Chapter 170 - The Safehouse in Lyon
By 3:30 AM, our armored convoy had bypassed the main toll plazas of the A43 motorway, slipping through the industrial backroads of Lyon.
We did not go to a hotel. We did not go to a police barracks.
We pulled into the subterranean delivery dock of an abandoned 19th-century textile printing factory in the Croix-Rousse district—a commercial parcel purchased by Arthur Vance thirty years ago under a shell entity called Les Soieries Lyonnaises.
The heavy corrugated iron doors rattled down behind our vehicles, sealing us inside a vast, shadowy hall that smelled of dry cedar, oxidized copper, and machine oil.
Sitting on an old wooden shipping crate beneath a single hanging halogen lamp was Dr. Jean-Paul Moreau, his silver hair uncombed, sipping espresso from a battered thermos.
Beside him sat Sister Beatrice, wearing her clean, pressed black habit, holding a pair of heavy brass rosary beads in one hand and a twelve-gauge Remington shotgun across her knees.
"You took your time, Ethan," Sister Beatrice said calmly, not missing a single bead on her rosary. "The news from Paris says the Minister of the Interior just ordered all French airspace closed to private charters."
Ethan jumped down from the running board of the Land Rover, his boots echoing across the concrete floor. He helped Sophie down, who immediately ran to the old nun, burying her face against the black wool habit.
"Sister," Sophie whispered. "The bad men shot at Barnaby again."
Sister Beatrice reached down, stroking the little girl's curls with infinite tenderness, her pale blue eyes flashing with an unyielding, righteous fire. "Then the bad men will learn that God protects his little lambs, my darling. And your father carries the iron."
Marcus Vance walked over from the secondary vehicle, carrying three ruggedized military laptops, placing them on an overturned wooden cable spool.
"The broadcast from Geneva was transmitted through an encrypted relay on the island of Jersey, Ethan," Marcus reported, typing furiously into his console. "The facial mapping software confirmed that the imposter is indeed Victor Sterling. He’s operating out of a private sovereign enclave on the shores of Lake Como."
"The Villa Balbianello estate," I said, walking up beside Marcus, looking at the satellite imagery on the screen. "My father took me there when I was twelve. It was built with private subterranean docks that connect directly into the Italian naval radar corridors."
Noah climbed onto an empty crate, pulling his glasses down his nose, pointing a small finger at the thermal layer of the Como satellite feed.
"Look at the power grid consumption on the southern wing, Mom," Noah pointed out. "A civilian residential estate doesn't consume twenty-four megawatts of power an hour. That’s a quantum server farm."
"He’s running the decryption algorithms on Julian Montgomery’s orbital keys," Ethan realized, his jaw hardening into granite. "Victor Sterling doesn't have the biological access code. He’s trying to brute-force the satellite firmware before the Pentagon locks the constellation down."
"How long does he have, Noah?" I asked.
Noah checked his calculations, his face completely serious.
"At twenty-four megawatts... approximately thirty-six hours, Mom. When that clock hits zero, Victor Sterling will have total firing authority over forty-eight kinetic tungsten satellites."
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Ethan turned to Marcus, his gray eyes burning through the shadows of the factory.
"Prep the tactical gear, Marcus," Ethan said softly. "We're going to Italy."
