3.9 What Wasn't Overheard

Banque de Paris, on the Rue de Remblai. Speckled granite tile, old mahoghany, and red velvet; discreet echoes of tempered voices and the squeak of shined shoes through a lobby with an arching thirty-foot ceiling.

Arthur waited in line for a teller who looked like he could be Leon's younger, overweight brother in a suit-vest one size too small. Best way to replenish funds, with a transfer from his personal account in Camelot, and pretty standard fare for tourists. Nothing that would stand out to anyone who wasn't specifically looking.

And they weren't. At the moment.

Second stop at a much different place, though equally secure – in a neighborhood where weeds grew through plentiful cracks in the concrete, and shop windows were protected by iron grates. The shop attendant was also the armed guard.

"I wish to buy a firearm," Arthur told the guy – Percival's size, Elyan's coloring – with a disarming grin. "And ammunition also."

The attendant relaxed enough to bring his second hand – empty - above the level of the counter, glass-fronted to showcase an array of flip-knives. "Quel calibre?"

Arthur hummed thoughtfully, deciding to decide when he could see what was being offered. The shop's walls were lined with odd objects-for-sale on display, in addition to messily-overstuffed metal shelving dividing the narrow space – and a yellow-and-black hand-tool caught his attention as he moved toward the rear of the shop.

"And how much for the drill?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin loitered outside the command tent, blinking against wind-driven sand particles, wondering if he might be court-martialed if the wrong person discovered him here.

But how much sense did that make? If he wanted to eavesdrop, he could do it from the safety and anonymity of his own cot in his own tent, where the other fellows at least could say, We quizzed the choker all night, no way he could focus attention elsewhere…

He scuffed his boots in the dusty sand – or the sandy dust, whatever – and tried not to mind his situation and treatment. Much better than the Institute. Much better than the early days at the Sunrise, and Nimueh waiting in the back alley. Toss-up whether it was better or worse than training in the field – it was different anyway, different weather, different pressures…

When Gwaine tossed open the canvas-covered wood-frame door and stalked out to let it bang shut behind him, Merlin was caught off-balance and had to twist around and jog to catch up to his second sergeant.

"How much of that did you hear?" Gwaine said abruptly, otherwise not acknowledging his presence.

"I wasn't listening," Merlin said mildly.

Gwaine gave him a glance too quick to read. "You're telling me you just happened to be lingering outside command, today?"

Yesterday the ambush. Merlin figured Gwaine would write up a full report in the evening; it would then be read the following morning by an immediate superior. And, depending on how honest and detailed Gwaine was, it would climb the chain of command til it reached someone with the authority to call the meeting.

He was honestly surprised no one had sent for him to be debriefed by the gathered officers.

"No," he said only. "I figured they'd want to-" interrogate – "talk about yesterday, and I thought, if they wanted to call me in, I might as well be available-"

"They didn't," Gwaine said, shortly.

"So I thought, I might as well be available, for you," Merlin ended, feeling awkward.

Gwaine stopped in his tracks and looked at Merlin, his mood shifting in response – which, really, was what Merlin intended. "You know I'm your superior, right?" he said, a glint of humor returning. "That means I don't unload on you. Works the other way around. 'Cause you can't fix anything for me."

"Oh, I don't know," Merlin said, carefully casual. And, he'd meant the sort of psychic debrief Arthur had requested after Aravia… only maybe Gwaine didn't think like that. Maybe he wasn't ranked high enough to be able to request that. "Company helps, doesn't it?"

"That's true," Gwaine conceded, and allowed a tired smile. "Want a drink? My treat." Except, there was no alcohol in Camp George; they'd have to make it a coffee or soda.

"I know a place just off Fort Fuller," Merlin returned, following as Gwaine took off at a more relaxed saunter. "I'll take you sometime." Either Gwaine and Arthur would understand each other and become fast friends – or they'd hate each other's guts and never lose a chance to scuffle, verbally or physically.

"And I know a bar in Britesea that has three knock-out waitresses," Gwaine said. "I'll introduce you, since you won't pose any competition."

Merlin deliberately didn't ask, why not. And chose not to think of dark-eyed Freya Douglas. "That's where you're from?"

Gwaine had been both friendly and professional from the first moment, and he'd kept his word to have Merlin's back if things got rough, on either side of the wire. Maybe facing imminent and violent death together meant they'd bond, but-

The sergeant made a neutral noise, and deflected so handily only a psychic might have noticed – a psychic or a scout, maybe. "Say, Merlin, I can tell you one thing I carried out of that meeting that's going to weigh, otherwise."

"What's that?" Merlin said, a bit surprised.

Gwaine stopped abruptly again, two paces from the mess hall door, propped open with a bucket of sand – both it and the ground around it littered with cicala-ends – and stepped to the side, out of the way of foot traffic going in and out. Never know when you're going to meet someone you know, or someone who knows you, and it isn't impossible the enemy has eyes and ears in here…

"You were transferred here from Psych Ops, right?" Gwaine said, leveling that intent, intuitive gaze on him. "I mean, you didn't just enlist and get sent through training and then trip up, yeah?"

"I-" Merlin swallowed the desire to tell him, I defected. The relationship was too new; the stakes were too high. "Yeah, I was there for a few months."

"Richard Gaius, the Director-in-Chief? I met him once. A canny old man, but astonishingly genuine and personal about it. That's rare in a leader, someone you just believe is gonna trust you, and be on your side…"

Merlin had a flash of, wonder if Gwaine pattered his style on the Old Man, then – but dared to reach out for a brief handful of Gwaine's arm, to help them both focus. Right arm, of course, because the left was bandaged, under the uniform jacket sleeve.

"Gwaine," he said. "What about Gaius? Did something-"

"He resigned," Gwaine said. "Which is bullshit. Something happened, and pressure was brought to bear – the kind of pressure to make Richard Gaius resign…"

Merlin remembered he was supposed to be helping his second sergeant relax.

Couldn't do it.

He wasn't close to the Old Man, not like with Arthur or Gwen – or even Leon or Percival – but he retreated from Camp George in a heartbeat and focused.

Gaius was not in Fort Fuller. Somewhere south – somewhere on the coast. Exasperated with himself, frustrated with the situation, deeply worried how events would play out-

Merlin had a bare glimpse of that – like seven acres of a maze, half-seen from an angle in the dark while it was raining.

Something to do with him? Something to do with Arthur – or Uther – or all of them?

Vague sense of external soothing – oh, good, he was with Alice-

"-rlin!" Gwaine said intently, with the air of a man repeating himself.

Merlin looked down to discover Gwaine's roughened fingers fisted around his upper arm, just as the second sergeant released him.

"What the bloody hell was that?"

"Had to check on Gaius?" Merlin said, stupidly.

Gwaine's eyebrows flew out of sight under the fringe of careless hair over his brow. "From here?"

Well, damn. Merlin's heart dropped without a bottom in sight; he said nothing, and waited for the revelation to change things between them.

Gwaine said, absorbing, "Well… damn. Is – he okay?"

Oh. So it wasn't going to… Relieved beyond words, Merlin shook his head, as much to say No as I don't know. "Something's going on, I can't… get a handle on it."

Gwaine nodded in agreement, watching a trio of chokers tease each other as they strolled into the mess. "The officers are-" He checked himself as if remembering his earlier words to Merlin about the chain of command – then apparently threw caution to the wind. "Uneasy. Like I've never seen, and I've been here ten and half months of my second rotation."

Briefly Merlin wondered if he could return to Camelot when the rest of his assigned unit did, or if he'd be reassigned again to remain in the sandbox. Indefinitely, maybe?

"About?" he tried.

Gwaine frowned. "Politics in Camelot, if I had to guess. At the highest level. The policy-making level."

Merlin remembered the scowl Arthur's father wore, and how his friend's walls had gone sky-high and mountain-thick in Uther's presence. Even though he was reporting to bloody heroism, in everyone else's opinion.

"Someone said something about…" Gwaine hesitated again, then reached to rub his forehead and cover his eyes. "Camelot pulling forces out of Aravia entirely."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Merlin said confusedly.

Gwaine reached left-handed in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket to retrieve a slightly crumpled packet of cicalas. Inexplicably pulling two of them into his lips, he flicked his lighter to ignite both at the same time – then handed one to Merlin, stuffing the lighter and packet away without using his right hand.

"I don't-" he started to say.

"Yes, you do. You do now. Everyone does, over here." Gwaine inhaled deeply, then let out of a lungful of smoke.

Merlin hugged his bent elbow, letting his smoke trail away and deciding to copy Gwaine's movements with the cicala, otherwise. Then he noticed that the attention they were receiving from the soldiers entering and existing the mess relaxed.

Oh. Yeah, of course. This was a scout sort of thing to do, wasn't it. Blend into the background, attract no lingering attention.

"It'll be a good thing after we take out Tosoldat and the Isyad are finished," Gwaine said. "When we took out Urhavi-"

Merlin startled to hear the word, then realized of course everyone here would have known about the fortress, and the explosion, if not the mission or the scouts sent to accomplish it.

"That put a serious dent in the Isyad's organization. But it didn't finish them, not with their leader still out there somewhere."

Armin Rynok, Merlin knew but didn't say.

"All it needs is a power vacuum left by us pulling out of here too soon, to organize and centralize and… nationalize. Worse off than when we first came here to help Aravian government keep order."

"Did they ask us?" Merlin said, interested. He didn't remember if they'd taught much modern history at the Institute. Not for several years, since they'd focused him on his own extracurricular studies.

"Yeah. Sorta. They got a screwy way of transferring power-" Gwaine waved a gesture like Don't ask me, and flicked ash. Merlin tried, too, with debatable results. "But they got interrupted. An assassination – a coup – a retaliation that involved international citizens, and probably instigated by the Isyad…"

Merlin had never seen the room of explosives that Arthur and Gwen had obliterated, himself, but he remembered it. And the intention he'd read all over every single detail. Chaos and disruption, because profit could be made from that by deadly and determined men… That seemed a concept both universal and historical.

"So if they want us to stay, why would we leave?" he asked.

Gwaine inhaled, and waved again. "Because they haven't got a clear inheritor, acceptable to everyone. They've got candidates, but they'd fight over which one they get… and if the Isyad are interfering in that, too…"

Merlin sighed, glimpsing but not understanding yet another wide, treacherous maze, by night. In the rain.

"Which means we shouldn't just police an election or coronation, then salute and take our leave," Gwaine finished. "But, the longer we stay, the less popular that policy becomes with all the taxpayers and bereaved family members at home."

"I hope they never promote me," Merlin said without thinking.

Gwaine faced him, astonished, then let out a deep, long chuckle that satisfied Merlin; his initial purpose in seeking out his second sergeant this afternoon had been met.

"Don't worry, Merlin," he said, sounding amused. "They gotta promote me, first. And that ain't happening anytime soon."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

As afternoon was waning toward dinnertime, and a brief rain-shower softened all the colors of Paris like a slightly-runny pastel, Gwen tagged Ramsey's heels unnoticed to an address familiar to her from the rest of Mason's morgue record.

A shared residence? or something more?

Regardless, she figured that meant any future search of the flat would be useless. Too bad. At least she hadn't gone there first, to be caught mid-search by this Ramsey.

There was a café on the corner, and Gwen sat down with a bottle of water and a health magazine in a corner of sun very nearly on the curb of an intersection fifty meters southeast of the two-story flat building. Painted dark blue, the second-story balconies fringed with flower-boxes. Picturesque.

The scout she was deliberately not thinking about since she'd departed Camelot had a point about the student look he preferred. The backpack ostensibly for educational paraphernalia could also hold useful things like a pair of binocs – she could've gone to the roof for cover and found an angle to watch Ramsey through the window of Mason's flat.

Next time. Heh. Not much room for more than some cash, in the skin-hugging active-wear outfit.

Ramsey remained inside the blue-painted flat building for over an hour, as the sunlight left the street-corner to retreat up the walls of the shoulder-to-shoulder structures.

Long enough for Gwen to walk the block – jog the block – and shop in a distracted way for a change of clothes, a bag to put her exercise-wear in, and a garishly-colored pair of tourist binocs for zooming in on details of famous landmark architecture. Long enough for the café attendants to switch shifts before she bought a massive oatmeal-raisin muffin, another bottle of water, and a newspaper. She chose a different seat with her back to the blue building, where the shiny Café Gateau would adequately reflect the comings and goings across the street behind her.

Maybe there was a back exit. Maybe she hadn't been as subtle as she thought. Maybe he'd spotted her from a window – maybe he was long gone and she had no other leads so maybe she should try the flat anyway but maybe he was still there because maybe it was a shared residence in which case she was really curious about getting a look inside…

"Pardonez-moi? Voulez-vous un autre verre? Ou autre chose?" The attendant was a girl of about twenty with thick curly brown hair in a ribbon and the legs of a tennis player under the skirt of her casual uniform.

Bored maybe because the café had no other patrons at the moment? But it would be dinner soon…

"Non, merci," Gwen replied in French like a native, "nothing else for me… Actually-" she tapped the newspaper's advertisement page- "Do you reside in the area? I want to look at un appartement on this block, and I am curious about the neighborhood…"

"Je suis desole, mais non…" The girl didn't live in this arrondissement, she was only taking this shift at the café as a favor to her uncle who was the owner, and non, she wasn't a regular attendant here…

Gwen sighed, and managed a smile. Merci, anyway.

And then Ramsey emerged from the blue building's front door, barely glancing the street before turning to stride the opposite direction.

He'd changed clothes, too. Modern tailored three-piece. An air of distraction.

"Excusez-moi – I have an appointment," Gwen told the girl, grabbing up the paper and the bottled water and her new bag so fast the flimsy café furniture wobbled.

"Bonsoir," the girl offered agreeably, reaching to steady and straighten the chair – and forgetting all about Gwen before she'd even passed the blue building, following Ramsey.

He didn't walk like he was worried he might be followed. He walked like a man on a mission…

She came out on the Rue de Guet-apens to glimpse Ramsey lingering at a glass-walled trolley stop, checking his timekeeper – impatient, expectant. Turning her back on him, she lengthened her stride down that block and the next, heart pounding til she saw the trolley approaching – and made the stop prior to Ramsey's sweaty and breathless, a half-second after the driver had begun to pull away from the curb.

"Vous etes presse," the driver noted her hurry in a dry tone.

"Oui, merci," she admitted, with a sheepish grin.

Making her way down the aisle even as they trundled along toward the next stop – and Ramsey – she chose a seat in the crowded back, behind a lady who weighed twice as much as she did, who shifted a student's backpack out of Gwen's foot-space.

"Alors, I intend to purchase one like that," Gwen said to her. "There is space for so many things…"

"C'est vrai," the woman agreed enthusiastically, and they chatted like old friends about the features of various types of handbags and shoulder-bags.

And Ramsey, when he boarded, didn't so much as glance in their direction.

Gwen noted where he disembarked, and excused herself from her acquaintance to leave the trolley at the following stop.

Hop over the curb, skip across the street, jump out of the way of an inattentive turf-bike-riding tourist, and she fell in thirty paces behind Ramsey again. Past sunset, so she had to move closer to keep him in sight, but it was that much more unlikely that he would mark her… until the streetlights were lit.

She was aware enough of the arrondissement they moved through for instincts to prick when she followed Ramsey onto the Rue d'Argent.

The reason why she was in Paris at all. The information she needed from Jack Mason that wouldn't have been in a report. Because she was following the money trail for Tosoldat… and there were a handful of potential financiers residing in Paris.

One on the Rue d'Argent. Jean-Michel Bonheur… or, John Michael Bonner, in some circles.

Without her research to double-check, she didn't remember the house number off the top of her head, but there was an extensive park in this arrondissement, around which were arranged the estates of several families who were historically involved in Paris banking. And for Ramsey to leave the trolley line where he had, she could guess within three of those estates, which one he was headed for.

Without waiting to visually confirm, Gwen chose to enter one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street, three- and four-stories, each of which was structured as a family home.

Frosted-glass door, hydraulic hinges, only four brass-plated locked mailboxes. Lift serving the private halls of each floor's home, and a narrow, steep back stair to the roof.

Gwen approached the front parapet carefully. Retrieving the binocs from her new bag and leaving it leaning against a crumbling brick chimney, she maneuvered into position – checking the locations and angles of street-lights – and trained the binocs over the privacy walls of the maisons circling the central park across the street.

There he was. Modern tailored three-piece, stepping up to the front veranda and being met by another, similarly dressed, who moved like he carried a weapon under his arm, inside his jacket.

Gwen settled herself, tweaked the binoc's focus-wheel, and watched the stranger usher Ramsey into the house.

"John-Michael Bonner," she murmured to herself, taking the time to study the structure as much as possible. Exterior lights, interior lights, and it would all look and feel different in daytime. Fruit trees and flowering shrubs and invisible security… "What did you have against Mason? Why would you-"

Movement in the second-story window facing the front. Eight-by-four feet glass panels, probably bullet-proof, framed by flimsy-gauzy drapes of wine-purple.

Ramsey, meeting yet another man – this one was shorter than him, close-trimmed gray hair, waist-span greater than the breadth of his shoulders. Himself wearing a silk at-home jacket and carrying a cigar and a lowball glass, half-full of light amber liquid.

"Mm," Gwen hummed to herself. "John-Michael, nice to meet you."

They lingered by the window, body language relaxed but serious and focused.

Gwen clicked the focus-wheel again, and as an unseen third handed Ramsey a lowball glass to match his host's, concentrated on the movement of their lips.

Camelot, was enough for her. They spoke of scouts and information and plans, without giving details she could find relevant at the moment, and she allowed the rest of her mind to consider possible avenues of ingress. Maybe she couldn't expect to find anything at Mason's flat, but here

Oh. Armin Rynok – the shape of that name was rather distinctive. Tosoldat. Was he here? The Isyad was mostly dismantled, save for a few international contacts that she and scouts like Mason were tasked with scooping up, but Tosoldat was a major player, and with uninterrupted funding assistance from someone like Jean-Michel Bonheur… the root of the weed could grow into something quite unpleasant again.

She settled in to spend the night on the rooftop, watching to see if anyone else came or left. She already had a change of clothes for the next day; this information wasn't going to be enough to necessitate checking in with Camelot headquarters, but if she could locate any other scouts within a day or so of Paris, this was definitely a nut they needed to crack.

Hey, how 'bout a drink for the girl on the roof across the street?...

Dawn found Gwen stiff and cranky, trying to settle into a wrought-iron café chair two blocks from Bonheur the financier's maison in the direction of Mason's flat. So much for fresh makeup and a chance to fix her hair – she wasn't at all inclined to return to her hotel, probably at all today.

If Gaius still occupied the Director's seat of Camelot's Pysch Ops, she'd find a public comm-block and report what she'd discovered about the funding of Tosoldat's operation. As it was, however, there was too much unsubstantiated conjecture for someone like JD – or rather, Director-in-Chief Gregory, as he was now.

"Business before breakfast?" the café attendant said to her, faint amused disapproval on a lined face under a widow's peak accentuated by receding hairlines. He set her newspaper at an angle convenient to the place with a generously-sized croissant, two tiny packets of apricot jelly, and a thick mug of steaming chocolate.

"Oui," Gwen responded wryly, "Quelquefois…"

Sometimes it was necessary. Even when one was in Paris.

It was a habit to turn to the personals almost immediately, in case there was any communications between scouts to note, there – but today she needed to know if anyone was in the city. Then she had potential back-up for a foray into Jean-Michel Bonheur's maison. Absently she scanned the columns until one caught her eye.

In French it didn't mean much. An offer for any interested party to join a discussion group of an author no one in their right mind would meet to discuss – a middle-aged man who'd written an exhaustive dissertation on the biological qualities of the soldier-ant.

She'd never read it, but she'd seen a copy, once. In Director Gaius' office, being put to use balancing the short leg of an ancient side table unsteady under the weight of other reports and files. It was distinctive.

It was a common, almost clumsy, almost novice request for any scout of Camelot to present themselves at the requested time and place – ostensibly someone's flat an hour past dinnertime, though that was coded as well. Anyone who might possibly arrive at the written time and place might find that the flat number was erroneous – this building only goes to four floors, not five, or something similar. An unfortunate typographical error.

But.

That instinct, that kept her distant from the drop Mason had visited before his murder.

And the oddity of a novice being allowed to word a message – to be abroad on a mission – without the sort of supervision that would result in a more sophisticated advertisement…

And the question of how, exactly, Bonheur and Ramsey had gotten to Mason at the fountain-drop detailed in the newspaper.

Well, damn. Gwen picked up her mug of chocolate and blew lightly across the aromatic liquid before taking a calm sip. Ramsey and Bonheur would have to wait another day; it would take some time for her to get back to her hotel, change, and arm herself.

She had to make sure no one else came to this appointment.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

A drop of sweat rolled down Merlin's spine beneath t-shirt and uniform jacket, both. He didn't dare shrug or twitch to make the material of his clothing absorb it; this early-morning formation was the whole company, four squads worth of soldiers, addressed by the Major himself.

Orders. An extended mission, north to Janada - the big international-nondenominational charity hospital was being evacuated due to a credible threat made by the Isyad

Thought they were about finished, after Urhavi. Thought they'd target Camp David and Camelot's military, not… civilians. Injured civilians at a charity hospital. Thought they'd target…

Full gear. Departure in five. Go.

If Merlin's gift had worked differently, he might have seen the cursing issuing from his squad, his tentmates, sweating and scrambling to pack their kits and report back to the loading area, in actual color.

Colorful language.

Merlin only sighed and stuffed his ruck, and trailed along. No time for a comm-block connection to anyone back home, either. Morning, Mum, I'll be out of contact for a while…

"Hey. What do you think of this mission?" Freya fell into step beside him, soft-cap over her brows, chocolate curls springy under her earlobes, bent forward under the heavy rucksack she gripped by the straps at her shoulders.

"Very little," he said honestly. "I'm new at this, but everyone says, how the higher up a decision is made, the less sense it makes."

Her grin was unexpected and refreshing. "True – though in this case, at least evacuating a hospital will be doing something good – and productive. For once."

"Rather than exposing ourselves to determine if there is actually a threat, any given day." Gwaine was waiting for them at the next juncture.

"How's your arm?" Freya said to him.

"Not bad enough to keep me here," Gwaine said, his mouth twisting. He fell in at Merlin's other side – or they fell in beside him, maybe.

And he said nothing further, and it made the little hairs all stuck together with sweat behind the band of Merlin's soft-cap crawl. No humor, no long line of amusing nonsense punctuated by practicality.

Since when did the Isyad give warning of their intentions before an attack?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The place Arthur had chosen to ambush whoever came as the result of his ad in the paper – keeping in mind the possibility of fellow scouts responding also – was an old flat building on the bank of the lower Seine. It had been mired in slow-moving renovations by a careless and absentee owner for years, tenants few and fleeting and a landlord only too happy to accept any amount for a temporary stay, no questions asked. No ID required.

Arthur opted for the top-floor suite. The room was shabby and shameful, smelling of cats and sour milk, every footfall cushioned by stained and matted carpeting of an indeterminate shade of beige, even in kitchen and bathroom. Old, mismatched furniture with scarred limbs and sagging upholstery, and watery pastel prints in plain frames on smudged walls.

Bare mattress with no linens or pillows, but he'd slept in worse places. And a scout learned to take advantage of things like time and opportunity. He familiarized himself with the floor-plan, made a few renovations of his own, then raided the kitchen for any non-perishables he could make a meal of. Stale boxed crackers and canned tunafish, before catching up on his week of nights spent under trees and in barn-lofts, between Calais and Paris.

He spent most of the next day out-of-doors, absorbing details of the neighborhood that might become meaningful for contingencies.

An hour before the set meeting time – and playing the part of an anxious rookie - he nudged the curtains open a few inches, and kept lights on in the hall and bathroom as he moved from window to window, broadcasting impatience and restlessness.

They'd do a little recon, whether enemy or experienced scout, see him hovering through these front windows, and approach more cautiously from the side. From the back was impossible, since there was only a narrow ledge to separate the brick of the building from the steep concrete bank of the dirty river, nearly a hundred meters wide at that point. The nearest bridge was more than twice that distance.

The flat was one of two on the top floor, windows to three sides and the stairs coming up between the two halves of the building, wide and sturdy enough for movers, too bare for even a single echo to hide. If it were him coming at a rookie in this place, he'd saunter past on the street, affecting disinterest and taking in details with a few glances. He'd study the back for a few moments from the opposite side, enter there unseen, and do his best to reach the third floor soundlessly.

Arthur moved from the side window to the front window, watching every angle of the street in his projected restlessness. How many, was the most important question. And, if any of his own fellows might get caught up in tonight's doings… He mentally listed every person that had passed in the last hour, calculating possibilities.

Five minutes past meeting time.

He left the obvious windows and knelt in the corner of the room, three meters from the front door. Shifting the battered end-table, he inserted the stem of the scope he'd carried in his rucksack from Camelot into the hole he'd ripped and drilled in the floor. The round glass eye nestled right up to the nailhead-sized hole in the ceiling of the stairwell below him and he only had to adjust his angle slightly. Catch the turn of the stairs from the first-floor to the second, then up to his level.

And maybe they'd wait to see if he gave up and walked away, or if others joined him in the trap – he hoped not – but they couldn't know if he'd wait several hours, or even several days…

Elbows and hips-to-toes on the floor - and stillness throughout the building otherwise - meant he felt the ground-floor door open… and shut, even on the opposite side of the building. Three of them, maybe, judging by the delay…

He tensed to see them come into view – dark jeans, charcoal-gray cargo pants, dark t-shirts, dark canvas jackets. Ordinary on the street but in a tight trio formation with Seize-9s at the ready… not so ordinary. Black boots all uniform, expressions beneath shaggy dark hair – curly brown – scalp-tight black, intent and deadly.

So, who were they?

Arthur watched them mount the stairs two at a time with careful steps, pistols leading alertly, and the third turned to cover behind them. Briefly studied how they moved individually, and together…

Pulling back, he snapped the scope shut, shifted the end-table back into place with the leg covering the drilled hole, then pushed himself up silently from the floor. Tuck the scope away, pull out the new Salvage-Sour from behind his belt. Step around the places where the floor creaked, and position himself in the corner where the kitchen flanked the stair and the short hall ended at the flat's front door.

Just beyond those cabinets, the three of them would be creeping, positioning, signaling their readiness to each other-

Briefly he wished he had Merlin there to point their exact location through the wall-

Knuckles on the front door, and an indistinct voice. Hey buddy, fellow scout answering your ad…

Arthur didn't bother looking through the peephole – making himself vulnerable in front of the door. "Oi," he said, mumbling and slurring on purpose. "Check password – sinkhole-jackass-cumingetit."

Momentary pause. The answer was just as unclear. "Can't understand – door – open, and… password."

Not bad. Instead of trying to pretend to a code they didn't know, or didn't have, or couldn't get – which did answer some questions, actually – they acted suspicious of him to get him to crack the door and prove his credentials.

"Yeah, all right," he responded. Bracing himself and lifting-aiming the Salvage-Sour, he reached to rattle the loose chain-lock like he was disengaging it, or trying to engage it before cracking the door open.

The first man acted immediately – doorknob already turned in his hand, he burst through, leading with his shoulder and his Seize-9.

Arthur lunged at his wrist to knock his weapon aside, putting two rounds into center of mass and letting momentum carry them both toward the floor – clearing the second man, who didn't track his abrupt movement as quickly as Arthur's Salvage-Sour found him.

Two more quick shots to take him down - ignoring an enemy round tugging maliciously at the corner of his sleeve – and the belated round the curly-haired man loosed in the stairwell ceiling as he fell.

Braced on his off shoulder on the floor inside the flat put his face nearly level with the third man on the stair – startled but recovering – and Arthur squeezed off a fifth round into the meat of his dominant shoulder.

With a grunt he went down, disappearing below the level of the top stair, but Arthur was already up and two running steps meant third-guy couldn't duck behind the waist-height hand-rail bisecting the landing. He tried, though, going for his dropped weapon with his off-hand-

"Ah-ah-ah," Arthur warned, catching the man's attention up from the concrete, hand still half-a-meter from the Seize-9. "Parlez-vous francais? I assume yes, since you operate in Paris. Lace your fingers behind your head, and get your ass up here."

The man considered – Arthur's resolve, the possibility of back-up arriving, the potential involved in temporary acquiescence – and obeyed. His right elbow wavered, and Arthur could see blood on the shoulder of his jacket, but not enough to worry about.

"I was expecting you," Arthur said conversationally. "I even took the liberty of pulling up a chair. Strap yourself in."

Third-guy did so, slowly and warily, but if Arthur could anticipate any move bidding for freedom, he could also dissuade said moves eloquently with his Salvage-Sour. Keep enough distance, til the man had incapacitated himself, then tug the plastic ties a little tighter. They could be broken, but not without obvious effort and a few seconds of time. Fired rounds were definitely faster.

"You should just let me go - you don't know who you're dealing with," the man said, around an accent that wasn't quite French and wasn't quite Aravian.

"Oh!" Arthur said brightly. "You're absolutely right. But I was so looking forward to finding out..."

Transferring his weapon to his left hand, he picked up the battery-operated drill and tested the motor with his forefinger on the trigger. Three-mil titanium twist bit, all shiny and new. Or second-hand, whatever.

The man's eyes widened, just fractionally, but enough for Arthur to know he was dealing with someone who would talk.

Eventually.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I meant to take July as Camp Nano and finish my story from November '22 b/c I believed I had figured out how to untie a major plot-knot… Didn't happen. Still working on that original. But I managed this, and if it doesn't feel rushed or piecemeal, you're being generous – although, you do get it now rather than after I've had more time to edit and smooth and polish. This Paris plot thingy just keeps growing