Chapter 220: Morning Resolve

A harsh, fluorescent light still burned from the night before, but a new quality seeped into the storage closet—a pale, greyish luminescence that edged under the door. Dawn. The war of attrition was over; the war of resolution had begun.

The frantic heat of the night had cooled into a deep, solid warmth that lingered in their bones and in the space between their bodies. They lay entangled on the unforgiving floor for what felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat, the reality of the coming day a slow, cold tide washing over the shores of their exhaustion.

Sabatine was the first to move. It was a subtle shift, the tightening of his arm around Anton’s chest, followed by a slow, reluctant disentangling. He didn’t speak. Words felt too fragile for the silence they had built.

He sat up, his back against the metal shelves, and looked down at Anton. In the flat, dawn-tinged light, Anton looked younger in sleep, the lines of pain and command softened. But even unconscious, his jaw was set, his hand curled into a loose fist near Sabatine’s thigh. A fighter, even in repose.

Sabatine’s gaze travelled over him—the stark white of the fresh bandage he’d applied to his own knife-graze on Anton’s neck, the livid bruise blossoming on his ribs, the elegant, soot-stained lines of his body. A possessive fury, cold and clear, settled in his chest. No one would touch him again. Today, he would make sure of it.

He reached for their discarded, ruined clothing. The shirts were torn and stained beyond salvage. From a high shelf, he pulled down two folded sets of dark blue coveralls, the uniform of the tower’s maintenance staff. They were stiff with newness and smelled of industrial laundry soap. A disguise, fallen from the sky.

As he shook one out, the rustle of fabric woke Anton.

His eyes opened instantly, no grogginess, just a swift, sharp return to awareness. He saw Sabatine holding the coveralls, saw the determined set of his mouth, saw the new light under the door. The understanding was immediate and total. The night’s sanctuary was over.

Their eyes met. No good morning. No reassurances. Just a silent, profound acknowledgement. The pact had been sealed in the dark. Now it was time to execute.

Anton pushed himself up, a hiss escaping his clenched teeth as his shoulder protested. He accepted the coveralls Sabatine handed him. The movement of dressing was a study in synchronized, silent purpose. They helped each other with the stiff zippers, their hands brushing, solid and sure. Sabatine carefully eased the fabric over Anton’s bandaged shoulder. Anton adjusted the collar around Sabatine’s neck, his fingers lingering for a second on the burn marks there.

They stowed their few remaining belongings—the prototype, the nearly empty pistol, Sabatine’s tablet—in the coverall’s deep pockets. The filthy clothes of the night were bundled and stuffed behind a crate. They were shedding their past selves, the hunted men, and stepping into new skins.

Sabatine took a compact tin of industrial grease from a shelf. With a careful finger, he smudged a streak along Anton’s cheekbone, another on his brow. He did the same to his own face, blurring their features, adding the grime of a long shift. It was a superficial transformation, but it completed the picture: two tired maintenance workers, not the prizes of an international manhunt.

Finally, Sabatine picked up the captured submachine gun, now with only a handful of rounds left. He looked at it, then at Anton. He didn’t offer it. Instead, he placed it on the shelf. Then he picked up a heavy, steel pipe wrench from a tool bucket. He hefted its solid weight and held it out to Anton.

Anton looked at the wrench, then at Sabatine’s eyes. He understood. The gun was for distance, for a last stand. The wrench was for close work. For the kind of fight they were likely to have in the confined spaces of the observation deck. It was a tool of brutal, intimate force. The same force Anton had discovered in himself in the plaza.

He took it. The cold, ridged metal felt right in his hand. A tool for building, or for breaking. Today, it would be the latter.

Sabatine armed himself with a long, wicked-looking screwdriver, its tip honed to a sharp point. It was no knife, but in his hands, it was just as deadly.

They stood facing each other in the centre of the small room, dressed alike, armed with tools, their faces smudged with identical grease. They were no longer billionaires and bodyguards. They were partners. Equals. A single weapon with two edges.

Sabatine reached out and gripped the back of Anton’s neck, his thumb stroking the short hairs there. It was a gesture of ownership, of solidarity, of unshakeable focus. “We found him. We end it. We go to the cabin.”

Anton leaned into the grip, his own resolve hardening into something diamond-sharp. “No more running. We drew him out. We use what he wants.” He tapped the pocket holding the prototype. “We set the final meeting. Right at the top. In the glass.”

Sabatine’s lips curved in a grim, approving smile. “The observation deck. All windows. No shadows. He’ll come. He has to. It’s the only move that makes sense now.”

The plan was terrifying in its simplicity. They would go to the most exposed place in the city and announce their presence. They would use themselves, and the prototype, as the ultimate bait. They would force the final confrontation into the light, where Kaine’s preferred tools of stealth and misdirection would be useless.

It was a move of absolute confidence, born not from arrogance, but from the certainty they had forged in the dark. They knew each other now. They knew how they fought, how they thought, how they moved. They were a unit.

Sabatine moved to the door, listening. The stairwell beyond was silent. He looked back at Anton, a final check.

Anton gave a single, firm nod. His grey eyes, usually the colour of a winter sea, were the shade of polished steel. All fear had been burned away in the night, leaving only this cold, clear purpose. He adjusted his grip on the wrench, the muscles in his forearm corded.

Sabatine turned the deadbolt. The click was loud in the quiet room. He pulled the door open.

The concrete stairwell greeted them, washed in the sterile light of a new day filtered through high, narrow windows. The sounds of the city were different now—not the wail of emergencies, but the low, organized hum of a major urban centre operating under duress. The lockdown held, but life, in its stubborn way, persisted.

They didn’t speak as they began the final ascent. Their footsteps, one slightly laboured, one deliberately light, were the only sounds. They passed the doors for Level 45, 46, 47. Each landing was a potential ambush point, but they moved with a unified rhythm, Sabatine scanning ahead and above, Anton guarding the rear and their flank, the wrench held low and ready.

The shared silence was charged, but it was not the tense silence of prey. It was the focused quiet of predators moving to their chosen ground. Every glance exchanged, every shift in posture, was a conversation. Clear left. Stairwell echoed from two flights up. Ready.

As they neared the top, the character of the stairwell changed. The concrete gave way to more finished materials—painted drywall, carpeted steps leading to the final lobby before the observation deck. The air grew colder, fresher, siphoned from the heights.

On the landing for the penultimate floor, Sabatine paused. He pointed to a service panel set into the wall, marked Sécurité - Alarme Incendie. He pried it open with the tip of his screwdriver. Inside was a simple manual override for the observation deck’s emergency systems. He pulled a lever, then tore out a cluster of wires.

“No silent alarms. No locking doors,” he murmured. “When we go up there, everyone will know. Including him.”

Anton nodded. It was part of the plan. Force the play.

They reached the final door. A sleek, polished steel plate labelled Terrasse d'Observation - Accès Interdit. Access Forbidden. The lockdown had closed the tower to the public. Beyond this door was a short corridor, then the vast, glass-walled space at the top of Geneva.

They stood before it, shoulder to shoulder. Sabatine looked at Anton. In his eyes, Anton saw the reflection of his own steel resolve, and beneath it, the unwavering, terrifying love that was the foundation of it all.

Sabatine reached for the door handle. Anton tightened his grip on the wrench, feeling its solid, honest weight.

No more words. No grand speeches. Just a final, shared breath.

Sabatine pushed the door open.

Morning light, brilliant and merciless, flooded the corridor. The glass walls of the observation deck lay ahead, revealing a breathtaking, dizzying panorama of a locked-down Geneva, Lake Léman, and the distant, snow-capped Alps under a clear, cold sky.

They stepped out of the stairwell’s shadow and into the light, together.

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