"Sometimes the one holding you is the one holding the blade."
Versailles – Observatory Grounds – 8:08 PM
Gunfire still rang in Isabel's ears as the final masked attacker hit the stone floor with a sickening thud. Smoke hung in the air, ghost-like, through shattered lanterns and scorched hedges. Ethan rose slowly, chest heaving, the moonlight glinting off a thin cut dripping down his jaw. His suit was ruined, but his grip on the gun remained unshaken.
Beside him, Rhea adjusted her stance, her revolver still raised, a lock of silver hair clinging to her temple. Isabel wiped blood from her cheek. It wasn't hers. But it could've been.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. "What the hell is happening?" she whispered, her voice trembling despite her best effort to control it.
Ethan crouched beside the last body, yanked the collar open, and tore at the jacket's inner lining. He held it up under the moonlight. There, just beneath the frayed stitching, was a small tattoo—an ivory tusk wrapped in barbed wire. "Cross's men," he muttered. "That's their mark."
Rhea's voice was sharp. "Why now? Why escalate?" Ethan's gaze shifted to Isabel, piercing. "Because she found the journal. That means she's close to decoding the ivory sequence."
She blinked. "Ivory sequence?" He nodded. "Seven tusks. Seven keys. One map. One name that ends it all." Isabel's chest tightened. "You mean my father was after this?" "Your father almost exposed them," Ethan said quietly. "But there was a leak. Someone inside our ranks."
Rhea stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "A mole?" A handler," Ethan corrected. "Trusted. Respected. Clean on the outside, corrupted within."
Isabel's stomach churned. "Do we know who?" Ethan's jaw clenched. Then he said it. A name that sliced through Isabel's spine like ice. "Marianne."
Paris – Office of Marianne Duvall – 8:52 PM
Marianne Duvall moved through her penthouse with grace honed by decades of diplomacy. Tall windows framed the Paris skyline, glittering in the dark. She poured herself a glass of Bordeaux, her hands steady, her expression unreadable.
A still image was frozen on her screen: Isabel in the Louvre's underground vault, holding the Phoenix file. A frown touched the edges of her lips, but it didn't linger.
A man stepped from the shadows, dressed in black, his posture rigid. "They failed at Versailles."
Marianne sipped her wine. "Of course they did," she said coolly. "Children with guns. Send someone smarter next time. And tell Cross I don't appreciate being second-guessed. "The man bowed slightly. "And the girl?" Marianne turned to the image on screen again. Isabel's face. Innocent. Determined. Just like her fathers once had been. "She was like a daughter to me," Marianne said softly. "It's only right I be the one to end it."
Ethan's Safehouse – Montmartre – 10:14 PM
The safehouse was a two-story apartment tucked behind an art gallery, its walls lined with fading maps, bulletproof glass, and equipment that hummed softly in the dark. Isabel sat at a worn wooden table, her eyes red but dry. She'd stopped crying hours ago.
Ethan laid out several tusk photographs, scattered with hand-drawn maps, cipher sheets, and ink-blotched sketches.
"This," he said, gesturing over them, "is what your father built. A code hidden inside seven ivory carvings, each one sculpted with layers of symbolism—animals, patterns, languages. At first, no one noticed. But when matched together, the carvings form a trail."
Rhea added, "Each tusk was sent to a different collector. All high profile. All protected."
Isabel leaned forward. "So… what does it lead to?"
Ethan's tone was flat. "A network. An empire. Ivory smuggling was just the cover. It's bigger than that. These tusks track blood money from colonial Africa through art auctions, shell corporations, private mercenary groups… right into the pockets of politicians, CEOs, warlords."
She looked at the photos again. One showed her father, Armand Hart, standing in Angola, smiling beside a crated tusk. The handwritten date on the back chilled her: two weeks before his supposed "accidental" death. "It's more than smuggling," she whispered. "It's a shadow economy."
He nodded grimly. "And your father got close to exposing it."
Rhea leaned back, arms crossed. "The tusks don't just tell stories. They carry names. Names of buyers. Traitors. Killers. People who rewrite history with a wire transfer."
Isabel traced a finger along the ciphered paper. "And if someone like Marianne… is protecting this…?" "She's not protecting it," Ethan said. "She's embedded in it. She and Cross run two sides of the same empire." Silence filled the room. Heavy. Ominous.
Isabel stood. Her legs felt steadier than they should. She picked up the photo of her father, then looked at Ethan, her voice low but clear.
"Then let's burn their world down."
Avenue des Champs-Élysées – Secret Safe Drop – 11:17 PM
In a sleek, nondescript car parked beneath the shadows of sycamore trees, a courier opened a briefcase. Inside were six images of the Phoenix file, each page stamped and encrypted. The man glanced toward the café across the street, then walked briskly away, vanishing into the crowd.
Minutes later, a woman in sunglasses and gloves took the seat he'd left. She retrieved the briefcase and made a single phone call. "They've activated the tusks. The girl is decoding them."
A pause. Then a calm male voice responded. "Then eliminate her. And burn the rest."
Ethan's Safehouse – Later That Night
Isabel stood in front of a long table where Ethan had reassembled parts of the journal and cipher fragments. A candle burned beside her, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Ethan approached quietly, carrying two mugs of black coffee. "You okay?" "No," she said honestly. "But I will be."
He handed her the mug. "You were brave tonight." "I was terrified."
He smiled faintly. "Bravery isn't the absence of fear." Their eyes met. For a moment, the war outside paused. She studied the cut on his jaw. "You bled for me," she said softly. "I'd bleed again."
Something in his voice stirred something deep in her—dangerous and warm. "I don't know if I can trust you yet," she admitted.
He stepped closer. "That makes two of us." She chuckled, and it broke the tension for just a heartbeat. Then, outside, a siren wailed in the distance. Closer than before. "We don't have long," Ethan said, his tone shifting. "Once Cross realizes we're not dead, they'll tighten the noose." "Let them," Isabel said, lifting the tusk carving in her hand. "Because I'm going to cut the rope first."