Read Chapter 27: The Sting

Yann’s hand closed around her wrist, and he pulled her into the shade of the maritime pine that overlooked the harbor. “You don’t have to do this.” She could feel his fingers testing her pulse, which had already spiked at the suggestion.

“It’s the only way,” Camille said. “Perrot won’t step off that yacht for anyone else. But he’ll meet a woman who wants to buy his coasters for a resort. He’s too arrogant to resist showing off.”

Yann’s jaw tightened. Beside them, Officer Leclerc adjusted the small transmitter in his palm, the coil of wire dull against the Breton light. “You’ll be wearing this,” Leclerc said. “Audio only. We’ll hear everything, but if you lift your hand above your collarbone, the signal dies. Keep your hands low.”

“Understood.” Camille held out her arm, thumb and forefinger extended like a child waiting for a vaccination. Leclerc taped the mic flat against the inside of her wrist, just beneath the bracelet she used as cover.

Yann watched the operation with crossed arms. “He’s seen you. At the site. At the plant.”

“He saw a woman running from a cage,” Camille countered. “Not a buyer with ten million euros to spend on his little empire. What was the name of the shell company again?” She looked past Yann to Leclerc.

“Atlantic Horizon Development.” Leclerc smiled thinly. “Swiss-registered. We’ve had it on the books for two years.”

“There,” Camille said. “You’ve done this before. I’ll be fine.”

Yann stepped forward, shadowing her. “If the mic goes quiet for more than thirty seconds, we breach the yacht. No exceptions.”

“It’s your operation,” Leclerc said, a hint of irritation surfacing. “The arrival time is set for 14:00. The harbor master will be occupied with a fuel delivery at the east dock. No one will see you board.”

Camille checked her reflection in the tinted glass of a parked car. She’d let Elodie do her hair this morning, a loose arrangement that caught the light and made her look moneyed. A cream silk blouse, borrowed from Elodie’s mother, and a pair of tailored navy trousers that made her feel like she was walking onto a film set.

She turned to Yann and lifted one eyebrow. “Do I look like a woman who needs rescuing?”

A muscle in his neck twitched. “You know what I think about this.”

“And what do you think about the bay? About the aquarium, and the reef, and the kids who swim here, and the oysters my father farmed from this shore until he couldn’t anymore?”

“I think you’re arguing to win,” Yann said. “Not to be safe.”

Camille touched his cheek. “I’ll argue with Perrot for ten minutes. Then you and your team finish the argument for me. Yes?”

He held her gaze long enough that the air between them thickened. Then he nodded stiffly.

Camille boarded the harbor master’s tender at 13:50, paired with a plainclothes officer disguised as a deckhand. The white hull of Perrot’s yacht, the *Vagabonde II*, glinted at anchor just outside the buoys. As the tender approached, Camille let her eyes sweep the deck with practiced indifference. She’d seen enough wealthy clients in Paris to mimic their don’t-care expressions. The yacht was larger than she expected, two decks and a glass-walled salon. Perrot was waiting at the stern rail, holding a flute of something pale.

Camille pulled the tender close enough that she could see the man himself: older than his newspaper photographs, his silver hair swept back, a yacht-club blazer draped over his shoulders. He smiled as she climbed aboard.

“Mademoiselle Moreau.” He extended a hand that was cool and dry. “I’m told you have an eye for underutilized coastline.”

“I have an eye for potential.” Camille shook his hand, keeping her own low, careful, as rehearsed. “Your coasters are beautiful, but they’re sitting idle. The resort market in this region is up thirty percent over two years. I’d like to change that.”

Perrot’s smile widened. “Interested in planning permission?”

“I’m interested in asking the right questions.” Camille followed him into the salon, where a chart of the coastline was spread across a mahogany table. She kept her hands at her waist. The mic pressed warm against her skin.

Perrot pointed at a dotted outline of the Kelven arc. “This entire stretch is under-researched. Pollution claims have frightened off developers, but my environmental team assures me the waters have recovered.” He looked up, amused. “These claims are political. You need not worry.”

“Good.” Camille leaned over the chart in the manner Elodie had coached her, one shoulder dipped forward to project engagement. “I want to know about the piers. Structural integrity. Access roads.”

Perrot laughed. “Ten minutes with the charts, and you’re asking about piers?”

“I’m buying coastline,” Camille said coolly. “I want to know what I’m buying.”

For a moment, they discussed tonnage, depth soundings, and water rights. Perrot was warm, expansive, convinced he had found a partner who would enrich him. He was mid-way through a story about a German investor when his gaze dropped to her wrist.

He stopped talking.

His eyes fixed on the bracelet, a crudely braided twine-and-gold band with a small whale charm, made years ago by a girl in a schoolyard. Camille had worn it daily since she was twelve, never thinking of it as identifiable.

Perrot’s smile collapsed.

“That bracelet.” His voice dropped half an octave. “I’ve seen it on a girl who followed her father around the harbor. The old houseboat. The one that flies that ridiculous flag.”

Camille kept her face blank. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The Le Goff girl.” Perrot took a step backward, fingers reaching for the table’s edge. “The one who ran from my plant last week. Who made a fool of me with the police.”

Camille’s heart rammed against her ribs. “You’re confused. I’m Margot Moreau. Here’s my card—“

She reached into her pocket, but Perrot’s eyes had gone wide, his composure unstitched. He turned, lunging for the doorway that led to the forward deck. Camille saw him move, saw the gap widen, and in the silence, she heard a soft click—Yann’s signal—from the mic she had nearly forgotten.

Then the salon door burst inward. Yann came through low and fast, followed by two officers in dark tactical vests. Perrot tried to twist sideways toward the stern, but Leclerc had already come up the port-side ladder and caught him from behind. A short struggle, a muffled curse, and then Perrot was bent over the table, handcuffed, his jacket riding up his back.

As the officers read him his rights, Camille stood in the corner of the salon. Her legs trembled, her vision grayed at the edges, and she registered, distantly, that the deck had begun to tilt. She reached for a railing and missed.

Yann was at her side before she hit the floor. His arm caught her around the waist, lowering her steadily onto the leather bench. “I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Breathe. He’s cuffed. He’s done.”

Camille stared at the band across his chest, focusing on the stitching to steady herself. “Did it work? Did we get him?”

Yann’s hand cupped the back of her head. “We got him. We got him on the boat, with the charts, with the waste manifest in the cabin aft. And the bay is still here.” He half-smiled. “The bay is still here, Camille. You did it.”

She closed her eyes against the spinning. Somewhere above them, the sun broke fully through the clouds, flooding the salon with light and catching the whale charm on her wrist. Camille let herself sink against Yann’s shoulder, her breath finally evening out, and for the first time in weeks, the silence felt like victory instead of fear.