Chapter 35 We’re Here, Bud. Wake Up
She tilted her head, noticing the matching blue outfits. “I can see you and Pete are matching.”
Andrew’s grin widened. “Thank you.”
“But Pete rocks it way better than you,” she teased, one brow arching.
“Ohhh.” Andrew laughed low in his throat. “I didn’t know it was a competition.”
“Oh, it is.” Amelia stepped closer, playful challenge in her eyes.
Andrew raised both hands in mock surrender, palms up. “Alright. I give up.”
He glanced at the luggage, then back at them. “Alright— are we all set?”
“Looks so,” Amelia answered, smoothing one hand down the front of her dress.
“What about the car that’ll take us to the airport?” she asked.
“A van is ready outside. Driver’s waiting.” Andrew bent at the waist, gathering two of the largest suitcases— one in each hand. “Alright, let’s go.”
Amelia reached for the last small bag. Pete skipped ahead, Darth Vader held high like a torch.
They moved into the hallway— long, cream-walled, recessed lighting soft overhead. Andrew led, suitcases rolling smoothly behind him. Pete bounced between them, sneakers squeaking. Amelia followed, heels clicking a steady counterpoint.
The elevator doors slid open at their approach— polished brass, mirrored interior. They stepped in. Andrew pressed Ground. Doors closed with a hushed sigh. The descent was smooth, silent except for Pete humming the Imperial March under his breath.
At the lobby— marble floors gleaming, fresh lilies on the reception desk— they crossed to the front counter. Andrew set the bags down, pulled out his phone, showed the digital checkout code. The concierge smiled, tapped a few keys, handed back a printed receipt.
“Thank you for staying with us, Mr. Lock. Safe travels.”
Andrew nodded once. “Appreciate it.”
They pushed through the glass doors into the parking area. A sleek black Mercedes van waited, engine idling, driver leaning casually against the hood— mid-forties, dark uniform, arms folded, sunglasses hooked in his shirt collar.
Andrew approached first. “You’re our ride to Paris Charles de Gaulle?”
The driver straightened immediately, smile professional. “Yes. You must be Mr. Lock.” He pushed off the van, reaching for the bags. “I’ve been waiting.”
“Yes, I am. Sorry for the delay.” Andrew handed over the two suitcases he carried. “Thank you.”
The driver took them easily, popped the trunk. Andrew turned to Amelia, gently lifted the small bag from her shoulder, carried it to the back himself. Bags slotted in with soft thuds; trunk closed with a solid click.
Andrew opened the sliding door. “In you go, champ.”
Pete scrambled up, Darth Vader still clutched tight, claimed the middle seat. Amelia followed, smoothing her dress as she settled beside him. Andrew slid in last, long legs folding carefully. Door shut.
The driver settled behind the wheel, adjusted the mirror. “Charles de Gaulle, direct?”
“Direct,” Andrew confirmed.
The van eased out of the lot, tires whispering over cobblestones, then smoother asphalt. Paris unfolded around them— narrow streets widening into boulevards, Haussmann facades gleaming in morning light, the Seine flashing silver to their left.
Pete pressed his nose to the tinted window. “Dad, will we see the Eiffel Tower from the plane?”
“Maybe if we get the right side,” Andrew answered, ruffling his hair.
Amelia leaned across Pete, caught Andrew’s eye over the boy’s head. She smiled— small, private, full of promise.
Andrew reached over, brushed his thumb along the back of her hand where it rested on Pete’s knee.
“Ready to go home?” he asked quietly.
Amelia’s fingers curled around his. “With you two? Always.”
The van merged onto the périphérique, speed climbing. Paris slipped behind them— rooftops, spires, the last glimpse of the city they’d claimed for a handful of days. Ahead: the airport, the first-class lounge, wide leather seats on the long flight back across the Atlantic, and whatever waited on the other side.
Pete bounced once in his seat, lightsaber flashing. “This is best trip ever!”
Andrew chuckled. “You can say that again, kid.”
Amelia laughed softly, head resting briefly on Andrew’s shoulder.
The city faded in the rearview mirror. The road ahead stretched wide and clear.
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'MOMENTS LATER'
The black Mercedes Sprinter van eased off the périphérique and swung into the sprawling parking lot of Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport at exactly 10:17 a.m. Sunlight bounced off wet asphalt from an earlier shower, turning puddles into silver mirrors. Travelers streamed in every direction— suitcases rattling, voices overlapping in French, English, Arabic, Mandarin— while airport shuttles hissed past and distant jet engines rumbled like continuous thunder.
The driver pulled into a reserved drop-off zone near Terminal 2E, brakes sighing softly as the van settled. He killed the engine with a decisive twist of the key. Silence fell inside, broken only by Pete’s soft, even breathing.
Andrew leaned down, large hand gentle on his son’s narrow shoulder. “We’re here, bud. Wake up.”