Chapter 293 Chapter 293

Chapter 293 Chapter 293
 Chapter 293

Ethan sat at the small wooden table in the kitchen, his right leg stretched out awkwardly on a wooden stool. The thick white bandages underneath his worn trousers made moving painful, but he kept his expression calm. Across the table, Jean set down a mug of steaming black coffee and pulled out a chair, his old joints creaking as he sat down. Colette stood near the stove, stirring a pot of soup. She didn't speak a word of English, but every few minutes, she glanced over at Ethan with eyes full of quiet concern, wiping her hands on her apron.

Jean leaned forward, resting his thick, calloused hands on the table. "Ethan, listen to me," Jean said, his accent heavy, turning his words slightly rough around the edges. "You cannot just walk on this leg. You go to American embassy in Paris. I drive you. Embassy people, they take care of you. They have big doctor, big security. It is simple."

Ethan took a slow sip from the mug, shaking his head. "No, Jean. I can’t go near the embassy."

Jean frowned, his bushy eyebrows pulling together in frustration. "Why no? You are American. They are your government. It is safe there."

"If I show up at the embassy, my name goes into an official system immediately," Ethan explained, keeping his voice steady despite the throb in his thigh. "The second my passport is logged, it gets flagged. The news will pick it up within hours. Richard Castellan is back home trying to take over everything I built, and if he finds out I'm alive before I get back to California, he'll lock down every account and legal channel I have. Beyond that, Sam is still out there. If my location leaks on an official travel manifest, I’m putting a target right on my back. I need to get back under the radar."

Jean stared at him for a long moment, processing the words. He turned to Colette and spoke rapidly in French, explaining what Ethan had just said. Colette stopped stirring her pot, her mouth dropping open slightly as she looked at Ethan. She spoke back to Jean in quick, sharp French, gesturing toward Ethan’s leg and shaking her head in worry.

Jean turned back to Ethan and rubbed the back of his neck. "Colette say you are crazy man," Jean said, though his eyes softened. "She say you bleed in forest two days ago, and now you want act like spy. But... I understand what you say about danger. In my life, I see men with too much money do terrible things. If your family man is bad like this, you cannot trust big officials."

"I just need a way out that doesn't involve an airport or a government building," Ethan said.

Jean leaned back, tapping his fingers against his coffee mug as he thought. "Okay. I have friend. Old man like me. Name is Henri. He have big cargo boat in small harbor near Marseille. Not main port, small dock where fishermen and old supply boats go. He take wood and fruits to Spain, near Girona. No police checking passports on Henri’s boat. From Spain, maybe you figure out private plane."

Ethan looked at Jean, relief washing over him. "Can you get me to Henri?"

"Oui," Jean said, nodding firmly. "Tomorrow, early morning before sun. I take you in my wood truck. Nobody look twice at old Jean selling timber across town."

Colette walked over, setting a warm bowl of soup in front of Ethan. She didn't say anything, but she patted Ethan gently on the shoulder and gave him a encouraging nod. Ethan smiled up at her. "Merci, Colette." She smiled back, saying a few soft words in French before returning to her stove.

That night, Ethan barely slept. He lay on the small cot in the corner of the cabin, listening to the wind outside. Every time he shifted, a sharp pain shot up his leg, reminding him of how close he had come to losing everything in those woods. But physical pain was nothing compared to the quiet anxiety driving him forward. He needed to get back to Isabelle. He needed to know she was safe, and he needed to end this war back home once and for all.

At four in the morning, the cabin was already alive with quiet activity. Jean was dressed in his heavy canvas coat, while Colette was packing a cloth bag with bread, cheese, and two bottles of water.

Ethan stood up slowly, leaning heavily on the wooden walking stick Jean had carved for him out of a sturdy oak branch. He limped toward the front door, where Jean was waiting with his truck keys in hand. Colette stepped up to Ethan, holding out the bag of food.

Ethan took the bag, then looked down at the older woman. "Colette, I don't have the words to thank you," he said softly. "You took in a stranger who showed up bleeding on your porch. You saved my life."

Colette looked at Jean, waiting for a translation. Jean spoke a few words in French, and Colette’s eyes grew misty. She reached up, placing her hands on both sides of Ethan’s face, kissing him on both cheeks in the traditional French greeting. She spoke softly in French, her voice thick with emotion.

"She say you are good boy," Jean translated, his own voice raspy. "She say you go home, find your girl, and don't get shot anymore."

Ethan let out a quiet laugh, nodding. "I promise."

Jean pulled an old leather wallet from his coat pocket. He opened it, pulled out a thick stack of folded Euro bills, and forced them into Ethan's hand. Ethan looked down at the money, immediately trying to push it back toward the old man. "No, Jean. Absolutely not. You’ve already done too much."

"Take it!" Jean said sternly, pushing Ethan’s hand away. "You think you buy boat ticket with nice words? You think private plane in Spain is free? This is half my savings from wood sales this year. Take it."

"Jean, I can't take your savings," Ethan insisted, his voice tight. "I have money back home, I can—"

"Back home is not here," Jean interrupted, pointing a firm finger at Ethan’s chest. "Here, you need cash. No credit card, no bank transfer. Cash. You take this money, you get to Spain, you go home. When you are rich big boss again in America, you send old Jean a new truck. Deal?"

Ethan looked at the old man, seeing the absolute determination in his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat and folded the money into his pocket. "I will come back here myself and bring you the best truck in France. I swear it."

"Good," Jean grunted, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "Now move. Truck is cold."

They walked out into the freezing morning air. Jean’s old wooden supply truck sat in the driveway, its bed piled high with freshly cut timber. Jean helped Ethan climb into the passenger seat, making sure his injured leg was positioned comfortably before slamming the heavy metal door shut. Colette stood on the porch, wrapped in a thick shawl, waving goodbye as Jean started the loud diesel engine. Ethan waved back through the side window until the cabin vanished behind the trees.

The drive toward Marseille was long and bumpy. Jean kept his eyes on the narrow country roads, avoiding the main highways where police checkpoints might be set up following the raid on Sam's estate. The truck rattled continuously, making Ethan wince every time they hit a pothole, but he kept his mouth shut, staring out at the dark landscape passing by.

By six in the morning, the sky was turning a faint grey as they pulled into a secluded harbor hidden behind a stretch of industrial warehouses. The smell of salt water and diesel fuel filled the air. Dozens of small, weather-beaten boats bobbed in the water, tied to wooden piers.

Jean parked the truck behind a pile of shipping crates and turned off the engine. He got out, walked around to Ethan’s side, and helped him down onto the damp wooden dock. Leaning on his carved walking stick, Ethan limped alongside Jean toward the end of the pier, where an old commercial cargo boat was tied up.

A heavily weathered man with a thick grey beard was tossing thick ropes onto the deck. When he saw Jean, he stopped and nodded.

"Henri!" Jean called out, walking up to his friend. The two old men exchanged quick, low words in French. Henri looked past Jean, his sharp eyes taking in Ethan’s limp, the walking stick, and his pale face.

Henri said something in French, pointing toward the lower deck of the vessel. Jean turned back to Ethan.

"Henri says boat leaves in five minutes," Jean said. "He hide you in lower cargo room under the tarps until you cross into Spanish waters. When you hit Girona harbor tonight, his cousin will meet you. From there, you use cash to get your private transport."

Ethan looked at Jean, extending his hand. Jean ignored the handshake and pulled Ethan into a tight, rough bear hug, mindful of his leg.

"You survive bullet, Ethan," Jean said softly into his shoulder. "You survive the rest. Go take back your life."

"Thank you, Jean," Ethan said, his voice thick with raw emotion. "For everything."

Ethan pulled himself up the narrow wooden gangplank onto the boat deck. He turned back one last time to see Jean standing on the pier, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets, watching him. Ethan took a deep breath, turned around, and followed Henri down the dark wooden steps into the hold of the ship.