Page 25 of Code Name: Ghost

“But the question is, why here? Couldn’t it be a trap? Wouldn’t they be more concerned about who might overhear them?” I ask, incredulously. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. This sounds like a terrible idea.

Nick’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I thought of that, but with the noise level in a place like this, it’s hard to hear yourself think, much less what is being said two tables away. But you do get points for thinking about those kinds of things. We are going to have to take a minor risk. If you’d rather not come along…”

“I didn’t say that…”

He grins. “We need to get ahead of him. Vallois underestimates me. Always has.”

“You sound like you know him and are looking forward to it,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

He glances at me again, the corner of his mouth tilting ever so slightly upward. “Our paths have crossed before. You’d be surprised how much I enjoy pissing off men like René. Even better is breaking them and their organizations.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be Interpol’s job?”

He gives me a half grin. “I would like to point out to you, your husband, Hector, is part of Interpol.”

“Ex-husband. And not everyone in Interpol is a rotten apple.” I counter defiantly. Had he not let me think he was dead all those years ago, neither of us would be here right now. Instead, we’d be sitting on our back porch watching our two point five kids and a dog run around the backyard playing.

The GPS interrupts my wayward thinking, instructing us to take a sharp left. Nick follows the directions without hesitation, the Range Rover’s engine growling as we weave through the narrow streets of Old Town. The buildings here are close together, their pastel colors creating a labyrinth that feels both picturesque and suffocating.

The café is tucked into the corner of a busy square. It looks like any other spot in Nice, but it makes me uncomfortable. There is something wrong. My body hums with the instinct to run, every muscle taut with anticipation.

“Stay here,” Nick orders as he pulls the SUV to a stop near the edge of the square.

“Like hell I will.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, meeting his sharp glare head-on.

“Cherise,” he growls, his voice laced with authority. “I need you to listen to me. We agreed.”

“And I need you to stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” I fire back. “I’m not staying in this vehicle while you walk into whatever this is. Besides, wouldn’t I be safer with you?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue, but then he nods, his eyes darkening. “Fine. Stay close. Don’t speak unless I tell you to, and if anything goes wrong, you do exactly as I say.”

“Understood,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.

We exit the vehicle together, moving through the bustling square like shadows. Nick’s hand brushes against my lower back, guiding me, grounding me, even as his eyes scan every face, every corner.

The café is small and unassuming, its outdoor tables half-filled with tourists sipping espresso and locals chatting in rapid-fire French. It’s almost too perfect, too normal, and my stomach twists. Nick moves with a predator’s grace, his body coiled and ready, his presence commanding even in the casual chaos of the square.

Inside, the air is cooler—the noise muffled. We find an empty table near the back, Nick positioning himself so he can see the entrance and the entire room. His laptop is out in seconds, a discreet device that connects to Cerberus’s network with a few keystrokes.

“Anything?” I whisper, my eyes darting to the café’s other patrons.

“Not yet,” he replies, his voice low and even. “But they’re here.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can feel them,” he says simply, his eyes never leaving the screen. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

The minutes drag by, but the café’s cheerful chatter does nothing to calm the storm building inside me. And then I see it—a man outside the window, lingering just a little too long, his gaze sweeping the square before disappearing into the crowd.

“We need to move,” Nick murmurs, already closing his laptop.

“Why?”

He gives me a look I am sure has turned people to stone. “Because I said so.”

We slip out of the café, blending into the throng of people as best we can. Nick’s hand finds mine, his grip firm and unyielding, pulling me through the crowd with a singular focus. My pulse pounds in my ears, my senses hyperaware of every sound, every movement.

Then I hear it—a shout, sharp and guttural, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots on pavement. They made us.

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