Oliver It’s been forty-eight hours since Naples, and the team has dropped out of the sharp, bright edge of action into the heavy drag of after. We’re currently holed up in a sprawling, concrete-and-glass rental property in the hills above Marseille. It looked great on the booking site. Infinity pool, panoramic views of the ocean, secure wrought-iron gate. But in practice, it’s a logistical nightmare. You try putting nine deeply paranoid, highly trained killers, and two bitchy hackers, into a living space designed for a wealthy French family of four and see what happens. The fridge is empty except for three bottles of top-shelf vodka, a block of expensive, stinky cheese, and a jar of pickled onions that absolutely nobody claims to have bought.Max is asleep on the rug in the center of the living room. He’s using a rolled-up tactical vest as a pillow and his mouth is hanging open. Butcher is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, eating Cheerios out of a Pyrex measuring jug.
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