Read Chapter 20: The Château's Betrayal

The château rose from the mist like a memory of the war—stone, ivy, and the stink of decay. Henri rode ahead, his twisted leg swinging free of the stirrup, and called out in a voice that cracked with age.

“Étienne! You old bastard, open the gates!”

Marchand kept one hand on the reins, the other pressed to Pavel’s chest. The boy was burning again, eyes half-lidded, lips moving in silent French. The ledger was strapped beneath Pavel’s coat, against his ribs, where Marchand had ordered it kept.

A figure emerged from the château’s great doors. Tall, gaunt, leaning on a silver-knobbed cane. His face was a ruin of old scars, the left side of his jaw gone to puckered flesh. But his eyes—those were clear, sharp, and utterly unsurprised.

“Jean-Luc,” Étienne said. “I heard you were dead.”

“Rumors,” Marchand said, swinging down from the saddle. “You look worse than I do.”

Étienne laughed, a dry rattle. “Verdun took my leg. The peace took my purpose. What’s left is the wine cellar and the memory of better men.” He glanced at Pavel, slumped in the saddle. “And you’ve brought a corpse with you.”

“He’ll recover. He needs rest, a fire, and food.”

“Of course. Henri—stable the horses. Bring the boy inside.”

Marchand followed Étienne through the doors, past the faded tapestries, the portrait of a woman who had died before the war, the library where a fire already burned. It was too warm. Too prepared.

Étienne poured two glasses of brandy. His hand shook, but his gaze did not.

“How much do you know?” Marchand asked.

“Henri told me little. That you were running from Russians. That the boy carries something valuable.” Étienne set the glass down. “I fought beside you at Verdun. I know when a man is running for his life, and I know when he’s running for something else.”

“It’s not mine to share.”

“Of course not.” Étienne smiled, and the scars pulled his mouth crooked. “But it will be, soon enough. You look like a man who’s about to lose everything, Jean-Luc. I’d like to know what I’m mourning.”

Marchand took a long drink. The brandy burned. He’d earned it.

“Pavel is Pavel Orlov. He carries a ledger—”

The doors burst open. Pavel stumbled through, his coat half-open, the ledger clutched to his chest. His eyes were wild.

“Marchand! The riders—they’re in the trees. I saw them from the window.”

Marchand was already moving, but Étienne raised his cane and blocked the door.

“Sit down, Jean-Luc.”

“Étienne, we have to go. Now.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Étienne’s voice was flat, empty of the warmth of a moment before. “The Hawk moves fast. But I move faster when there’s a bounty on the table.”

Marchand stared at him. He didn’t need to hear more. He saw it in the way Étienne didn’t draw his weapon, in the way his eyes flicked to the window, in the way he’d already laid the fire and poured the brandy—waiting for the moment to turn.

“You sold us,” Marchand said.

“I sold you for enough to keep this château for another year. You understand, Jean-Luc. You’ve always understood cost.”

The first shot came through the window, shattering glass over the fireplace. Marchand dropped, pulling Pavel down with him. Étienne spun, cane raised like a club, and Marchand fired twice from the hip.

The first round took Étienne in the shoulder, spinning him against the bookshelves. The second took him in the chest. He fell, silver cane clattering on the parquet, and his eyes found Marchand’s one last time before they went dull.

Marchand didn’t wait. He grabbed Pavel’s arm and dragged him toward the side corridor.

“The ledger,” Pavel gasped. “Marchand, the ledger—they’ll take it.”

“They won’t take you.”

They made it three steps before the library doors blew inward. Two men in dark coats, rifles raised. Marchand fired, and one dropped. The other returned fire, and Marchand felt the heat tear through his side—a wet, tearing burn that dropped him to his knees.

He tried to rise. His legs wouldn’t answer.

“Marchand!” Pavel was beside him, hands on his face. “Get up. Get up.”

But the Hawk stepped through the doorway, tall and unhurried, his coat the color of wet ash, his face hidden behind a black scarf. He didn’t look at Marchand. He looked at Pavel.

“The boy,” he said. “Take the boy.”

Marchand clawed at Pavel’s coat, trying to pull him down, but the riders were there, hauling Pavel upright, prying the ledger from his fingers. Pavel screamed—a raw, boyish sound—and Marchand shoved himself forward, but his body betrayed him, and he hit the floor with his face against the cold stone.

Through the haze, he saw Pavel’s boots dragged past him. He saw the Hawk bend down, pick up the ledger, and weigh it in his hands.

“The boy lives,” the Hawk said. “The ledger dies.” He paused. “And you, Marchand—you’ll wish we’d killed you.”

The boots left. The door closed. And Marchand lay alone in the ruins of the library, blood leaking through his fingers, the fire hissing in the grate, Étienne’s empty eyes staring at the ceiling.

He wasn’t dead yet.

But Pavel was gone.