A black sedan pulled onto the curb, its headlights cutting through the mist like twin blades. The door creaked open, and a man stepped out, his silhouette sharp against the city lights. He didn't speak; he simply held up a small, leather-bound briefcase—the "French Connection" they had spent months tracing across three borders.
She felt the weight of the Beretta in her pocket. The game wasn't over; it was just getting started.
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Alexis didn't move. "You have the codes?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the hum of the city.
The rain in Paris didn't fall; it hung in the air like a cold, damp curtain. Alexis leaned against the rusted railing of the Pont d'Austerlitz, the collar of her trench coat turned up against the wind. Below, the Seine was a churning ribbon of mercury. She checked her watch. 11:42 PM. Tivoli was late.
"I have everything," he replied, his accent thick and unmistakable. "But the price has changed."
