The cockpit blared with the screeching alarm of a missile lock. Forty thousand feet in the air, death was a sleek, gray shadow outside my window.
Darius already had his hand on the emergency parachute lever, his other arm wrapping tightly around my waist. "If they fire, we jump. My secondary team is tracking our coordinates from the ground."
"Wait," I said, my voice cutting through the panic of the cockpit like a diamond through glass.
I didn't reach for a gun. I reached for my encrypted satellite phone.
"Dante, put me through to the private line of the French Minister of Defense," I commanded. "Now."
Darius paused, a flicker of dark amusement crossing his lethal features. "Going for the direct approach, My Queen?"
"The Architect thinks he can use his influence to hijack French airspace," I said, my eyes cold as the ice crystals forming on the jet's wings. "He forgot who pays for the Minister's annual re-election campaign."
The call connected in three seconds.
"Elara Vance," a frantic, heavily accented voice came through. "We were told your aircraft was carrying biological weapons! The reports—"
"The reports were written by a dead man, Minister," I interrupted, my tone dripping with aristocratic arrogance. "If that Rafale fighter jet doesn't peel off in exactly ten seconds, I will personally pull the four-billion-dollar investment Vance Corp promised for your new naval fleet. And I'll do it while the press is on the line."
Silence. The kind of silence that only four billion dollars could buy.
"Eight seconds, Minister," I added smoothly.
Outside the window, the Rafale jet's wings suddenly dipped. It banked sharply to the left, disengaging its missile lock and disappearing into the clouds.
The alarm in our cabin stopped. The silence was deafening.
"Landing clearance granted, Vance-01," the radio crackled. "Welcome to Paris."
Darius let out a low, rough laugh, pulling me into his chest and burying his face in the crook of my neck. "God, you are terrifying. I think I've just fallen in love with you all over again."
"Focus, Darius," I smirked, though my heart hammered against my ribs. "We have an auction to crash."
Paris under the moonlight was a city of ghosts and gold.
The armored Maybach glided through the rain-slicked streets, stopping in front of a discreet, unmarked stone entrance near the Louvre. This was the entrance to Le Gouffre—The Abyss. It was the Shadow Council's most exclusive underground auction house.
I stepped out of the car, the Parisian rain misting over my black silk gown. I had swapped my tactical gear for elegance that masked a thousand lethality. Hidden in the folds of my dress were my silver scalpels, and draped over my shoulders was a shawl woven from Kevlar thread.
Darius stepped out beside me, looking like a god of death in a tailored tuxedo. He offered me his arm, his eyes scanning the rooftops for snipers.
"The Architect is inside," Darius whispered. "Dante confirmed his specialized wheelchair was seen entering an hour ago. He brought forty elite guards."
"Then he brought forty men to a funeral," I replied.
We walked into the elevator. It descended deep beneath the city, opening into a cavernous, gilded ballroom filled with the world's most corrupt elite. Oil tycoons, rogue generals, and cartel leaders sat in velvet chairs, bidding on stolen antiquities and human lives.
At the very front, in a raised VIP box, sat a man in a high-tech obsidian wheelchair. He was pale, thin, and radiated a cold, calculating brilliance.
Lysander Croft. The Architect.
As we walked down the center aisle, the room went cold. The bidders turned, whispering in shock as the "Living Yama" and the "Mafia King" made their grand entrance.
Lysander didn't look surprised. He slowly turned his wheelchair to face us, a twisted, sickly smile on his face.
"Elara," he croaked, his voice like dry leaves. "You've come to pay your debt."
"I'm not here to pay, Lysander," I said, stopping at the front row, my voice echoing through the massive hall. "I'm here to outbid you. On everything. Including your life."
Darius stepped forward, his aura of absolute violence making the surrounding guards flinch. He didn't say a word, but the message was clear: Touch her, and the Abyss becomes your grave.
"The first item up for bid," the auctioneer stammered, his voice trembling. "A rare, ancient manuscript detailing the lost medical secrets of the East. Starting bid: fifty million dollars."
Lysander raised his paddle. "One hundred million."
I didn't even look at the paddle. I looked straight into Lysander's eyes.
"One billion," I said calmly.
The room erupted. Lysander's eyes twitched with a manic, murderous rage.
"You think money can save you from the Council?" Lysander hissed.
"No," I smiled, a lethal, beautiful curve of my lips. "I think money can buy the people who are currently aiming their rifles at the back of your head."
Lysander froze. Behind him, four of his own elite guards slowly shifted their aim away from us—and directly onto the Architect's skull.
I leaned in, whispering so only he could hear.
"I sever spinal cords, Lysander. But I also buy souls. And your men are very, very expensive."