Page 48 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

I think for a second. Too many elements fit together, and none of them please me.

"We'll need to deactivate our listening system on Natasha's phone. If Stanislas is paranoid, he'll have all their devices checked."

"I'll take care of it. Fortunately, we've already gathered a lot of info thanks to her."

"Do what's necessary to erase our tracks..."

I stop abruptly. A dull thud resonates in the apartment, followed by the metallic sound of the front door closing.

"Wait, Sophia is going out. I'll call you back."

I hang up and grab my jacket and keys without wasting a second. In the stairwell, the mechanical noise of the elevator catches my attention: it's going down. My heart races. Where is she going?

I rush down the stairs four at a time, my soles hitting the concrete in a hurried rhythm. Reaching the basement, I spot her just in time: she's closing her trunk, getting into her car, and shutting the door with a quick gesture. I discreetly slip into my own vehicle, waiting for her to start before turning on my engine.

Sophia drives at high speed, speeding through the illuminated streets of Paris. I keep my distance, always leaving two or three cars between us. Suddenly, she turns into a small street, one of those dark and narrow arteries of old Paris. I slow down and advance cautiously without following her directly, like a patient predator. She has stopped near a row of buildings.

I park at a distance, all lights off. She gets out of the car, opens her trunk, and pulls out a black garbage bag.

Even in the dimness, I can make out the black gloves covering her hands. She throws the bag into one of the trash containers lining the sidewalk. I wait until she leaves, then I move forward into the now deserted street. My heart pounds as I search my glove compartment for tissues. If Sophia wears gloves, it's because she doesn't want to leave traces. It would be really stupid to leave mine.

I step out of the car and carefully lift the lid of the dumpster. The acrid stench of garbage hits my throat. What could she have thrown away that was so compromising she had to cross all of Paris just to get rid of it here, in a neighborhood where no one knows her?

My hands tremble slightly as I tear open the bag. Its contents send a chill down my spine.

Clothes, methodically cut into pieces, as if to prevent any identification. But I’d recognize them anywhere.

One of them is a beige jacket. The one Sophia was wearing today when she came home… There are also fragments of what used to be an ID card, shredded into confetti.

What the hell is she involved in?

25. On-call

SIERRA

For a week, I’ve kept a low profile. No trips to the office, no "client meetings," just to make sure every trace of Claire Dumont has been erased. Stuck working from home since the gala, I’m starting to feel suffocated—especially with the way Ruslan has been looking at me ever since that night. Does he suspect something? Unless he thinks I’m having an affair. That would be ironic.

The Phoenix Protocol seems to have worked perfectly—at least on the surface. No suspicious activity has been detected since that astronomical two-million-dollar contract was posted on the Dark Web. The amount still sends a chill down my spine.

Luckily, it’s much harder to track and eliminate someone when they’ve been erased from every database, when every digital trace has been meticulously wiped. But I’m not naïve. These people—whoever they are—managed to track down Claire Dumont, a feat that still makes my blood run cold. They’re skilled, patient, and probably very well-equipped. I won’t make the mistake of underestimating them.

In any case, after a week of forced inactivity, I’ve finally received the green light to resume operations. The only restriction: I’m strictly forbidden from doing any fieldwork related to Nexora Trade investigations. So be it. I’ll keep leading the investigation team remotely and digging into my leads from the shadows. There’s no way I’m backing down now—not when I’m this close.

For now, I’m on call this weekend. From Friday night to Monday morning, I have to stay available for emergencies.

Monitoring clandestine networks, undercover digital infiltration, intercepting cyber threats before they spiral out of control.

My secured phone vibrates. A priority alert. Just a simple encrypted code, no message.

I open the encrypted app and decode the mission order. A group suspected of planning an attack has been communicating from inside an administrative building.

I grab my bag and rush down the stairs. Moving fast, I head to my car and drive to the designated meeting point in an underground parking garage. Condor is already there.

Helmet on, leaning against his motorcycle. Tall, broad-shouldered, silent. Condor doesn’t need to talk. He’s my pilot—his job is to get me to the site in record time and make me disappear just as fast. Sometimes, he’s my only human contact during missions.

"Sierra."

"Condor."