Chapter 36 Alec's POV
The van stank like despair—stale bread, rotten cheese, diesel. I was jammed between sacks of potatoes and bottles of water, burlap scratching my cheek raw. Every jolt of the mountain road jabbed my ribs, sharp and hot. I clung to the pain; it kept me here, breathing, stubbornly alive.
The driver, as promised, asked nothing. He barely glanced my way. He hummed to Swiss pop, the absurdly cheerful music growing stranger with every mile I put between myself and the tomb I’d escaped. Then a news bulletin cut in—sharp bursts of French. I caught the words: “explosion,” “ongoing investigation,” “no survivors expected.” My own obituary. Delivered like the weather.
Alexander Sterling, deceased.
Those words should have meant the end. Instead, they unlocked something. A terrible kind of freedom settled over me. My name, my empire, and my public face were all gone. What remained was pure purpose. A stranger with nothing left to lose.
The depot in Annecy was a rusted warehouse on the edge of town. The van pulled into a loading bay, alive with shouting drivers and the clatter of forklifts. Chaos reigned. Slipping away was easier than I'd hoped. I rolled out the back, kept my head down, and blended into exhausted workers on a smoke break. No one noticed me. I was just another faceless laborer.
First: information. I had to reach the outside world.
I found a dingy internet café in a tabac a mile from the depot, two euros for fifteen minutes. The computer was ancient, the keyboard sticky with mystery. I didn’t care.
I logged into the dead-drop forum, Ollie, which I set up years ago. It was a private messaging system, hidden as a book lovers’ forum—our “apocalypse hotline.” The code was simple: we exchanged messages by referencing book titles and specific page numbers, which conveyed meanings only the two of us understood. My dirty, stiff fingers hovered over the keys. If they’d captured him, if they’d broken him under pressure, this could be a trap. But I had to know.
I typed "The Count of Monte Cristo." Page 1173.
A single line appeared in the response field. Sent three hours ago.
The falcon has flown the coop. Wintering in the south. The hedge needs trimming.
I nearly laughed, a raw, breathless sound that made my ribs burn. Ollie. Alive. Clever.
Falcon was Ellie. She’d flown the coop; left Geneva. Now she was wintering in the south. Warmer shores called—perhaps the Riviera, maybe Menton or Nice. The hedge needs trimming. Their meaning was clear: they were being watched. They knew.
They were alive. They were moving. They were in danger.
Relief hit, dizzy and abrupt—not blood loss. They were still in the game. So was I.
I had to tell them: the board had shifted. The piece they thought was removed was still in play.
I couldn’t message them directly. Any digital signal could be traced. A dead man doesn’t send emails. But he can leave a message that only they would understand.
I needed a physical signal, one that bypassed electronic surveillance.
My eyes landed on a local newspaper left on the terminal desk. Classifieds. Property ads. Boat sales.
A fragile idea formed.
I opened a little-known travel site and posted a review of a family-run pension in Villefranche-sur-Mer, where Ellie and I stayed three years ago. No one else knew about it. I used a fake name, praised the view from Room 7 with blue shutters, and gave it five stars. The review was bland, forgettable.
Except for the check-in date.
I set it for the day after tomorrow.
It was a risk. She might not see it. Might not remember. But if she did, she’d know. Only we had been there. Only I would choose that room, that date.
A whisper in a hurricane. But it was mine.
I cleared the browser history, handed my last euros to the bored teen behind the counter, and stepped back into the grey French morning.
I was a man with no name and a mission. No cash. No gun. No identity. Four hundred kilometers south, torn side burning, and every surveillance camera flashing a threat. Stealing a car? Out of the question—plates would light me up, cameras too risky. Trains and buses demanded ID, which I didn't have.
Only one option left, no digital trail, the oldest form of travel.
0
I walked to the edge of town. The truck stop brimmed with big rigs, rumbling in and out, bound for Lyon, Marseille, or Nice. I stood in the shade by the gas pumps, watching. I wasn’t Alexander Sterling. I was a day labourer—a desperate man in need of a ride.
An hour passed. Then I saw him—a grizzled driver, arguing with a dispatcher, face red with frustration. His Iveco flatbed was loaded with ceramic tiles for Nice. He needed a “lumper”—someone to help unload for cash, not union paperwork.
“Je peux le descendre,” I said, stepping forward, voice rough. “Dos corsé. Pour de la nourriture, un joyride, cinquante euros.”
He looked me up and down, filth, exhaustion, rags. Saw a working body. Not a phantom. “You got papers?”
“Lost my wallet two days ago. Police say it’ll take weeks.”
He snorted, weighing delay against hassle. Hesitation gave way to impatience. “Fine. Get in. You sleep, you’re out. You puke, you’re out. You talk too much, you’re out.”
“Understood.”
I climbed into the passenger seat. The cab stank of cheap cigarettes and fried food. The truck merged onto the Autoroute du Soleil, and I leaned my head against the window. The ache in my side pulsed with every bump.
The driver turned up the radio. More news. The scandal was spreading. A British segment mentioned “embarrassing leaks” and “questions in the House of Lords.” Sir Alistair Fleming. An American senator.
Ellie had done it—she and Ollie.