Chapter 69. The Rhythm of the Hunt

The walk back to the safehouse was a procession of ghosts. The image of the courier’s silent collapse played on a loop behind Anton’s eyes, a grim cinema in the dark. The room, when they reached it, was no longer a sanctuary but a trap waiting to be sprung, still haunted by the phantom presence of the suitcase.

Sabe was a coiled spring by the window, his attention no longer on the distant villa but on the immediate, silent streets of their own neighborhood. “He was here. In this room. He could be anywhere.”

“The killer?” Anton asked, the word feeling too crude for the ghost they’d seen.

“Or his employer. They’re pruning the operation.” Sabe’s voice was low, analytical, but a new tension vibrated beneath it. “Marcus is a liability now. He’s panicked. Panicked people make mistakes, talk to the wrong people. They’ll move on him soon.”

He turned from the window, his decision made. “We can’t wait for the villa. We need to find Marcus. Now. He won’t be at his usual haunts; he’ll be scared, off-balance. But he’s a creature of habit. There’s a private members’ club off the Rue du Rhône, ‘Le Caveau’. He used it for his less savory deals. If he’s looking for a drink, for a familiar shadow to hide in, it’ll be there.”

It was a thread, gossamer-thin. But it was the only one they had.

They moved out into the Geneva night, which had grown colder, the cloud cover thinning to reveal a sliver of sharp, white moon. The city’s clean, wealthy veneer felt like a stage set, behind which the real drama of blood and secrets played out. Sabe set a brisk pace, his head on a constant, fluid swivel, cataloguing every parked car, every recessed doorway, every person who shared the sidewalk.

Le Caveau was nestled down a steep, cobbled alley in the Old Town, its entrance marked only by a worn, brass griffin knocker. A dim, amber light glowed from within. As they approached from the opposite end of the alley, the heavy wooden door opened, spilling a rectangle of warmer light and the murmur of piano jazz onto the stones.

A figure stepped out, pausing to light a cigarette. The flare of the match illuminated a sharp, aristocratic profile for an instant.

Marcus.

He took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing like a furious eye in the dark. He wasn't alone. A taller, broader shape lingered just inside the doorway, speaking to him in low, urgent tones. Not a club employee. The body language was all wrong—too close, too tense. A minder? A new handler?

Then, from the deeper shadows where their alley met a perpendicular lane, a third figure moved. It was just a shift of darkness, a suggestion of a shape detaching from a stone archway. But the movement had a terrible, familiar economy.

Sabe’s hand clamped on Anton’s arm, yanking him back into the recess of a shuttered bakery. “Don’t move,” he breathed directly into Anton’s ear.

Anton’s heart leapt into his throat. He saw it too. The ghost from the jetty.

The killer was here. Not to watch, but to act.

Marcus, oblivious, flicked his cigarette away and turned from the man in the doorway, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. He began walking up the alley, away from the club, toward the killer’s shadow.

The man in the doorway watched him go for a beat, then retreated inside, the heavy door closing with a final thud, sealing off the light and sound.

Marcus was alone. And he was walking straight into a blade.

“He can’t reach the main street in time,” Sabe calculated, his voice a rapid, soft stream. “The killer will take him in the middle of the alley. No witnesses.”

Anton saw the same grim geometry. His brother, for all his treachery, was about to be erased. And with him, any chance of proof, any chance of stopping the prototype’s sale.

He didn’t think so. He acted.

Before Sabe could stop him, Anton stepped out of their hiding spot and called, his voice cutting through the damp alley air. “Marcus!”

His brother froze, ten meters from the waiting shadow. He spun, his face a mask of shock and confusion in the meager light. “Anton?”

It was the distraction the killer hadn't accounted for. The shadow under the archway flinched, its perfect ambush disrupted.

“Run, you idiot!” Anton shouted, not in anger, but in desperate urgency.

Marcus, finally sensing the peril, stumbled backward, his eyes wide with animal fear. The shadow moved, abandoning stealth for speed, a silent, dark rush up the alley toward its now-alerted prey.

“Damn it, Anton!” Sabe snarled, but he was already in motion, exploding from the doorway.

What followed was not a chase in the pure sense. It was a violent, three-part symphony conducted in the echoing stone canyon of the Old Town.

Marcus fled, his expensive loafers slipping on the wet cobbles, his breath already coming in ragged, panicked gasps. The killer flowed after him, a study in lethal pursuit, closing the distance with terrifying ease.

And Sabe ran after the killer, a force of pure, focused intent. Anton, propelled by a surge of adrenaline he didn’t know he possessed, sprinted after Sabe.

The killer heard them. He glanced back, a pale, blurred glimpse of a featureless face, and changed tack. He veered sharply left, vaulting a low iron railing and disappearing down a set of steep, enclosed steps that led to a lower terrace.

Sabe didn’t hesitate. He took the railing in a single, powerful leap, his injured shoulder jarring as he landed. Anton followed, his body protesting, his mind screaming that this was madness, but his heart tethered to the man disappearing into the gloom ahead.

The steps opened onto a secluded, dimly-lit courtyard, a forgotten space between the towering backs of ancient buildings. The killer was halfway across, heading for an arched passage on the far side. Marcus had vanished, having either found another escape or collapsed in some dark corner.

Sabe poured on a burst of speed, closing the gap. The killer sensed him, whirling with a fluid, practiced motion. Moonlight glinted on steel. A blade, short and wicked.

Sabe didn’t break stride. He feinted left, then dropped low, his leg sweeping out in a move that was more street brawler than trained operative. It was messy, desperate, and it worked. The killer, expecting a more formal engagement, was caught off-balance. He staggered, the knife thrust going wide.

In that heartbeat of opportunity, Anton arrived. He didn’t have a weapon. He had a lifetime of boarding school rugby. He launched himself, not at the knife, but at the man’s center of mass, driving his shoulder into the killer’s ribs with a grunt of effort.

The impact was solid. The killer expelled a sharp breath, stumbling back against the mossy wall. The knife clattered to the stones.

Sabe was on him instantly, pinning him with a forearm across the throat, his other hand going for a pressure point. But the killer was a serpent. He twisted, drove a knee up, and broke the hold, shoving Sabe back into Anton.

For a second, the three of them were a tangled, gasping knot in the center of the courtyard. The killer’s face was inches from Anton’s—hooded eyes, no discernible age, a vacuum of identity. Then, with a final, powerful wrench, he broke free, snatched up his knife, and fled into the arched passage, melting into the labyrinth of the Old Town.

Sabe made to follow, but Anton grabbed his arm. “No! He’s gone. And Marcus…”

The fight left Sabe in a rush. He leaned against the damp wall, chest heaving, his hand pressed to his injured shoulder where the killer’s knee had connected. He looked at Anton, his expression a volatile mix of fury, admiration, and stark fear.

“You… you are incredible… fool,” he panted, but there was no heat in the words. “He could have killed you.”

“He was going to kill Marcus,” Anton shot back, his own breath coming in ragged gulps. “We needed him alive.”

Sabe pushed off the wall, his gaze scanning the dark corners of the courtyard. “He’s not here. Marcus. He ran.”

They were alone in the silent square, the only evidence of the struggle their own pounding hearts and the echo of footsteps on stone. The coordinated pursuit, the instinctive way Anton had moved to the flank, the way Sabe had adapted—it had been a desperate, brutal dance. And they had been, for a few terrifying seconds, perfectly in sync.

Sabe walked over to where the knife had fallen. He didn’t touch it, just looked at it—a professional tool, now a discarded clue. “He won’t come back for it. He’s already adapting.”

He turned to Anton. In the moonlight, the fury had softened into something else, something raw and awe-struck. “You charged a professional assassin. For a man who tried to destroy you.”

Anton met his gaze, his own fear receding, leaving behind a strange, clear certainty. “I did it for us. For the truth. And,” he added, the admission quiet in the hushed courtyard, “because I knew you were right behind me.”

The rhythm of the hunt had changed them. They were no longer just protectors and protectors, not just allies. In the echoing chase through the ancient streets, they had become partners. And as they stood there in the cold, dark silence, the ghost of the killer’s blade between them, they both knew the final act was upon them. The villa was no longer a target. It was a battleground. And they would walk into it as one.

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