Chapter 34 Eleanor's POV
This picture was more than a picture. It was a verdict. A death sentence in pixels.
We see you.
Those three words shattered the stillness of the apartment. The hum of computers, the muffled street noise—gone. All I heard was my own heartbeat, loud and frantic.
Ollie moved first. He crossed the room in two strides and yanked the blinds shut with a loud rattle. The room plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the glow of three monitors.
“Out. Now,” he said, voice low and urgent. He stuffed the new laptops into a backpack with quiet efficiency. “They’re not just sending a message. They’re assembling a team. That photo is timestamped. We’ve been here over a day.”
Leblanc looked up from his screens. His earlier excitement had faded into weary resignation. “They’ll come for me too.”
“They’ll come for anyone connected to this,” Ollie said, handing the old man a burner phone and a thick wad of euros. “You have a safe place?”
Leblanc nodded slowly. “A cousin. In the Jura. Very quiet.”
“Go. Don’t use cards. Don’t call anyone. You’re a ghost now.”
He turned to me. “Change clothes. Hat and glasses from my bag. Now.”
I moved, my mind still stuck on that grainy image of my own face. They’d been watching. While we built our digital bomb, they’d had a sniper aimed at my back. My shoulder—where Alec’s lips had once brushed, where Vain’s bullet struck—ached with fresh pain.
I pulled on a dark cap and thick-rimmed glasses. I looked like a bad imitation of someone in hiding.
Ollie slung the main pack over his shoulder and handed me a smaller one. “We go out the back. Alley leads to Gare de Cornavin. We walk, not run, and take the first train out—any direction.”
“What about the data? The uploads?” My voice sounded small.
“The fuse is lit. It’s out of our hands. We just have to be gone before the blast hits.”
He helped Leblanc gather a few files, his hands trembling. The old man looked at me, eyes sharp with sorrow. “Your father would be proud. And terrified.” He squeezed my arm gently. “Good luck, little one. You’re in the mouth of the beast now. Don’t let it swallow you.”
He slipped into the shadows of his hallway.
Ollie listened at the door, then cracked it open. “Stay three paces behind me. If I run, you run. If I say down, you hit the floor. No questions.”
We descended the narrow stairs, every creak like a gunshot. The alley was damp, lined with trash bags. Geneva’s chill bit through my jacket.
We walked—not fast, not slow—just two more strangers in a city of millions. Ollie’s shoulders looked relaxed, but his eyes never stopped scanning shop windows, reflections, passersby. I kept my head down, cap low, but I still felt exposed. That photo had stripped me bare.
The station was loud, bright, crowded—a perfect disguise, and a perfect trap.
He bought two tickets to Lyon with cash from an ATM. Not the first train, not the last. One leaving in forty minutes. Platform 9.
“We get on, find seats, don’t speak, don’t look at anyone,” he whispered, steering us toward a café with a view of the platform. “Watch who boards after us.”
We sat with bitter coffee. The board read: Lyon. Track 9. On Time.
My burner buzzed in my bag.
I shouldn’t have looked. But I did.
Unknown number. A link.
I tapped it with cold dread.
Not a threat. A news clip. Italian TV. Headline: ESPLOSIONE IN ALPI: TROVATO CORPO.
Explosion in Alps: Body Found.
Footage showed Vain’s ruined estate, fire still smoldering. Then—a stretcher. Swiss rescue workers zipping a black body bag. The bag was slightly open. A gloved hand, wearing a silver signet ring.
I knew that ring. I’d seen it on Alec’s finger as he pointed to maps, held a whiskey glass, touched my cheek.
I gasped.
Ollie’s head snapped toward me. He saw the screen, the image. His face hardened. “It’s a plant,” he whispered. “They need a body to close the story. It’s not him.”
“But the ring…”
“It can be copied. Taken from his room. They’re showing you this to break you. To make you stop. To make you careless.”
He was right. Logically, it made sense. But my chest still burned with grief. Alexander Sterling, Deceased. Official.
The station announcement crackled: “Le train à destination de Lyon, voie neuf, est prêt pour l’embarquement.”
We boarded, found seats mid-carriage, backs to the engine. Ollie took the aisle, putting a wall between me and the world.
The train pulled away, Geneva fading. But the fear stayed—sitting beside me like a passenger.
An hour in, Ollie tensed. His hand clenched.
Two men entered from the rear. Business attire, but their steps were too measured, too cold. One had a pale scar along his jaw.
They hadn’t spotted us—yet.
Ollie leaned close. “When I stand, count to ten, then go to the café car. Don’t run. Don’t look back. If I’m not there in fifteen minutes, get off at the next stop. Go to the police. Tell them everything.”
“No,” I whispered, throat tight. “Ollie—”
“It’s a sweep. They haven’t found us, but if they do, I’ll draw them off. Ten seconds.” He held my gaze. For a heartbeat, I saw my friend—the one who brought me biscuits, who offered escape. “Promise me.”
I nodded.
He stood, stretched like any tired traveler, and walked toward the back.
Scar-jaw watched him pass—paused a beat too long.
One. Two. Three.
Ollie disappeared through the connecting door.
Four. Five. Six.
The two men exchanged a glance. Scar-jaw nodded. They followed.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
They moved with purpose now.
Ten.
I stood, legs shaking, and walked calmly to the café car. Bought water I didn’t want. Sat facing the door.
Five minutes passed. No Ollie.
I pictured him cornered, overpowered, zipped into another black bag.
Twelve minutes.
Fourteen.
I stood. Next stop: Bellegarde. I’d go to the police. Tell them about mafia allies, global conspiracies, stolen data. They’d lock me up as a lunatic.
Just as the train slowed, the café door opened.
Ollie walked in.
A fresh cut above his brow. Swollen knuckles. He breathed hard, but his steps were steady. When he saw me, some tension left his shoulders.
He didn’t sit. He took my arm. “Next stop. We’re getting off.”
“What happened?”
“Not here.”
At Bellegarde, he hailed a taxi, gave an address in rural Ain.
Only when we were deep in the French countryside did he speak. “They found me. I led them to the baggage car. It was close.” He touched the cut. “One’s unconscious. The other got the message. They’re scouts, not elite.”
“Fleming? The Senator?”
“Doesn’t matter which head of the hydra,” he said, eyes on the dark fields. “They want the same thing.” He looked at me. “The photo, the fake body, the train—this is a campaign. They’re not just trying to kill us, Ellie. They want to break you. To scare you into running so they can pick you off.”
He was right. Fear sat heavy in my gut. Grief was raw. But beneath it, something else sparked—hot, defiant.
“They want me to stop,” I said softly.
“Yes.”
I thought of the files spreading online. The Senator’s panic. Fleming’s crumbling empire.
I thought of Alec—his ring, his voice: Win the game.
I met Ollie’s tired, loyal eyes. “Then we don’t stop. We don’t run. We fight.”
A small, grim smile touched his lips—fleeting, but real. “What’s the move, boss?”
Boss. He’d never called me that before.
The taxi drove on into the dusk, toward another night of hiding.
We were hunted. We were hurt.
But we weren’t finished.