“You’ll never walk out of here with that thumb drive alive,” said Monsieur Giroux. He sat back on the divan, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand. His unbuttoned collar and tousled hair made him seem utterly at ease. The only evidence he’d just been in a fight were his bleeding knuckles and the smashed glass that was once an exquisite coffee table. Artemis had thrown him through it only moments ago.
“Sit,” said M. Giroux. “Catch your breath.” In his other hand, he held a gun, its muzzle lazily trained on Artemis. The sight bobbed and wavered as he took a sip from his glass. “You’re welcome to hold that until my other bodyguards get here, but perhaps you’d like to join me for a drink instead. It’s much more pleasant, don’t you think?”
Artemis didn’t sit. Her own gun lay by the door, kicked there during the brawl. Beside it lay the heaping bulk of Giroux’s right-hand man, Stéphane. It had taken three solid blows to knock the massive man out, but her last hit ensured he’d be sleeping this one off for a long while.
Music drifted up from the busy Parisian café below them. It was the lunch rush. The din of conversation, a bustling kitchen, and clinking silverware probably weren’t enough to have covered the noises of the scuffle on their own. Artemis had tapped into the audio system this morning, gradually increasing the volume of the piped-in music — not enough to be a hindrance to conversation, but at just the level to make customers raise their voices to chat, adding to the noise. So the customers hadn’t heard them, but surely Giroux’s other bodyguards had? The ones who guarded the employee entrance on the street?
She watched the cocky grin slide from the criminal’s lips as realization dawned on him. “Where are they?” he asked. His voice was slurred. The muzzle dipped. Giroux tried pushing himself to standing but slumped back onto the divan. Bourbon sloshed over the edge of the glass; he hissed as it hit his bleeding knuckles. “What did you do?”
“To you, or your bodyguards?”
“Both.” His eyes slipped closed for a moment, then snapped open. “Tell me.”
“I lined your barware with a sleeping draught while I waited for the data to transfer. So much more efficient than watching a status bar fill. Your downstairs guards are in another arrondissement by now.”
“They wouldn’t leave me.”
“You’re the one who told them to go.” Giroux didn’t need to know more than that. Later, his team would swear it was Giroux himself who stormed out of the building and demanded they escort him to a spur-of-the-moment meeting with one of their financial backers.
The fine details were all part of an operation Alert Status 1 had been planning for months. So far, it had gone off with only minor hitches. All that was left to do was for Artemis to take the thumb drive and make a getaway. She just needed Giroux to fall asleep; she wanted to be sure he wouldn’t lurch to a phone and call for additional backup before she was out the door.
He made a soft, angry sound in his throat, then his eyes slipped closed. His gun hand dropped to his side. The bourbon glass slipped from his other, shattering on the floor.
Artemis slipped the thumb drive into her pocket, retrieved her own gun, and headed for the street.
The driver wasn’t there.
The narrow street was packed with springtime tourists enjoying the pleasant afternoon, and busy Parisians on their way back to their offices or slipping out for a late lunch. Carrying out a plan in broad daylight was less than ideal, but Giroux was notoriously hard to pin down. AS1 had to take their opportunities where they could find them, and his apartment above the café was the easiest of his many safehouses and bolt holes to gain access to. But the longer she stuck around, the more likely his B-team would show up. The agency wanted to get in and out quickly and quietly. The sooner the drive was out of her hands and safely in the Defense Research division’s possession, the better.
She couldn’t reach out to command. Giroux had set off some sort of device while she was fighting with Stéphane, and it fried her comms. She’d been hoping the signal loss was only temporary, but as far as Artemis could tell she was completely offline. “In case I’m transmitting but not receiving,” she muttered, “where the hell is my ride?”
As if in response, an engine revved up the street. Its roar echoed off the stone façades of the quaint buildings surrounding her. Artemis spotted it with a glance: a sleek little roadster, bright red and not at all subtle. But it was the very model the enthusiastic Defense Research agent had driven her around in a few days ago, proudly showing off all the bells and whistles their department had added. People might be looking at it now, but that was a good thing — they’d be watching the car rather than the person who got in it, and once Artemis and her driver were underway, giving surveillance the slip was the matter of a simple button push.
She stepped out into the street, reaching for the passenger side door as the car drew even with the café. For a moment, she thought the roadster was going to breeze right past, but the driver spotted her and jerked the car to a halt.
“Let’s go,” said Artemis, as she folded herself into the seat. “I lost comms twenty minutes ago, so if there’s anything I should know you’ll have to catch me up.”
This mission was a joint operation between AS1 and French Intelligence. Artemis hadn’t met her companion before, but the DGSE — France’s equivalent to the CIA or MI6 — had promised an expert wheelwoman, familiar with Paris’ streets and shortcuts in a way Artemis’ U.S.-based cell members weren’t. The driver, an Afro-French woman, had her hair in box braids that were pulled into a half ponytail. She wore a behind-the-ear hearing aid, its body the same cherry red as the car, and a pair of vintage sunglasses that made her look like she’d stepped right off a movie set.
She gave Artemis a once-over at the same time, lifting her sunglasses and cataloguing the torn sleeve of her suit jacket, the gash in her arm beneath, her overgrown pixie cut, and her split lip. Her gaze flicked, briefly, to the spot where Artemis’ gun nestled in its shoulder holster. “Buckle in,” she said. “I’m Claire.”
“Artemis. You want to let HQ know the mission’s accomplished?”
“Can’t. I lost comms, too. We need to get moving.” The seatbelt had barely clicked before Claire pulled away with another roar of the engine.
Artemis frowned. Had Giroux’s device had a wider range, or had it alerted someone else in his circle, who’d kicked off a more widescale blackout? Had he been tipped off somehow? He’d returned to his office earlier than they’d anticipated, but that also fit with his penchant for paranoia. It’s why she’d drugged the bourbon glasses.
Do we have a mole?
It was a question for later, for Intelligence Analysis to tackle, not for Artemis to go chasing after mid-mission. In the field, you had to be nimble, to know when to stick to the mission and when to go off-book. Right now, her part of the mission was complete, except for the last step: getting to the rendezvous point. Extra vigilance was crucial, but it wasn’t time to panic and scrap the plan just yet. “Let’s go.”
Buildings blurred as Claire hit the gas. Artemis resisted the urge to grab the armrest. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle a little speed. High-speed chases were part of the job. She was well-versed in how to shoot a gun while moving 90 miles an hour and had practiced hand-to-hand combat on everything from a speedboat to a bullet train to a jet. Still, it took a moment to get used to someone else’s driving habits: how hard they braked, how tightly they took turns. And some trick of the narrow streets made it feel like they were going faster than they were.
While she acclimated, she glanced at the switch-covered console. Defense Research had installed a dozen modes that went above and beyond what your average flashy roadster could do: settings like hairpin and ice provided extra grip on dangerous surfaces or oil slick and smoke screen to throw off pursuers. There were more, and several that worked in combination with one another, but the one she was looking for was smack in the middle, neatly labeled: Refract.
“What do you think?” she asked Claire. “Time to go invis?”
Claire’s eyes didn’t leave the road. She shifted into a higher gear. “Do it.”
The metal switch made a satisfying clack! as she flipped it. A ripple shivered over the windshield, and a slight electric hum joined the engine’s purr. Artemis had seen the effect from the outside during the demo. The tech had rambled on about negative refractive indices and bending light and metamaterials, but it all boiled down to the same end result: They were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Bystanders would see nothing beyond a faint shimmer as they passed, and Claire was moving too quickly for anyone to register much more than that.
“That should get us to the rendezvous point without any fuss,” Artemis said.
“Yeah.” Claire sounded noncommital, intent on the road. It made sense; if no one could see them, drivers were likely to turn in front of them, thinking the way was clear. Pedestrians would cross at a stroll, not knowing several tons of iron was barreling toward them. “How’s that arm? There’s disinfectant and bandages in the glove compartment, if you need them.”
Or maybe she was concerned about Artemis getting blood on her Italian leather seats.
“It’s a scratch, really.” She dug out the first aid kit all the same and tore open an alcohol pad with her teeth. “I think the bleeding’s mostly st—” she hissed as the cut stung. When it receded a little, she chuckled. “Okay, more than a scratch, less than a gash.”
“Who gave it to you? Stéphane? Or one of the others?”
“Yeah. The big guy. He had a knife until I kicked it out of his hand. Then he put a couple holes in the wall when he swung at me. I’m lucky he only split my lip.” She glanced at her sleeve. “And wrecked my favorite jacket.”
Claire grinned. “It looks nice on you. A good tailor can fix it.”
“You know one?”
“Of course.”
“If only I was going to be in town a little longer, I’d ask for an introduction.”
“Ah, well,” said Claire. She seemed to be on the cusp of more, but the comment died on her lips as she glanced in the rearview. “We seem to have a tail.”
“What? How?” Artemis glanced back and watched as a car a few lengths back matched their speed. Claire cut down a side street. It followed. Two more times, then three. “But they can’t see us. How did they even find us?” That car hadn’t been nearby when Claire picked her up.
“Some kind of infrared, maybe. Or tracking the engine’s sound rather than the light. Or... could you have been tagged?”
“I don’t think so.” Artemis replayed the fight with Stéphane and Giroux in her head but couldn’t recall any moments where it seemed likely. Still, she patted her collar and shoulders, and anywhere they’d made contact. Nothing. “It’s gotta be the car.”
Claire grunted. “All right. Let’s see if we can shake them. We’re going to have to go visible again. I’d rather people be able to see us coming and get out of the way.” Claire switched off the refraction filter. People on the sidewalk did double takes as the roadster rippled into view.
Street after street, the other car remained stubbornly behind them. “Whoever this is, they’re good.” She reached over and gave Artemis’ seatbelt an experimental tug, making sure it was still buckled tight. “But not as good as me.” She flipped a few more switches. The sudden acceleration shoved Artemis back into the seat. Behind them, a wall of thick gray smoke billowed up.
Artemis rolled down her window, ready to lean out and shoot anyone who appeared from the cloud. But their pursuers didn’t burst through. They weren’t waiting at the next intersection, or the next. Artemis almost let herself hope they’d lost them.
Then the man in a business suit stepped out into the street. His briefcase fell open, spilling papers everywhere. He grabbed for something inside as he turned toward them. When his arm came up, he was leveling a goddamned hand cannon.
There was no room to swerve around him, not without killing a gaggle of pedestrians. Claire swore as she stomped on the brakes. The car screamed to a halt, inches from hitting him. The air grew thick with the acrid smell of burnt rubber.
The man kept his gun trained on Claire. “Shut off the engine and get out. Hands where I can see them.”
Claire seemed to be on the verge of doing as he asked, but Artemis was damned if she was going to let the enemy get their hands on the car, the thumb drive, or most importantly, Claire. My mission, my responsibility. She pitched her voice low, her lips barely moving, knowing Claire’s hearing aid would pick up her words. Her hands were — as the gunman requested — up in the air. Slowly, she let her right hand drift toward the open window. “Trust me?”
Claire nodded, just the tiniest fraction.
“When I hit three, gun it. One. Two.” Artemis thrust her arm outside the car, keeping her fingers and palm flat. She made a swift slicing motion in the gunman’s direction, feeling the air currents coalesce around her hand before they rocketed toward him. “Three!”
The man swore as a cut opened on his cheek. The gun’s muzzle wavered as he scanned the area to see where the slice had come from. Claire hit the gas and spun the wheel, slewing the car around him. Artemis could see each individual pinstripe on his suit as they passed. She let out a whoop as they left him behind.
Claire cheered with her, but her triumph didn’t last long. “Keep your eyes peeled. They’re not going to give up so easily.”
Artemis nodded. She patted herself down again, but still found no trackers. Then it came to her. “Oh, shit. I think I know how they’re finding us. There’s a beacon in the car.” She hated saying it, because it meant her suspicions about a mole somewhere in AS1 or French Intelligence had to be right. The signal was encrypted, which was why she hadn’t even considered it earlier. But if someone on the inside had the key...
Claire cursed. “Normally I’d say we should ditch it and find another ride, but that risks it falling into the wrong hands.”
“It’s all right,” said Artemis, even though her stomach felt like lead. “I’ve got this.” She pulled out her phone. The comms were fried, and she had no signal, but her apps still worked. It only took a moment of rooting around under the dash to find the beacon. Its red light pulsed slowly, indicating it was working. She selected an app, pointed her phone’s camera at the beacon’s plastic housing, and pushed GO. The red light burned brighter for a second, then came a tiny pop! and it winked out.
“I’m going to declare our rendezvous point burned,” she said. “I can’t trust it. We ought to get the hell out of the city entirely.”
“You got it,” said Claire. She looked strangely relieved. Maybe she’s been wondering about a mole herself. “Where to?”
***
Artemis didn’t relax until they were well outside the city. She’d re-engaged the refraction filter just in case, but the road behind them remained clear. No more surprises. The silence between them stretched, until she couldn’t stand it anymore. “I know this is probably politically... snarly,” she said. “But do you trust your people in the DGSE?”
Claire blinked, startled. “Do I trust the... Oh.”
For a moment, Artemis thought the wheelwoman was about to cry, but then she realized her scrunched-up face wasn’t because she was holding back a sob.
She was trying not to laugh.
She lost the battle and pulled over to the side of the road. Once the car stopped, she burst out with it: big, shoulder-shaking guffaws. It was a great laugh, if Artemis was being honest, but she couldn’t join in because she had no idea what was so funny. Until the cold dread of revelation crept over her. “You’re not DGSE at all, are you?”
Claire sobered up. She was still smiling, but it was kind, not cruel. “No, I’m not.”
Who else would have the skill, the connections, and the audacity to pull this off? And, if she were honest, the style? “You’re with Les Fantômes.”
The other woman beamed. “Oui.”
“But... you were right where my driver was supposed to be. When they were supposed to be there.”
“Let’s just say we have a mutual interest in Lucas Giroux. I wanted to see what his security was like. Then you stepped out in front of me and just... got in. To the car I’d stolen from a DGSE garage not ten minutes before. I had to play along.”
“So, when you said you’d lost comms, too...”
“I improvised.”
“You lied.”
“Eh.” Claire sighed. “Fine. I lied. But for a good reason. And I’m not out to hurt you or your mission, so I’m going to ask that you don’t hurt mine.” Either she didn’t believe Artemis could hurt her, or she didn’t believe she would. “I’ll return the car to DGSE when my job’s finished. If we’re lucky, I’ll have Monsieur Giroux trussed up in the boot, and they can take the credit. All you need to do is let me drive away.”
Her higher-ups would probably chew her out for letting such a valuable piece of equipment go, but truthfully, they were the ones that lost it first. She’d be tangled up in paperwork and debriefings for a week, but... She’d heard of Les Fantômes’ work. They frustrated the authorities, but they had a reputation for doing good work even as they broke the law. If they were after Lucas Giroux, too, was that such a bad thing? Artemis touched her split lip. “I’m going to tell the bosses you gave me this. And when I get to a phone, I’m going to have to tell them which direction you headed in.”
“That’s fair.” Claire waited as she got out of the car. “The next town’s about an hour’s walk that way. I’m sure you’ll be able to flag down a ride well before then. Oh, and here.” She produced a matte black business card. M. Beaumont, Couturier, it read. “My tailor. If you tear another sleeve, look him up. Tell him you knocked out Stéphane Dupont. He’ll give you a discount.”
“Will he tell me how to contact you?” She didn’t know she was going to ask it, but as the question came out, she realized she wanted to see Claire again.
“No.” Artemis’ face must have fallen. Claire smiled. “But he’ll tell me how to find you. Good luck, my friend.” She put the car in gear and turned around. As she drove off, the light around the roadster shimmered, and it disappeared from sight.
Artemis grinned and tucked the card into her pocket, next to the thumb drive. She set off in the opposite direction, keeping her eyes on the horizon in hopes of a ride.
