The rain over Paris was thin and cold, drifting like silk over slate rooftops and fogged boulevards. From the back of a blacked-out SUV, Camille watched the city approach, her breath ghosting against the glass.
They were home. But nothing about the return felt safe.
The files they had recovered in Istanbul sat in a hardened briefcase on the seat beside her, encrypted and firewalled. Inside were the first targets of Operation Silva—names that weren't just powerful, but essential. Judges. Journalists. Analysts. Whistleblowers.
And at the very top of the list: Élisabeth Moreau.
Camille hadn't said it aloud yet.
But the moment she saw the name flash across Calvet's monitor, something cold had twisted in her chest.
Élisabeth was not just a public ethics prosecutor.
She was Camille's former mentor.
And the only person who'd ever believed in Mateo's innocence when the courts had turned their backs.
Beside her, Damien's gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight.
He had seen the name too.
He hadn't said a word.
---
The SUV slid through a secure underground entrance beneath a nondescript building in the 7th arrondissement. Camille stepped out into dim lights and silence, the heels of her boots clicking sharply against polished concrete.
Calvet met them at the door to the command floor.
"Three confirmed hits across Eastern Europe this morning," he said, handing Damien a folder. "All tied to the Silva algorithm. It's moving faster than anticipated."
Camille frowned. "The algorithm?"
Calvet nodded. "Silva isn't just a list. It's predictive. A real-time kill index. Adjusting by political value and destabilization potential."
She stared at him. "So it chooses who dies?"
"Yes," Calvet said grimly. "And Moreau is now ranked as the highest destabilizing figure in Western Europe. She's the moral choke point."
Camille felt her hands curl into fists.
"They'll kill her within days."
Damien took a slow breath. "Unless we stop it before the order is issued."
He looked at Camille.
"Can you reach her?"
She hesitated. "She hasn't spoken to me since Mateo died. My investigation… cost her a promotion. But I know where she lives. She doesn't take bodyguards."
Calvet glanced at Damien. "Then we move tonight. Quietly."
Camille's voice cut through.
"I'll go in first."
Damien's jaw clenched. "No."
"I know how to reach her. She'll never trust you. Not in time."
Damien didn't answer. But his silence was permission.
---
The building Élisabeth lived in was older than the Republic itself—an ivory-toned structure with gilded iron balconies and curtains that rarely moved.
Camille walked up the steps alone.
No team. No wires. No shadow.
Just her.
She rang the bell.
The door opened after a long pause.
Élisabeth stood in the doorway, elegant as ever, her silver-blonde hair pulled back in a twist, her gaze sharp behind tortoiseshell frames.
She didn't look surprised.
"Camille," she said softly. "I wondered when you'd show up again."
Camille's throat tightened.
"May I come in?"
Élisabeth stepped aside.
Inside, the apartment was as Camille remembered—books stacked on polished oak, a Steinway in the corner, tea steeping on a sideboard.
She waited as Élisabeth poured two cups and sat across from her on the velvet settee.
"I heard about your brother," she said, her voice quieter now. "And about Damien Laurent. The news is… colorful."
Camille didn't smile. "None of it's true."
"No. But the silence around it is."
A pause.
"Why are you really here?"
Camille opened the briefcase.
The list glowed from the screen like a digital obituary.
Élisabeth's name sat at the top.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then, "Who gave you this?"
Camille met her eyes. "The man who helped kill Mateo."
For a moment, Élisabeth said nothing.
Then she leaned back, fingers steepled.
"You've always chased ghosts, Camille. But this one—this isn't a ghost. This is war."
"I know," Camille said.
And in that moment, something old healed between them.
---
Outside, Damien watched from the surveillance van, his fingers curled around a comms device.
"She's in," Calvet confirmed.
Damien didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
"Why didn't you tell her?" Calvet asked quietly.
"Tell her what?"
"That Moreau isn't just a target."
Damien's jaw tightened. "Because she would've run in blind."
"And you think she won't now?"
Damien's voice was low. "No. But now she knows what she's protecting."
---
Camille left the apartment just before midnight.
Élisabeth would be moved to a secure location in the morning under French anti-corruption witness protocol—Damien's team would insert into the system under a false Interpol flag.
As she descended the steps, Camille's chest ached with the weight of everything that still lay ahead.
She didn't hear the footstep until it was almost too late.
A blur of motion. A flash of steel.
Camille twisted, adrenaline flooding her limbs as she ducked a strike aimed for her neck.
A man in black—a knife glinting under the streetlight.
She kicked forward, catching him in the knee. He stumbled but didn't fall.
Another step. He slashed again.
Camille reached for the baton at her belt—slammed it into his arm with a crack. The blade fell.
But his other hand struck her across the cheek, sending her reeling back.
A second shadow lunged from the alley.
Too many.
She shouted once.
And then they were gone—ripped away in flashes of darkness and gunfire.
Damien appeared out of the shadows like a wrathful god, his coat sweeping as he stepped over one of the fallen men. His gun didn't shake. His eyes were murder.
"Are you hurt?"
Camille shook her head. "No. Just winded."
He reached for her, his hands moving over her face, her arms, checking for blood.
"You were alone."
"I wasn't," she whispered.
And for the first time, he pulled her to him in the open street, his hold iron, his breath uneven against her hair.
"I'll kill them all," he said. "I swear to God."
Camille closed her eyes.
"I know."
---
Back at the safehouse, her cheek bruised, Camille stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Not the girl who'd first walked into Damien's penthouse in heels and doubt.
This woman was steel.
Damien appeared behind her, silent.
"You knew," she said.
He didn't ask what she meant.
"That they'd come for her. And for me."
Damien nodded once.
"I was watching. I should have been closer."
Camille turned.
"You were close enough."
She reached up, touched the corner of his jaw where stubble had bloomed under tension.
"I'm not afraid anymore."
Damien looked at her like she was something rare. Untouchable.
"You terrify me," he said softly.
"Good," Camille whispered. "Then you'll fight like hell to keep me alive."
---
Later, in the privacy of the war room, they gathered around the final decrypted folder from the Istanbul drive.
Silva wasn't just operational—it had been activated.
France was only the beginning.
Camille leaned over the screen.
"There's a secondary server. Still active. Location: Andes Mountains. Military-level encryption. Code named: Silva Prime."
Calvet cursed softly.
"That's the mainframe. The real program isn't in Europe."
Damien's eyes narrowed.
"Then we're going to South America."
Camille looked at him.
And with quiet certainty:
"Then that's where we end this."