Page 51 of A Mistake of Identity
“You’re his PA!” Gabriel shouted into the phone before hanging up on flustered and sputtering man. “Henri’s hiding.”
“Or is in a meeting?” Alain suggested, merging onto the I-70 at mind numbing speeds. They flew past a cop, who started to follow them, but likely recognized their license plate number and stopped.
“Merde,” Lucas swore, slamming his hand against the dashboard. “We should have had more security at the house. After everything with Henri—”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Alain cut in, weaving through traffic. “Not against Sentinelle Tactical.”
“You think it was Sentinelle?” Lucas said, disbelieving.
“Had to be a private military. To get in and out of Layette Square that quickly and cleanly? I doubt it was some low-life gang or guns-for-hire. Had to be contractors. My bet is on our guys. Maximilien is still friends with their President.” Alain said, while swerving madly around the slower automated cars—which was everyone.
Gabriel was already dialing.
Antoine Dufort, President of Sentinelle Tactical, answered on the third ring.
“Gabriel! To what do I owe—”
“Did you authorize any off-books operations today? Specifically, at my Lafayette Square manor?”
A pause. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play games, Antoine. Six of my security team are down, and five are dead. Oh, and also my butler. There are no other Private Military Contractors in the city, and the hit was too professional.”
“A terrible situation,” Antoine’s voice dripped false sympathy. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing in our logs about any operations today, inside Porte du Coeur, at least.”
“You might be chummy with my Father, Antoine, but remember who signs your paychecks.”
A low chuckle. “Prove it, Gabriel. Otherwise, don’t waste my time with threats.” The line went dead.
“Bastard,” Lucas spat.
“He’s lying,” Alain said, taking another turn at breakneck speed.
“Obviously.” Gabriel was already dialing Olivier Saint-Clair.
Unlike the others, he picked up on the second ring.
“Where is Jean, Olivier?” Gabriel asked without preamble.
“Jean is at the International School of Gothenburg,” Olivier said, his tone clipped and cold. “As you well know.”
“Don’t lie to me, Olivier. A security team just murdered five of my people.”
“Such accusations. I don’t appreciate your tone, Gabriel.” A sound like the slurping of a drink came through over the speakers. “In any case, where my wayward youngest is, is none of your concern.”
“If anything happens to Jean—”
“My son is exactly where he should be.” Olivier snapped. “Stay out of family matters, Gabriel. You’re not as untouchable as you think. And if you or your associates set foot on my property—any Saint-Clair property—I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” The call ended.
Gabriel’s grip tightened on his phone until the case creaked. In the rearview mirror, he saw Lucas’ face darken with fury.
“Rohan Estate, 15 minutes.” Alain said.
The wrought-iron gates parted smoothly at the touch of Alain’s fob, their gilded family crest catching the late afternoon sun. The Mercedes glided forward onto the oak-lined drive, white crushed shells crunching with a distinctive whisper beneath the tires.
The house revealed itself gradually through the trees—a sprawling testament to his great-grandfather’s determination to outshine the old St. Louis families, long before the birth of Porte du Coeur. The architecture was a peculiar marriage of Romanesque strength and Greek Revival grace, as if the builder couldn’t decide which ancient civilization to honor. Gray stone formed the base and wings, while white marble columns and accents caught the light like fresh snow. The effect should have been jarring, but somehow, the careful balance of materials created something uniquely commanding.
Twin fountains flanked the circular drive before the main entrance, water arcing in precise patterns that hadn’t changed in over fifty years. The lawns stretched out in every direction, each blade of grass exactly the regulation height his mother had once insisted upon. A separate drive curved toward the equestrian center through the pristine rose gardens, where the family’s prized horses were stabled in better accommodations than most people’s homes.
