The aftermath of the failed assassination attempt left Paris in a state of quiet chaos. News outlets scrambled to piece together what had almost happened, spinning theories that ranged from terrorist plots to internal government sabotage. Security in the city was heightened, and the air buzzed with tension. Cassie, Anya, and Emil knew it was only a matter of time before the agency regrouped.
Back in the safe house, tucked within the narrow streets of Le Marais, the trio convened in the dimly lit room that served as both a living space and a war room. Maps, notes, and scattered photographs covered the table at its center, each piece a fragment of the puzzle they were desperately trying to solve.
"We need to talk," Anya said, breaking the silence. She leaned against the window, her silhouette outlined by the early evening glow. "Marko isn't going to let this slide. He'll use this failure as an excuse to escalate."
Emil, arms crossed and jaw clenched, nodded. "We hurt him. He won't make the same mistake again. Next time, he'll send a team we might not see coming."
Cassie's eyes darted between her two allies. She knew what was unspoken—distrust had crept in. The agency's ability to strike without warning and Marko's ominous smile in the square had rattled them all.
"We need leverage," Cassie said, her voice cutting through the tension. "We need something big enough that they can't just sweep it under the rug."
Anya pushed away from the window, her eyes hard. "We need proof of their next move, something that ties them to the attempts on Leclerc's life and the other high-profile targets they've silenced. Without it, we're just three people with conspiracy theories."
Emil let out a breath, his posture loosening. "I know someone. He used to be an operative, one of the best before he went dark. If anyone has the inside scoop, it's him. But he won't be easy to find."
Cassie's brow furrowed. "Who is he?"
"Lucas Varga," Emil replied. The name seemed to thicken the air. Even Anya's expression shifted to something unreadable, a mix of concern and recognition.
"Lucas disappeared years ago after a mission in Istanbul went sideways," Anya said. "If he's still alive, finding him won't be simple."
Cassie's heart quickened. "Then we start there. We track him down and convince him to help us."
Emil hesitated, then nodded. "I'll make some calls. But we have to be careful. Reaching out to old contacts could tip Marko off to our plans."
Anya leaned forward, placing her palms on the table. "We don't have the luxury of caution anymore. We move fast or we die."
The decision made, Cassie felt the room shift, the tense air replaced by the shared urgency of their mission. She looked at Anya and Emil, their faces lit by the dim light of the table lamp. They were a fractured team, bound by necessity and a flickering trust, but it would have to be enough.
---
Finding Varga was like trying to catch smoke in the wind. Every lead was a half-truth, every contact hesitant to speak his name. Three days passed in a blur of hushed meetings and coded exchanges. Cassie's patience wore thin as they crisscrossed Paris, always two steps behind.
Finally, a breakthrough came from a disheveled man named Julien, an old intelligence handler now working as a security consultant. They met him in a cramped café that smelled of burnt espresso and damp paper.
"Lucas Varga?" Julien said, eyes darting nervously. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his upper lip. "He doesn't trust anyone anymore. But I know where he was last seen—an underground club in the 12th arrondissement. Goes by the name 'Le Phénix.' If he's there, approach cautiously. He'll shoot first and ask questions later."
Anya nodded, sliding a few crisp euro notes across the table. Julien pocketed them without looking back and disappeared into the crowded street.
---
The entrance to Le Phénix was hidden in plain sight, a nondescript door sandwiched between a graffiti-covered wall and a shuttered bakery. A burly bouncer sized them up as they approached, eyes narrowing at the trio. Anya muttered something in rapid French, and the man reluctantly stepped aside.
The inside of the club pulsed with low music and red light. Shadows played along the walls, shifting and twisting with the movement of bodies. Cassie scanned the room, eyes searching for a face that matched the faded photo Emil had shown her—Varga, with his piercing dark eyes and a scar that cut through his left eyebrow.
"There," Emil whispered, nodding toward the far end of the room where a man sat alone, a whiskey glass in his hand. Even in the dim light, the sharpness of his gaze was unmistakable.
Cassie moved carefully, Anya and Emil close behind. As they reached his table, Varga's eyes flickered up, and his hand moved subtly toward his hip.
"Lucas Varga," Cassie said, holding her hands up slightly. "We're not here to fight."
His eyes shifted, assessing, calculating. "Then what do you want?"
"Information," Anya said, stepping forward. "The agency is making moves that could destabilize more than just this city. We need your help."
A dry smile crossed Varga's lips. "Help? From me? You must be desperate."
"We are," Cassie said plainly. "And we don't have time for games. They tried to kill Leclerc. Marko is leading the charge, and if we don't stop them, it's only going to get worse."
Varga's expression darkened at the mention of Marko's name. He leaned back, the shadows deepening around his features. "Marko… he's always been the agency's favorite weapon. If he's involved, this is bigger than any of you know."
"Then tell us," Emil urged. "Tell us what we're facing."
Varga's eyes met Cassie's, the sharpness in them cutting through the noise of the club. "Meet me at midnight, Pont Alexandre III. Come alone. If I see even a hint of a tail, this conversation never happened."
Before they could respond, he stood and slipped into the crowd, vanishing as quickly as he'd appeared.
Cassie exchanged a look with Anya and Emil. The stakes had just been raised, and their fragile alliance would be tested like never before.