Chapter Text
"Mommy, mommy, what's wrong with the man?" asked a little girl sitting next to Lawrence, rudely pointing at him. "He’s got a funny hat too..."
The Australian didn’t like being cramped and surrounded by so many people the way one is on a plane. What’s more, his tall stature always prevented him from sitting comfortably in his seat—it was sheer torture. That’s why he was frantically tapping his foot against the floor, his face locked in a grim expression from the rage he was holding back, and his eyes had the look of a man ready to do something extremely dangerous and bloody. Even though the idea of taking this form of public transport—where the phrase 'hell is other people' couldn’t be more perfectly illustrated—was deeply unpleasant to the lanky man, he hadn’t hesitated for long before boarding.
Steal a plane had also crossed his mind, but that would have only made things worse. So, even if it was longer and more frustrating, the polite and conventional method seemed like the most rational one in the Australian’s eyes.
A matter of hours—it was only a matter of hours before he would be with Jeremy.
After taking a small breath of air, Lawrence turned to the little girl, trying to soften his features. He gave the child sitting to his left an awkwardly forced smile. She looked at him with wide eyes, as if shocked by what she saw, and suddenly her lower lip began to quiver, her face flushed, and she pressed herself against her mother with a sob.
Lawrence instantly wiped the smile from his face, then quickly looked away, pulling his hat down over his head as if to absolve himself of any responsibility for what had just happened.
In itself, he had nothing against children. Even when they could be rude because of their innocent curiosity, he didn’t find them annoying or bothersome. The Australian himself, as a child, had been like that, and even today, as an adult, he still didn’t fit into all the boxes that social norms and propriety impose. So on what grounds would he blame a simply curious child?
The man let out a small sigh. His rough, cold, and silent personality had always kept children from liking him. Even when he tried to make an effort, as evidenced by the little girl sobbing next to him.
Even though children never seemed to like him, Lawrence would never have wished them harm or caused them pain. He couldn’t have cared less about the cries of an adult. But those of a child—he didn’t like them. Not at all. Not because the noise itself was bothersome, but because it meant that something or someone had dared to harm an innocent and vulnerable being in some way… And Lawrence could not tolerate that. It was simply outside his standards.
Therefore, being the cause of the girl to his left crying made him hate himself even more.
Sometimes, he was tempted to believe he was cursed when it came to anything small, precious, and fragile. Either he ended up breaking between his fingers, or crying because of him. Only Jeremy, who was smaller than him, sometimes fragile, and of course precious, remained intact in his hands. But for how much longer? Maybe he should have found a way to leave with him after all. He had sensed that something was going to happen, yet he didn’t listen to his instinct and had let Jeremy walk straight into that hell…
His eardrums hammered by crying, his body awkwardly settled in his seat; the Australian twisted desperately, hoping to find an ounce of comfort. His mind, meanwhile, was flooded with the negative thoughts pouring down inside.
My God, this flight was going to be terribly long.
***
Yves had never believed in God. Of course, like just about everyone, he had questioned his existence at one point or another. But he had never been profoundly convinced of the presence, somewhere in heaven, of this superior being who would have created the world. However, whenever a significant event—good or bad—occurred, he would always exclaim or sigh a sincere 'Mon Dieu', temporarily shedding any trace of atheism from his body for a few seconds.
That was the sum of his relationship with the divine. Yet, leaning against that disgusting wall, breathless to the point of his lungs about to burst and his heart pounding so hard it seemed like it would explode any second, Yves thanked with all his soul the author of the miracle which had just saved his life. How had he managed to dodge the volleys of bullets Akim had fired at him? The former spy had no idea, and with no rational explanation, everything pointed to what had just happened being a miracle.
Still cloaked by the invisibility granted by his watch, Yves was objectively capable of continuing his infiltration through the Hoven. However, without Nadir, it became almost impossible. Back when infiltrating a building in search of a specific treasure was just a morning routine for him, he had always relied on at least some intel about the place and his target. But without that information—that is, without Nadir—Yves found himself completely stripped of any advantage, a trapped prey defenseless and caught.
In the past, he had been the cat among the pigeons; now, he was the pigeon among the cats.
However, even though his mission was dangerous and seemed impossible, he had to succeed. There was no other option but to continue what he had started to save his son. Yves could not accept any other outcome, even if it meant risking his life to achieve it. So, awkwardly, the man resumed his wandering through the tunnels of the Hoven.
Thoughts kept rushing through his mind like a torrent in full flood. He was scared—not for himself, but for others. For Nadir, who had just been caught in the act of betrayal; for his son, to whom he wanted to confess so many things; for his wife and for his parents, who must be suffering so much more deeply than he was, because of him.
Yves felt miserable. So powerless in the face of all the consequences of that one mistake he had made in the past—and from which he had fled.
Hadn’t his son been right the day he called him a coward?
Like a phantom—or rather a damned soul wandering between heaven and hell—the former spy crept along the disgusting walls, searching for the slightest clue that would lead him to a way to solve all his problems, or at least ease those of his loved ones for whom he was the cause.
As he rounded a corner, a draft swept over him. Unbeknownst to him, the path he had just taken led to an exit outside, guarded only by a mafia henchman armed with a machete, standing and shouting at someone outside.
"Hey! Oh! Faris, get over here!"
Yves flinched.
"Faris, get over here!" called Jackal from the end of the long table in a tone that was meant to sound friendly but was clearly authoritative.
All the most important figures of the mafia were there—ten men who, each on their own, could earn a raised eyebrow from the devil himself just by showing him their sins. They were all seated around a large table set in a damp basement, with Jackal at the head and his men lining the sides. Yves sat to his left, Akim to his right.
The little boy had just stepped into the room. He took a small step back, overwhelmed by the number of adults staring at him, but when his father called him, he immediately went to him. Jackal grabbed him roughly and sat him on his lap. Yves watched them quietly, tucked away in silence. His attention was mostly fixed on the burning tip of the mafia boss’s spliff, whose glowing ashes threatened to accidentally burn Faris.
"Tomorrow," Jackal started. "The Prime Minister’s gonna roll up to the Old Port to drop a speech."
The child stayed calm on his father’s lap, happy to have the privilege of witnessing an important discussion among adults. The little boy turned his head toward Yves, looking at him with the same amber eyes as his father, and smiled. A smile missing a tooth but still full of joy. Yves, as discreetly as possible, returned a smile that only the little boy could notice.
"That bastard wanna honor the Pied-Noirs and Harkis who came to France after our country got its independence, but we ain’t gonna let that slide."
"What you wanna do?" asked a dude a bit down the table.
"We been cookin’ up something for a while," the drug boss said. "Ain’t that right, Faris?"
The members of the assembly exchanged confused and questioning glances discreetly, unable to see the connection between the announced event and the little boy.
"Yeah!" the child replied to his father.
"When he gettin' started with his speech..."
Jackal took a long drag from his joint and tilted his head back to blow out a cloud of smoke through his mouth. The spy furrowed his brow. He had been putting up with that awful smell of marijuana for months. It was everywhere, to the point that he felt like his skin was permanently soaked in it. It disgusted him, not to mention his concern about the harmful effects it could have.
Some people might have pointed out his cigarette addiction, but cigarettes don’t affect the brain.
What these two poisons have in common, however, is their ability to turn the loved ones of their users into passive victims who never asked for it in the first place. That’s why Yves had furrowed his brow—not for himself, but for Faris. The child shouldn’t be exposed to these toxic smoke fumes that could seriously harm his health—yet he was.
Once again, the undercover spy found himself powerless, forced to swallow what he spat out. Because challenging Jackal would jeopardize his mission and wipe out all his sacrifices, especially when he had never been closer to his goal.
"We’re gonna say Faris is gonna give him a hug," continued the mafia boss, straightening his head. "A fucking big hug that will change the future of our sons and daughters and avenge our fathers and mothers."
"What do you mean by that?" Yves dared to ask, crossing his arms.
Jackal turned toward him, his red eyes staring intently, almost as if he could see every layer that made up his being. Finally, he grinned broadly, like a devil.
"Don’t trip…" Jackal replied in a sly tone. "You’ll get it quick, trust me…"
Yves swallowed hard, sinking further into his chair. With his arms crossed, he gripped his bicep with all his strength, squeezing so tightly that the pain became foolishly unbearable. Weeks—he had spent weeks trying to uncover every secret of that damn mafia. He had fought internally against himself, his conscience, and his values—in other words, against everything that made him a man—to gain credibility in the eyes of those men devoid of any morality. Men who put their primal instincts above all civility, who indulge only in trivial pleasures without building anything virtuous, and who don’t hesitate to abandon themselves to savagery at the slightest hint of frustration.
Yves had forced himself to enter the world of those people. Everything he hated was concentrated in that underground world that everyone looked away from because it scared and disgusted them. Yes, he had to push himself hard to break into that world, and he succeeded, but at what cost?
How many times had he come back to that shabby apartment he’d been living in since the start of the mission, only to collapse behind the door, crying? The memories of the crimes he had committed just to fit into the Alafea Mafia never left his mind. And at night, exhausted from his sobs, he couldn’t sleep, tormented by nightmares. Beneath the disguise his kit provided, he was a pathetic, gaunt puppet hiding away.
This is what infiltrating that mafia to complete his mission had cost him. This is what making up for entire lives of violence in just a few months had done to him. It had shattered his mind and broken his body, all while he was convinced he knew what he was doing—that his goal would be achieved.
Only, at the moment when Jackal seemed to be about to reveal what he was preparing, what Yves had infiltrated the Mafia in the hope of being able to outwit him, he persisted in not revealing anything. It wasn’t for lack of trying on the spy’s part; a simple question aimed at making him spill the beans was met only with a chilling smile and a dismissive, snarky reply.
All his suffering should have been rewarded right here, at this moment. But it wasn’t. Now, it was too late—he had failed.
"What I want now is for us to keep low till tomorrow. Anti-terror cops almost caught us already. It’d be dumb if they get us now."
The crew nodded.
“But most of all,” Jackal said, lifting Faris up and standing tall, “this kid right here is our future hero, so I want y’all to back him up!”
The boss of the Alafea Mafia roughly lifted his child and stood him up on the table, showing him off to the whole crew. Faris didn’t resist, happy to be the center of attention and recognized as a hero by the grown-ups. One of the guys sitting at the edge of the table started pounding his fist on the surface, in rhythm.
"Faris, Faris, Faris!" another of the men began to chant, joining in with the percussion.
Immediately, the ten men joined in the chant and cheered for their future young martyr. Only Yves remained, outwardly, unmoved by the spectacle.
How could grown men, fully aware of their actions, support all of this? They made this innocent child, free of any wrongdoing, believe that he would be their savior, their brave knight, and that he would reap the rewards of his deeds.
Yves had grasped the dark truth behind this falsely joyful ceremony. Jackal shamelessly used his son to achieve his twisted goals. So how could the spy agree to stand there, alongside men who had long since lost their humanity?
A wave of nausea rose to his throat, but he held it back. Akim’s gaze met his, and against his will, he joined the grim celebration—outwardly joyful—of the little boy who laughed, perhaps for the last time.
“Faris! Faris! Faris!”
"Faris! Faris, over here!" kept yelling the machete standing by the exit.
The former spy had tried hard to forget this memory, yet it had just hit him full force, perhaps at the worst possible moment. His body began to tremble and stagger. Despite his foggy mind, he managed to listen to himself, ordering a turnaround to continue searching for his son.
However, Yves was not prepared to relive this memory, nor to go through all of it again. So, gripped by panic, he tried as best he could to retrace his steps, but unfortunately, his foot struck a metal bucket lying on the ground. Not only did the impact make a terrible noise, but it also caused the bucket to roll a short distance, creating even more noise—enough to alert the mafia sentinel a few meters away. A new surge of adrenaline coursed through him, and by instinct, the former spy turned around.
He had just enough time to see that the sentinel, armed with a machete and shouting at someone outside, raised his weapon above his head and lunged at him. The former spy’s reflexes took over. Yves raised his arm to block the blow with his forearm. The machete blade struck it, piercing deep enough that the man seemed to feel it had reached his bones.
The man let out a cry of pain as he tried to draw his butterfly knife from his sleeve. But the man facing him was quicker—he threw an uppercut to his jaw. The punch wasn’t extraordinarily powerful, but it was perfectly placed. So much so that the man lost his balance and then fell to his knees. He fought against the nausea rising in his throat, the fog clouding his vision, and the darkness pulling him toward sleep.
At that moment, Yves could still try to fight back, but a second blow to the head crushed all hope.
***
Jeremy tightened his grip on his makeshift weapon. With his only good foot firmly planted on the ground, he gritted his teeth, ready to strike. The young man struggled to keep his eyes off the lifeless body of the spy lying just a few feet away, a bullet hole right through his head.
The assassin of Lucien entered the room like a wild beast, weapon in hand. In a flash, Jeremy, who had been hiding in the shadows, smashed the pipe with all his might into the stranger’s nose. A sharp cracking sound echoed, but it was a small taste of satisfaction for the insatiable hunger for revenge burning in the young man’s soul.
Caught off guard, the Alafea Mafia guy couldn’t block or dodge the blow and brought his free hand to his broken nose. Blood poured heavily from it, and the pain made his knee buckle. Kneeling on the ground, his hand still gripping the firearm he was leaning on became vulnerable. Seizing the opportunity, the Bostonian didn’t hesitate and delivered a second strike—this time to the fingers holding the gun.
Jeremy then swung his makeshift bat like an axe and crushed it down onto the man’s fingers. The motion felt strange to him, since in baseball he’d learned to only deliver lateral swings, not vertical ones. Nevertheless, the young man perfectly crushed his opponent’s fingers. Suddenly smashed, without mercy, between the metal pipe and the ground, they were literally crushed under the impact.
The henchman screamed, but his torment wasn’t over—Jeremy’s well of vengeance had not run dry. He readied himself to strike again and landed another blow, this time aiming for his opponent’s temple. The man then collapsed heavily to the ground, beside Lucien’s body.
Jeremy wanted to shout victory, but reality hit him immediately.
"Dirty bastard…"
In his struggle, the Bostonian had completely overlooked the presence of the mafia’s second henchman standing right behind him, ready to avenge his friend.
Every muscle in the young man’s body tensed instinctively, as if to shield himself from the attack he was about to face. He knew he couldn’t dodge or counter the blow. The only option was to take it and pray he would get back up. But he wasn’t hit by anything. Instead, a sudden gasp followed by a wet-sounding groan brushed past Jeremy’s ears.
When he slowly turned around, he could hardly believe what he saw. The blue spy stood upright, clearly in good shape despite his tousled hair and loosened tie revealing the base of his neck. A satisfied smile spread across his face as he twisted the blade of his butterfly knife in his victim’s wound. The victim let out another wet, plaintive groan. Then, with a firm motion, the spy withdrew his weapon from his enemy’s back and let him collapse to the side, dead.
“What the hell just happened?” exclaimed Jeremy, completely bewildered.
“Nothing alarming,” Lucien reassured him coldly, closing his butterfly knife whose blade was stained with blood.
“What? Nothing alarming? You were dead right in front of me!”
“No. Well, not really,” Lucien corrected, waving a fancy golden pocket watch in his left hand that didn’t show the time but a circle of blue light. “It’s pretty handy to have a companion with eleven doctorates under his belt.”
The man tucked the object into the inside pocket of his jacket, then took a few moments to smooth his hair with a few quick gestures. Jeremy watched him, speechless. He had just narrowly escaped death; Lucien had come back from the dead—and yet it didn’t seem to affect him at all. Perfectly calm, he fixed his hair before adjusting his tie. The young man stared at him, his eyes settling on Lucien’s collar. There, encircling his neck like a necklace, he noticed a horrible scar.
“You've been guillotined or something?” Jeremy murmured, tactlessly.
Lucien turned his head toward him, shooting him a piercing glare. Jeremy felt a cold sweat trickle down his neck.
“Sorry.”
Lucien finished tying his tie and adjusted his shirt collar to cover the wound. Then, he pulled a pistol from his jacket and addressed the young man.
“We’re going to have to find a way out.”
“Can’t we go back the way you came in?”
“With your leg? No,” replied the spy, loading his weapon. “Let’s move.”
Lucien set off, pistol in hand, stepping over the two henchmen’s bodies and crossing the narrow, dimly lit corridor. Behind him, Jeremy tried to follow, limping painfully on his good leg, which had gone numb from bearing his weight too long. Even the metal pipe he used to move wasn’t much help.
As the young man finally struggled to reach the man in blue, the latter let out a sigh before approaching the injured one. He grabbed the Bostonian’s arm—the one on the same side as his injured leg—and moved it behind his head so he could lean on him for support.
"Yeah, thanks."
***
"No, Mister President… No, just… Yes, Mister President. Yes…"
Fabrice, sitting at his desk, was boiling inside. His words remained polite, but his tone clearly revealed his simmering emotions. In front of him, Paul and Inaya stood silently, motionless, witnessing the scene.
“No one will know, Mister President… Yes, you are the commander-in-chief… but…”
Exasperated, the head of the secret services slammed the phone handset down on the desk, leaving his superior to rant into the void. Fabrice let out a deep sigh. Paul and Inaya exchanged a glance and shrugged. They had never seen the man in such a state, let alone in the middle of a conversation with the President himself. Finally, after a few seconds, Fabrice picked up the phone once more.
“Mister President, listen to me… it will be just a simple operation, it will boost your popularity… No, you’re not listening to me…”
Once again, Paul and Inaya exchanged a glance—but this time, it was much more alarmed. They knew Fabrice had just lost patience, and that his wrath was about to erupt any second now.
“No, sir, you will open your ears now and pay attention! You either give me authorization to send a brigade to Lyon, or I expose to the press, with proof, the real thing hiding between the legs of your so-called wife!”
The two spies in the office widened their eyes, their jaws dropping in complete shock.
“That’s exactly what I thought. Thank you, Mister President.”
With those words, Fabrice slammed the phone handset back onto its base. A small, satisfied smile appeared on his face as his anger faded, replaced by a relieved expression—the kind you get after properly completing an important task. Inaya and Paul stared at him, still silent but fully aware they wouldn’t be going to bed anytime soon.
“All right,” he said, addressing the two young people. “We’re leaving immediately.”