Chapter 82: The Ghost of Montreal

 

Somewhere over Quebec, Canada. Aboard a Rusted De Havilland Beaver. 10:00 AM.

The engine sputtered. Cough. Cough. Jack slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Come on, you old bird! Don't quit on me now!"

The bush plane was flying low over the endless pine forests, dodging radar. It smelled of gasoline and fear. Inside, cramped in the cargo hold, sat the strangest group of fugitives in history: A billionaire, a maid, a doctor, a hunter, and a madwoman who held the key to immortality.

"We are running on fumes," Jack shouted over the roar of the propeller. "Montreal is twenty miles out. I have to land on the river!"

Sebastian looked out the window. The St. Lawrence River was a ribbon of grey ice below. He looked at Harper. She was asleep on his shoulder, exhausted. Her hand was gripping his arm, even in her sleep.

"Do it," Sebastian said. "Just don't crash."

---

[The Landing]

Jack banked the plane sharply. The skis touched the frozen surface of the river in a secluded inlet north of the city. SKREEEE. The plane bounced, skidded sideways, and finally shuddered to a halt just feet from the tree line.

"Welcome to Montreal," Jack exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. " Bienvenue."

They abandoned the plane. Jack covered it with pine branches. They hiked to the nearest highway and stole a parked delivery van (Dr. Braun hotwired it, surprisingly. "I watched a YouTube tutorial once," he shrugged).

They drove into the city. Montreal was alive. Neon signs, French cafes, snow-covered streets. It felt like another planet compared to the horrors of the oil rig.

"Where are we going?" Harper asked, waking up.

"To see an old friend," Sebastian said grimly. "Or an enemy. It depends on his mood."

---

[The Forger]

Old Montreal. A dusty Antique Bookshop. 6:00 PM.

The shop was called L'Oubli (The Oblivion). It smelled of old paper and dust. An old man with thick glasses and ink-stained fingers was binding a book behind the counter. Jacques "The Ghost" Renard. Once the best forger in the CIA. Now, a hermit.

The bell rang. Jacques looked up. He squinted. Then he turned pale. He reached under the counter for a shotgun.

"Sterling," Jacques hissed. "You have some nerve coming here. You ruined me."

"I exposed your operation to the Mossad," Sebastian corrected calmly, stepping in front of Harper. "Because you were selling passports to terrorists. I cleaned up your mess."

"You cost me millions!" Jacques aimed the shotgun at Sebastian’s chest.

"And now I'm here to make you rich again," Sebastian pulled a heavy bag from under his coat. It wasn't money. It was Gold. Gold bars they had found in the logging camp safe.

Jacques looked at the gold. He lowered the gun. "What do you need?"

"Five identities," Sebastian said. "Top tier. Biometric spoofing. Backdated history. We need to disappear." "And we need a private charter to France. Tonight."

Jacques picked up a gold bar. He bit it. It was real. He sighed. "Go to the back room. I need photos."

---

[The Death of Sebastian Sterling]

In the dimly lit back room, Jacques set up his camera.

"Smile," Jacques said sarcastically to Sebastian.

Sebastian sat on the stool. He looked at the lens. He thought about his name. Sterling. It meant "of high quality". It meant power. Legacy. Burden. Tonight, he was leaving it behind.

Click. The flash fired.

"Name?" Jacques asked, typing on his terminal.

Sebastian looked at Harper. "Arthur," Sebastian said. "Arthur... Knight."

Harper looked at him. Knight. The protector. "And you, Mademoiselle?" Jacques turned to Harper.

Harper sat down. She wasn't the scared girl anymore. "Sophie," she said. "Sophie Rousseau." She kept her mother's name. A reclamation.

Within an hour, Jacques produced five passports. They were masterpieces. US Diplomatic immunity. Red Cross clearance.

"The charter jet is waiting at Trudeau Airport," Jacques handed them the documents. "Hangar 4. It's listed as a medical transport." "Don't come back, Sterling. Next time, I shoot."

---

[The Historian]

Meanwhile. Paris, France. Syndicate European Headquarters.

A man walked down a long hallway lined with ancient artifacts. Roman statues. Egyptian tablets. Medieval swords. He wore a tweed suit and round glasses. He looked like a university professor. Dr. Alistair Thorne. The Syndicate's Chief Historian.

He walked into the main office. A hologram of the Syndicate Board was waiting.

"The Warden failed," a distorted voice said. "Deepwater 9 is destroyed. The virus release is canceled."

"The Warden was a blunt instrument," Thorne said softly, polishing his glasses. "He tried to use brute force against a Sterling. That never works."

"What do you propose, Dr. Thorne?"

"I propose we stop chasing them," Thorne walked to a large map on the wall. A map of 12th Century France. "Sebastian Sterling isn't running away. He is running toward something." "I analyzed the audio from the oil rig. The old woman... she was humming."

Thorne smiled. A cold, intellectual smile. "Sur le pont d'Avignon."

He placed a pin on the map. "They are going to the Papal Palace in Avignon." "The Templar Crypt."

"Shall we send a strike team?"

"No," Thorne shook his head. "The crypt is booby-trapped. Only a Sterling can open it." "Let them open the door for us." "I will be waiting on the other side."

He picked up a small, ancient dagger from his desk. "History is written by the victors," Thorne whispered. "And I intend to write the final chapter."

---

[The Departure]

Montreal Airport. Hangar 4. Midnight.

The medical jet engines whined. Sebastian helped Catherine up the stairs. She was clutching a bag of candy, humming happily.

Sebastian stood on the tarmac for a moment. The cold wind bit his face. He looked at his new passport. Arthur Knight. He took his old wallet—with his Centurion Black Card, his driver's license, his Sterling Corp ID. He threw it into a burning trash barrel near the hangar.

Harper walked up to him. She slipped her hand into his. "Goodbye, Sebastian Sterling," she whispered.

Sebastian watched the ID card melt in the fire. "He served his purpose," Sebastian turned to her. He kissed her hand. "Hello, Mrs. Knight."

They boarded the plane. The doors closed. The jet taxied to the runway and took off into the dark sky. Leaving the New World behind. Flying toward the Old World. Toward destiny.

(End of Chapter 82)