Claire’s fingers hovered inches from the amber core before pulling back with surgical discipline.
Trusting a syndicate emissary in a trench coat was how operatives ended up floating in the Seine.
Yet the amber frequency matched the exact tuning fork frequency her mentor used before he vanished.
“You found Julian’s secondary frequency,” she whispered, her voice dropping an octave.
Marcus nodded slowly, his expression shifting from corporate calm to genuine reverence.
“He left it encrypted inside a mechanical clockmaker’s shop in Basel.”
“Only someone who knows the rhythm of the nineteen-seventy-nine solstice could decode the chime.”
“Which means you didn’t just guess your way here, Marcus.”
“You had help from someone inside my former unit.”
The bistro lights flickered once, plunging the corner booth into a bruised violet hue.
Through the exterior window, the reflection of a sniper laser dot painted the brick wall opposite them.
Marcus didn’t panic, which terrified Claire more than a sudden attack.
“That laser isn’t calibrated for us,” Marcus said, his eyes locking onto her pupils.
“It’s warning us that the third faction has breached the perimeter.”
“They figured out what men in their sixties and seventies represent on the geopolitical board.”
“Not targets, archive anchors.”
Claire felt a cold spike of adrenaline rush through her veins, sharpening every reflex she had honed in Berlin.
If the rogue faction captured the grid sequence, global power grids would pivot before midnight.
She slid the velvet pouch into her leather satchel with a motion too fast for the eye to track.
Marcus reached for his hidden comms earpiece, only to find the static hiss of dead air.
A muffled explosion echoed from the kitchen stairwell three floors below.
The heavy steel emergency shutters began sliding downward with a metallic screech.
Continue reading on the next page.
