the reassurances, trust did not come easily. The summit, meant to be a step toward peace, had instead been marred by bloodshed. For now, its continuation would not be abandoned, only relocated. France would not host the next round of negotiations. Another site would be chosen, a location to be announced once security concerns were fully addressed.

The only survivor of the cell—a teenager—had been taken into custody. His name remained undisclosed, his identity shielded under the protections of the juvenile system. Official reports stated that he was being held somewhere within its network, yet no one seemed to know exactly where. His whereabouts were sealed, buried beneath layers of red tape, hidden from public scrutiny.

As details emerged, they painted a grim picture. The boy had been radicalized through the Internet, his mind shaped by extremist propaganda lurking in the corners of social media. He had never set foot in a training camp, never met his so-called brothers-in-arms face to face. His transformation had happened through a screen, guided by faceless mentors who fed him ideology wrapped in anger.

The revelation sent a ripple of concern through France. News outlets ran special reports on the dangers of online radicalization, warning parents of the invisible threats within their homes. Experts debated the power of disinformation, how easily young minds could be led astray. Footage played of mothers and fathers speaking through tears, recounting stories of children lost to digital manipulation, of sons and daughters who had vanished into ideology before they even left their bedrooms.

Politicians called for stronger regulations, for tighter control over the content accessible to the youth. But for many, the damage had already been done. The attack had not just been an act of violence—it had been proof of how a single mind, warped by influence, could bring destruction to a nation.

Within days after the attack, the dignitaries and delegates departed, returning to their respective countries. The summit’s abrupt halt had left political tensions raw between the nations, yet discussions of rescheduling remained active.

One delegate, Omar Al-Shami of Lebanon’s Hezbollah-aligned March 8 Alliance, found himself at the center of unexpected controversy. In private discussions following the attack, he expressed a newfound conviction—a belief that lasting peace with Israel was not only possible but necessary. His words carried weight within the council chambers, yet outside them, they sparked immediate consequences.

Shortly after his admission, Al-Shami was removed as Hezbollah’s representative for future negotiations. Though no official statement explained the decision, speculation grew. Some believed Hezbollah’s leadership saw his shift as betrayal, a sudden fracture in an ideology that had held firm for generations. Others suggested his removal had been inevitable the moment he voiced support for peace.

His replacement remained unnamed, though insiders whispered that the next delegate would be chosen with care—someone unwavering, someone who would carry the past into the future without question.

On the Vatican front, Cardinal Angulo, on the flight back to Vatican City, recalled when he had spoken of Kimball Hayden with thinly veiled contempt, as though voicing his disapproval often enough might cleanse him of the distaste. But after witnessing firsthand what the Vatican Knights had done—how they had placed themselves in harm’s way so others could live—he found himself reconsidering their roles.

Peace had always been his mission, yet he could no longer ignore the truth laid bare before him. One’s enemies would not simply sit down and agree to terms because it was the right thing to do. Words alone would not bring resolution. Sometimes, the path to peace required something else. Something violent. Something final.

And though the next summit had yet to be announced, the world was still reeling. But when the time came, he knew the Vatican Knights would be there. And perhaps, for the first time, he would not look upon them with scorn.

Inside his personal chamber in Vatican City, Isaiah sat alone as the dim glow of the lamp cast long shadows across the room. He had not reached out to Kimball after the mission. There was no need. The children were safe, and Kimball had done what he was meant to do—what he always did.

He knew Kimball saw himself as a man on a road with only one destination. A man who carried too much behind him to ever walk in the light, bound to a path that could only lead to ruin.

Isaiah let out a slow breath, picked up his phone, and scrolled through his contacts until he reached the name he never thought he would remove. For a long moment, he stared at it, his thumb hovering over the screen as his heart ached.

Then, with quiet reluctance, he pressed the button, Kimball’s name vanishing from the screen.

Isaiah set the phone down, the silence around him pressing in.

The world moved forward.

Kimball moved forward.

And now, so would he.

EPILOGUE

Paris Gare de Lyon (Train Station)

Paris, France

The train lurched forward with the soft hum of its engine building as it pulled away from the terminal. Kimball sat near the window, watching the city slip past. The Eiffel Tower stood tall for a moment before it disappeared behind steel and glass. The Seine glimmered under the afternoon light, bridges arching over its slow-moving waters. Then, as the train gathered speed, the landmarks blurred together until they faded into open countryside.

He reached into his shirt pocket with fingers brushing against the familiar shape before pulling it free. The Roman Catholic collar, once stark white, was now marred with dried blood, the fine mist of violence staining the edges. Creases ran through it, bent and smudged, but it remained intact.

Kimball studied it, a faint smile touching his lips. The cloth had witnessed countless missions and shouldered burdens no ordinary fabric was designed to bear. And yet, like him, it endured.

With care, he returned it to his pocket, his hand lingering over the fabric a moment before he checked his watch.

Fifteen hours to Rome.

The train rushed forward, carrying him toward whatever came next.

THE END

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