Chapter 37 Alec's POV
The truck driver paid me sixty euros. It was cash, dirty and warm from his pocket. He called me “a good guy” and told me to get my life together. The irony tasted like blood and diesel.
Nice hit me like a physical shock. After the mountain tomb and the grimy depot, the city was a riot of noise and color. The promenade buzzed with tourists. The Mediterranean stretched flat and bright blue under a hard sun. This world had no concept of black body bags or digital wars. It felt like a lie.
I spent thirty euros in a run-down surplus shop near the harbor, a black baseball cap, cheap sunglasses, a black windbreaker, a basic first-aid kit. In a public restroom that reeked of disinfectant and urine, I locked myself in a stall to tend to my wound. The caretaker’s stitches were sloppy but held. The skin around them, though, was red and swollen. Infection was setting in. I cleaned it as best I could with alcohol wipes, the burn sharp and bitter, and swallowed two painkillers from the kit. I changed into the new clothes, dumped the soiled ones in a bin, and faced the cracked mirror above the sink. A gaunt, bearded stranger with hollow eyes and a bad haircut stared back. A laborer. A nobody. Exactly what I needed.
With my remaining money, I bought a panini I couldn’t taste and a ticket for the local train to Villefranche. The car was packed with day-trippers. I stood near the doors, leaning against the wall, watching reflections in the window glass. No one noticed me. I was part of the background.
Villefranche-sur-Mer looked like a postcard painted in honey. Pastel buildings clung to the hillside and spilled down to a curved bay dotted with yachts. The air smelled of salt, fried food, and money. But our pension wasn’t on the waterfront. It was up a narrow, winding street of stairs, away from the glamour. A three-story yellow stucco building with blue shutters. Room 7. Third floor. A view of terra cotta roofs and a sliver of sea.
I didn’t go in.
Three buildings down, a small hotel was wrapped in green mesh scaffolding, half under renovation. Workers had left for the day. I slipped past the “DANGER” tape and climbed the ladder to the third level, wincing with every move. The mesh hid me. From here, I had a clear angled view of the pension’s entrance, its top-floor windows, and the steep street below.
I settled in. The metal was cold through my jacket. My side burned, but I ignored it. This was my job now, watch and wait.
Hours passed. The light softened into twilight. Windows lit up across town. A cat prowled a rooftop. An old woman watered flowers. Ordinary life, unfolding just yards from my war.
My mind raced. What if she didn’t come? What if she missed my signal? What if Ollie had walked her into a trap? What if they’d already been found, ?
I forced the thoughts away. Observation was the only truth.
A laughing couple entered the pension. A scooter delivery. Backpacked students. I assessed each, low threat, low threat, minimal.
Then, just after nine, as darkness fell, I saw her.
She came up the steep street from the lower town, trying to look like any tourist. A different cap than in Geneva. Hair pulled back. Oversized sunglasses, even in the dark. Loose jacket. Canvas tote slung across her shoulder. Alone.
Ellie.
Seeing her was like a punch to the chest. She was real. She was here. The pixelated ghost from the train station was now a living girl moving under streetlights, her head turning slightly as she scanned for danger. Ollie had trained her well. But not well enough.
She stopped at the pension door, pretending to search her bag. Her body was rigid, coiled tight. She was terrified. But she was here.
My brave, impossible girl.
She went inside. Moments later, a light flicked on in Room 7.
Now came the hardest part. The real test.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
No vans. No men in plain clothes. No lights going dark in nearby buildings. Just the quiet hum of a seaside town at night.
But it could still be a subtler trap. Her, forced to draw me out. Had they broken her? Was her grief their weapon?
I couldn’t know. Not from here.
I needed to see her.
Climbing down the scaffolding was worse than going up. Every step sent fire through my side. I reached the alley, slipped into the shadows, and circled to the pension’s rear. A small courtyard held a lemon tree and a rusty fire escape.
Room 7’s window was open, shutters slightly ajar. Light spilled out. I heard running water.
My heart hammered. This was madness. One wrong move, and we’d both be dead. But I had to know. I had to see.
I climbed. The metal groaned under my weight. I froze. The water stopped. Silence.
I reached the landing. Through the shutter gap, I saw a simple room, bed, chair, her tote on the floor.
Then, she appeared.
She stood with her back to the window, facing the door, motionless. In her hand, low and steady, was a small black pistol. Ollie’s lessons, clear as day. She was listening. Waiting.
Seeing that gun in her hand, seeing the warrior I’d made her, hurt more than my wound.
I couldn’t speak. My voice might make her fire. So I raised a hand and tapped once on the glass.
She spun. Fast. The gun snapped up, aimed straight at the window. Her face was fierce, frightened, ready.
I eased the shutter open. Light from the room fell on my face.
Recognition hit her in waves, confusion, disbelief, then a flash of impossible hope.
Her eyes widened. The gun trembled. Her lips formed a silent word.
“Alec?,”
The whisper of one ghost seeing another.
I nodded. Joy, anger, fear, relief, all warred in her eyes. The gun didn’t drop. Good girl.
I mouthed, “Are you alone?”
She hesitated, then gave a sharp nod.
“Let me in,” I whispered. “Please.”
She stared as if I might vanish. Then, slowly, she unlocked the window and pushed it wide. Stepped back, gun at her side, knuckles white.
I climbed through into warmth and light. The movement tore at my side. I gasped.
She studied me, dirty clothes, hollow cheeks, pain in my eyes. Glanced past me to the courtyard. “It’s clean,” I said, voice rough. “I’ve been watching since before you arrived.”
She didn’t move. “The ring. The body.”
“Killian’s body. My ring. A story for the news.” I stepped closer. “Ellie, look at me. It’s me.”
The gun clattered to the floor.
Then she was on me, not a hug, a collision. Her fists hit my chest once, then her arms locked around me, face buried in my jacket. A raw, shaking sob broke from her. I held her tight, my face in her hair. The pain faded beneath something too huge to name. We were alive. She was alive. We were together.
“You bastard,” she choked. “You absolute bastard.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I know.”
She pulled back, hands framing my face, tears in her eyes. “How?”
“Later.” I searched her face. “Where’s Ollie?”
“Safe house. Two towns over. He didn’t want me to come. Said it could be a trap.” She let out a shaky laugh. “And it was. Your trap.”
“I had to find you. Had to know you were safe.” My hands stayed on her shoulders. “The data, what you did,”
Her eyes lit with fire. “It’s working. They’re burning. Hunting us like animals, but it’s working.”
“I know. I heard.” I saw it now, the hard core beneath her exhaustion. “You’re magnificent.”
She shook her head, brushing off the praise. Then her gaze dropped to my side, where I’d been pressing my hand. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” She led me to the bed. “Let me see.”
As she reached for her first-aid kit, I watched her. The hunter and the hunted. A cheap room and the sea beyond. The game had changed. All players were back on the board.
I wasn’t a dead anymore and finally, we were together again.