Read Chapter 13: The Double Cross

The access point was a rusted iron ladder bolted into the tunnel wall, leading up to a circular hatch marked with faded French railway stencils. Mercer went first, his boots slipping on the damp rungs, the sound of his breathing magnified in the narrow shaft. Above him, Camille’s silhouette blocked the faint light filtering through the grate.

He pushed the hatch open and climbed out into a maintenance junction—a concrete chamber lit by a single buzzing fluorescent tube. Three corridors branched off in different directions, each lined with thick bundles of cabling and pipes. The air smelled of diesel and ozone.

“Which one?” Mercer asked, scanning the floor for footprints in the dust.

Camille dropped down beside him, landing silent as a cat. She pointed to the middle corridor. “That leads toward the spur. The train’s parked two hundred meters past the next junction.”

Mercer nodded and started forward, but something made him stop. A flicker of movement in the reflection of a polished pipe fitting. Behind them. He spun, hand reaching for the holster under his jacket.

Four figures emerged from the shadows of the side corridors, weapons raised. They moved with professional precision—matching tactical vests, suppressed submachine guns, no insignia. Mercer counted four. Maybe five. The one on the left had a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, and he smiled like he knew Mercer personally.

“Don’t,” Scarface said, his accent Eastern European. “We only need one of you alive.”

Mercer’s hand froze halfway to his weapon. Camille had already gone still beside him, her eyes darting between the exits, calculating odds that were getting worse by the second.

Then a fifth figure stepped into the light.

Sokolov looked different than he had on the roof—no longer the frantic runner, but composed, almost amused. He walked past the armed men with the casual confidence of a man who owned the room. His jacket was gone, revealing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The silver case he’d been carrying was nowhere in sight.

“Agent Mercer,” Sokolov said, his voice carrying a faint trace of a Prague accent. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m afraid our last meeting was rather… rushed.”

Mercer’s jaw tightened. “You were running from me.”

“I was drawing you away from the breach point. It worked beautifully.” Sokolov turned to Camille with a slight bow. “And Agent Laurent. Still carrying the guilt of Prague, I see.”

Camille said nothing, but her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“You want to tell me what this is?” Mercer asked, keeping his voice steady while his mind raced through exit options. Three corridors, four armed men, one exit behind them that lead back into the maintenance shaft they’d crawled through. The math wasn’t in their favor.

“I want to offer you a choice,” Sokolov said. “But first, let me show you something.” He pulled a folded document from his back pocket and tossed it at Mercer’s feet. “Read it.”

Mercer didn’t move.

“I insist.”

Slowly, Mercer bent down and picked up the paper. It was a bank statement. His bank statement. He recognized the account number immediately—the one that held the debt he’d been paying off for eighteen months, the one that traced back to Fournier’s network. But the figures were wrong. The balance showed zero. Cleared. Paid in full, dated three days ago.

“You’re looking at that wrong,” Mercer said, but his voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“Am I?” Sokolov smiled. “Your debt was substantial. Mr. Fournier was patient, but patience has a price. Someone paid it for you.”

Mercer’s mind flashed to his last meeting with Fournier—the veiled threats, the casual reminder that debts were collected with interest. He’d thought he had more time. He’d thought—

“Who?” he asked, his voice flat.

Sokolov tilted his head. “You already know the answer, Agent. Think.”

Mercer’s gaze moved past Sokolov to the armed men. They were standing at ease now, weapons still trained but no longer aimed at his center mass. Like they were waiting for something. Waiting for him to understand.

“MI6,” Mercer said. The word tasted like ash.

Sokolov laughed—a short, sharp sound that echoed off the concrete walls. “MI6 didn’t pay your debt. A person within MI6 did. A person who wanted you exactly where you are right now, following exactly the trail you’ve been following.”

Camille shifted beside him. “Alex, don’t listen to him. He’s playing you.”

“Am I?” Sokolov’s eyes glittered. “Ask her about Prague. Ask her why she’s so interested in your father’s name on that paper. Ask her what she knew before she ever set foot on that train.”

Mercer’s heart had gone cold. He turned to look at Camille, really look at her, and for the first time he saw the cracks in her armor. The way her eyes flickered when Sokolov mentioned Prague. The way she’d hesitated, again and again, before giving him information. The way she’d volunteered to go alone into the service tunnel.

“Camille,” he said quietly. “What is he talking about?”

“Nothing,” she said. “He’s trying to divide us.”

Sokolov shook his head slowly. “I’m not trying to divide you. I’m trying to give you a gift. The knowledge of who truly holds your leash.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Your father’s paper wasn’t in my jacket by accident, Mercer. I brought it for you. I was meant to make sure you found it.”

Mercer’s fists clenched. “Why?”

“Because someone inside the Service wants you to know the truth about Charles Mercer. And they’re willing to pay a great deal to make sure you come out of this tunnel alive.” Sokolov spread his hands. “Your debt is paid. Your path forward is clear. All you have to do is walk away and let this train reach its destination.”

The offer hung in the air, thick and poisonous.

Mercer looked at the paper in his hand. Then at Camille, who was watching him with an expression he couldn’t read. Then at Sokolov’s patient smile.

He heard Fournier’s voice in his head, the last time they’d met: *“Everyone has a price, Mercer. The question is whether they know what it is.”*

He’d never asked. He’d just assumed his price was the debt.

But someone else had known. Someone who’d paid it without asking him first. Someone who knew exactly what that would make him do.

The four armed men were still waiting. Sokolov’s hand rested on his hip, casual, confident.

Mercer tore the paper in half.