[Nightwatch]

  Stone sealed behind him with a sound too gentle for its mass.

  For a moment he stayed still, palm flat against the wall, letting the building speak first. Not in words—never words—but in vibration. The embassy carried itself like a held breath: old wiring humming under strain, water ticking through pipes, the faint tremor of too many people standing still because they were afraid to move.

  Air down here was colder. Basement-cold. Mineral and damp, with the sour edge of disinfectant that had failed to erase older smells. Hidden places always smelled like effort.

  He adjusted the fall of his coat and felt the familiar weight settle beneath it. Soft armour moulded close to the ribs. Suppressed pistol high on the right hip, grip angled for a clean draw. Knife sheathed along the inside of his left forearm, handle positioned so muscle memory could find it without thought. He checked the pistol by touch—mag seated, suppressor tight—then left it holstered.

  Not yet.

  A click in his ear.

  “You’re inside,” the operator said. Female. Controlled. Professional calm stretched thin but unbroken. “We lost you for several seconds when the structure shifted.”

  “Eight,” he said quietly, and started forward.

  The corridor narrowed almost immediately. Old service access, never meant for speed. The walls had been painted cream once, decades ago, then abandoned to damp. The paint blistered and peeled in places, curling away like dead skin. Emergency lighting had died with the power, leaving only a low battery strip along the floor that cast everything in bruised purples and sickly yellows.

  “What was that entrance?” the operator asked. “It’s not on any architectural file we have.”

  He slowed at a bend, rolled his weight onto the outer edge of his boots so the concrete wouldn’t squeal. He moved like someone passing through a room that didn’t belong to him.

  “Depends which files,” he said.

  “Don’t,” she replied, already hearing the shape of a smile he hadn’t allowed himself.

  He exhaled through his nose. “Some people used to plan for things going wrong.”

  “How long ago is ‘used to’?”

  He glanced at a rusted conduit clamp bolted into the wall—hand-forged, not machined. The kind of detail nobody noticed unless they’d lived long enough to watch standards change.

  “The sixties.”

  Silence.

  Then, disbelieving: “That’s over sixty years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. He could hear her recalibrating—deciding whether humour or disbelief was safer.

  “And you look like you’re in your thirties,” she said dryly. “What’s the secret?”

  “Routine,” he replied. “And avoiding sunlight.”

  Her laugh broke through the line before she could stop it—one sharp sound, quickly swallowed. “I hate you.”

  A second voice cut in, lower, steadier. Authority without threat.

  “Nightwatch,” the boss said, using the callsign like punctuation. “Focus.”

  The line cleared.

  He leaned just enough around the corner to see.

  Two men ahead. Wrong for embassy staff. Wrong for security. Their rifles hung low and casual, the way people held weapons when they hadn’t yet been challenged. Balaclavas were pushed up to their noses, faces exposed with careless confidence. One smoked under a dead extractor fan, cupping the flame. The other watched the corridor with bored eyes, weight settled on one hip.

  He drew the pistol.

  The suppressor lengthened it, but the balance was familiar. He brought it close to his chest, two hands steady, and let the muzzle settle on the smoker’s sternum.

  The shot was a soft cough. Like a book dropped on carpet.

  The man jerked in surprise more than pain and folded straight down, cigarette slipping from his fingers to hiss against damp concrete.

  The second man turned.

  He had time to inhale.

  Nightwatch crossed the distance in three strides. Pistol lowered to avoid snagging. His left hand snapped to his forearm, fingers finding the knife. The blade slid free without sound.

  The rifle came up.

  Nightwatch stepped inside its arc, drove his shoulder into the man’s chest to break his balance, and cut once—clean and exact. Blood sprayed warm across his glove.

  He held the body upright long enough to stop it falling hard, then lowered it carefully beside the first, as if restoring furniture to its place.

  His breathing never changed.

  He wiped the blade on fabric, re-sheathed it, and dragged both bodies into an alcove where pipes and forgotten cleaning supplies made shadows thick enough to swallow mistakes. The rifles went with them, hidden behind a boiler casing. No evidence left where it could complicate someone else’s night.

  “Two down,” he said into comms. “Silent.”

  “Copy,” the operator replied. “You’re approaching the internal courtyard. Drone shows elevated thermals above—overwatch positions.”

  He reached a metal door with half a French warning still clinging to it. SERVICE—something. Unlocked.

  Beyond it, the embassy opened up.

  A courtyard, roofed in glass now black with rain. Water struck it with a constant hiss, trapped overhead like static. Below, battery lanterns cast uneven light across stone planters and a dry fountain, shadows jumping and stuttering where men had set light without understanding it.

  He stayed just inside the doorway.

  Above him, on a gallery circling the courtyard, two heat signatures held still—rifles pointed outward, convinced danger came from outside. A third moved along the railing, pacing. Nervous.

  “Structure?” he asked.

  “Historic,” the operator replied. “Stone ground level. Timber joists supporting the upper gallery. Reinforced inconsistently.”

  He followed the pacing signature with his eyes. Watched how the weight shifted. Noted where the restoration line interrupted the pattern of the floor above—where the past had been patched hastily.

  “Track the mover,” he said. “Tell me when he breaks.”

  Seconds stretched.

  The operator’s breathing leaked through once, then steadied.

  “Now,” she said. “He stepped away.”

  Nightwatch moved fully into the courtyard and angled the pistol upward.

  He fired.

  The suppressed crack punched through weakened timber. Dust burst from the ceiling. Above, a body jolted and collapsed against the railing, shout cut short. A rifle clattered and went still.

  The remaining overwatch rushed forward, boots scraping stone, shouting into the void, weapon sweeping uselessly.

  Nightwatch holstered the pistol and moved beneath the broken section.

  He reached up through splintered wood and shattered stone. Fingers found fabric. Then bone.

  An ankle.

  He pulled.

  The man vanished from above with a strangled cry, dragged down as if the building itself had reached up and taken him. He hit the courtyard hard.

  Nightwatch was on him instantly, knee pinning the chest before shock could become resistance.

  The man thrashed, swore, spat.

  The pistol came back out, muzzle hovering under the jaw—not touching. Close enough.

  “How many,” Nightwatch asked calmly, in flawless French.

  The man glared. Silence.

  Nightwatch produced the knife and slid the blade beneath a fingernail.

  The scream tore out of him.

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  “Ten—maybe eleven—!” he sobbed. “I don’t know—!”

  “Children,” Nightwatch said. “Where.”

  “Second floor—west wing—!” Pain stripped everything else away.

  Nightwatch paused. A fraction. Absorbed it.

  “Why are you here.”

  The man shook, breath ragged. “Because it’s wrong,” he gasped. “Everything’s wrong. You feel it, don’t you? The air—things slipping—bleeding—”

  Nightwatch didn’t interrupt.

  “Something crossed over,” the man went on, words tumbling now. “Someone opened a door that should never have been opened. It started bleeding outward. Animals, weather, people—” He laughed, brittle. “Britain’s where it started. The centre of it.”

  “You don’t know that,” Nightwatch said.

  “I know it,” the man insisted. “We all felt it. The world shifted. Like a bruise forming.”

  Nightwatch studied him. Not the fanaticism—he’d seen that before—but the certainty. The need for shape.

  “And this,” Nightwatch said, gesturing faintly. “This fixes it?”

  The man’s eyes flicked away. “It makes them listen.”

  “How.”

  The man swallowed. Hesitated.

  Nightwatch leaned closer—not threatening. Patient.

  The truth came out wrong, rushed. “Gas,” he whispered. “Already in place.”

  Nightwatch felt it then. A tightening behind the ribs. Not fear—recognition.

  “Where.”

  “Second floor,” the man said quickly. “Near them. If they breach—we release it.”

  Nightwatch closed his eyes for half a heartbeat. Forced the memory down before it could bloom.

  “There were other ways,” he said quietly. “To grieve. To remember.”

  The man laughed weakly. “You don’t understand.”

  Nightwatch looked at him for a long moment.

  “No,” he said. “I understand too well.”

  He raised the pistol.

  “Then who did this?” the man demanded, voice cracking. “Who broke it?”

  Nightwatch’s answer was flat, dismissive. Almost kind.

  “You’re asking the wrong question.”

  The shot was soft and final.

  Nightwatch stood, wiped his glove clean on fabric without ceremony, and stepped past the body.

  “Control,” he said, already moving. “Ten to eleven hostiles. Children second floor west. Gas dispersal device staged on their level. This is not a negotiation event.”

  The line was quiet.

  Then: “Acknowledged.”

  He moved toward the stairwell, listening for breath, for movement, for the subtle lies buildings told when people tried to hide inside them.

  Above him, children were still alive.

  For now.

  He started climbing.

  ———

  Callum

  Harris didn’t raise his voice.

  That was how Callum knew it was bad.

  “Say it again,” Harris said, eyes fixed on the agent’s comms lead, not looking at anyone else. “Slow.”

  The agent held his earpiece, listening, jaw tight. When he spoke, it was measured—too measured.

  “Ten to eleven hostiles,” he said. “Confirmed. Children second floor, west wing. Device staged on their level.”

  Delacroix went very still.

  “What device,” she asked.

  “Gas,” the agent replied. “Contained. Dispersal-ready.”

  The word hit the space like a dropped plate.

  Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just there.

  Callum felt it settle in his chest—heavy, wrong. He pictured the girl at the window again. Her hair stuck to her face. The way her feet hadn’t quite reached the sill.

  Gas didn’t negotiate. Gas didn’t stall. Gas turned rooms into time limits.

  “That changes authorisation,” Delacroix said immediately.

  Delacroix was already turning, snapping orders into her radio—medical standby closer, masks ready, extraction routes cleared.

  “That’s mass casualty. That’s—”

  “—still embassy ground,” the agent cut in, not unkindly. “And still being handled by people Paris trusts.”

  Harris finally looked at him.

  “Handled how?” he asked.

  The agent hesitated. Just a fraction.

  “He’s moving,” he said. “Upward. Toward the threat.”

  “And we’re meant to do what?” Harris asked. “Stand here while kids sit on top of a chemical trigger?”

  “You’re meant to hold the perimeter,” the agent said. “Prevent escalation.”

  Callum watched Harris’s jaw work.

  “Perimeter doesn’t stop gas,” Harris said.

  “No,” the agent agreed. “But interference might accelerate it.”

  Behind them, a woman screamed.

  Not hysterical. Not incoherent. A name—sharp, repeated, breaking apart as she said it. Officers moved quickly, intercepting her before she could reach the barrier. She fought them, nails scraping against armour, sobbing into a stranger’s vest.

  Callum looked past the cordon.

  Parents everywhere. Faces lit by floodlights and phones. Some praying. Some bargaining with no one. One man stood utterly still, hands in his pockets, staring at the embassy like if he blinked it might vanish.

  This was what waiting looked like.

  Delacroix rubbed a hand over her face. “If this goes wrong—”

  “It won’t,” the agent said, but the certainty sounded thinner now. Not wrong. Just human.

  Harris turned slightly, angling his body so only Callum could hear.

  “You’re shaking,” Harris said quietly.

  Callum hadn’t noticed.

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  Harris studied him. “You’re not going anywhere. Understood?”

  Callum nodded.

  He meant to mean it.

  A surge rippled through the crowd—someone shouting, someone else pushing back. Cameras lifted again despite orders. Officers redeployed instinctively, lines flexing, bodies moving to plug gaps that hadn’t existed seconds before.

  The agent nearest the wall stepped away to take a call.

  That was when Callum saw it.

  The scaffolding corridor. The shadow line where the man had disappeared. The stone that didn’t quite sit right when you knew how to look.

  Callum’s pulse kicked.

  He remembered the way the man had pressed his hand—flat, deliberate. Not searching. Knowing.

  This is insane, he thought.

  And then—

  So is standing here.

  He thought of the teacher they’d killed. The way Harris had said it, flat and factual, like facts didn’t bleed. He thought of the girl’s shoes not touching the floor.

  He thought of time.

  Time kills hostages.

  Callum turned, just enough to step behind a police van as two officers jogged past with cable barriers. He pulled his helmet loose and clipped it to his vest—less silhouette, less profile. He slung his rifle lower, barrel down, like he was moving equipment, not intent.

  No one stopped him.

  Why would they? He looked like he belonged.

  He reached the scaffolding as another shout rose behind him—parents surging again, officers shouting back, Delacroix’s voice sharp now, commanding.

  “Hold the line!”

  Callum crouched, heart hammering, and pressed his palm to the stone.

  Cold. Wet. Unremarkable.

  You’re about to make this worse, a voice in his head said.

  Or better, another replied. And you won’t know which until it’s too late.

  He shifted his hand—slightly higher. Felt it then. A faint give. Metal under stone.

  He pressed.

  There was a sound. Old. Buried. Like something waking up.

  The wall moved.

  Not much. Enough.

  Callum slipped inside as boots thundered past behind him.

  The stone eased shut.

  Dark swallowed him.

  For a second he couldn’t breathe.

  Then the building spoke.

  Not kindly.

  Not forgivingly.

  He steadied himself, one hand against the wall, feeling the hum Nightwatch must have felt—wiring, pipes, people above him not moving because they were afraid to.

  His radio crackled.

  “Callum?” Harris’s voice. Sharp now. “Where are you?”

  Callum closed his eyes.

  “I’m inside,” he said.

  Silence.

  Then, distant and very real: “You did what?”

  Callum swallowed and started forward, into the narrow service corridor that smelled like damp and old paint.

  “I couldn’t wait,” he said, voice steady despite himself. “They’re not negotiating. They’re counting.”

  Somewhere above him, children were still alive.

  For now.

  He moved.

  ———

  [Nightwatch]

  Nightwatch felt the stairwell before he saw it.

  Not the steps—the space. The way sound thinned as it rose, the way heat layered itself unevenly, telling him which floors were occupied and which were being avoided. The embassy had stopped pretending to be neutral. It had chosen sides, even if it didn’t know it yet.

  He took the first flight without touching the rail.

  Two floors up, someone coughed.

  A child. Dry. Panicked. Cut off too quickly.

  Nightwatch didn’t break stride.

  The stairwell opened briefly onto a service landing—utility doors, a dead fire hose cabinet, signage meant for staff who already knew where they were going. He paused only long enough to read what the building was telling him.

  Footsteps above. Three sets. Moving fast, sloppy. Not security. Not disciplined. One voice whispering too loudly in French. Another snapping back.

  He adjusted his grip on the pistol and stepped into the blind curve of the stairs.

  The first man came down too fast and didn’t see him until Nightwatch was already inside his reach. There was no shot. Nightwatch hooked the man’s wrist, twisted until bone complained, and drove him backward into the concrete wall. The impact stole breath; the knife took the rest. He lowered the body carefully, palm braced against the man’s chest to keep it from thumping.

  The second tried to run.

  Nightwatch let him take three steps. Enough distance to commit. Then he fired once—low, precise. The man folded mid-stride, momentum carrying him into the wall, where he slid down and stayed there.

  The third froze.

  They always did.

  Nightwatch crossed the space in silence and struck once with the butt of the pistol. Not fatal. Not yet. He dragged the man into the stairwell recess, checked the upper corridor—clear—and leaned in close enough that the man could smell him.

  “No noise,” Nightwatch said, almost gently, in French. “Or this becomes worse.”

  The man nodded so hard his teeth clicked.

  Nightwatch took what he needed quickly. Positions. Numbers that confirmed what he already knew. A panicked gesture toward the west wing. Toward the children.

  Then Nightwatch ended it.

  He wiped his glove clean, stepped back into the stairwell, and started up again—using the narrow service stairs now, the ones meant for cleaners and catering, not diplomats or guests.

  Halfway to the next floor, something changed.

  Not sound. Not heat.

  Pattern.

  Nightwatch stopped.

  The building had been consistent. Hostiles moved with noise or urgency. Civilians stayed still. Empty spaces stayed empty.

  This movement didn’t fit.

  Careful, but wrong. Too heavy for a child. Too hesitant for a fighter. Breathing controlled badly—someone trying not to be heard.

  “Control,” he said quietly. “Confirm—no friendlies inside the structure.”

  A pause. Too long.

  Then the operator: “Negative. No authorised assets inside. You are solo.”

  Nightwatch’s jaw tightened a fraction.

  “Confirm again.”

  “Confirmed,” she replied. “You’re the only one in the building.”

  He exhaled once, slow.

  An uncontrolled variable.

  Someone inside the embassy didn’t belong to the terrorists.

  And didn’t belong here at all.

  Nightwatch resumed climbing—slower now, attention split, pistol low but ready.

  —

  [Callum]

  Callum nearly vomited when he saw the body.

  Not because it was dead—he’d seen dead before—but because of how quiet it was. No sign of struggle. No chaos where there should have been one. Just a man slumped against the wall of an office that still smelled faintly of polish and paper, throat opened with clinical indifference.

  This wasn’t a fight.

  This was removal.

  Callum forced himself to breathe through his nose. The air tasted wrong—dust, old carpet, something metallic underneath. He edged past the body, boots sticking briefly where blood had crept into the fibres.

  Don’t touch anything. Don’t make noise.

  His radio pressed against his chest like an accusation.

  He raised his thumb toward the transmit button—then froze.

  What if they were listening?

  What if English cracked through the corridor like a flare?

  What if he was the noise that made someone upstairs panic and pull a trigger?

  Callum lowered his hand.

  He moved on.

  The corridor narrowed, clearly staff-only now—service offices, storage rooms, evacuation signage half torn away. Emergency strips painted everything in sickly green. Another body ahead. This one twisted awkwardly, arm bent the wrong way, face turned toward a framed photograph on the wall—a smiling family, frozen in a year that didn’t know what was coming.

  Callum swallowed and stepped over him.

  This was beyond him. So far beyond him it was almost funny.

  And yet—

  A sound drifted down the corridor. Muffled. Rhythmic.

  Coughing.

  Children.

  Callum’s chest tightened until breathing hurt.

  He thought of Harris’s voice. You’re not going anywhere.

  He thought of the girl at the window. Her shoes not quite touching the sill.

  Career’s over, a part of him said calmly. You don’t come back from this.

  Another part—louder—answered: Neither do they.

  Callum checked his rifle. Safety on. He hadn’t realised he’d flicked it off earlier; the memory of the click echoed too loudly now. He adjusted his grip, hands slick inside his gloves, and crept forward.

  A door ahead stood ajar.

  Inside: another office. Chairs overturned. A desk shoved hard enough to gouge the wall.

  And behind it—

  A man. Alive. Kneeling. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Blood running from his nose. Terror locked wide in his eyes.

  “Please,” the man whispered in English. “Please—I didn’t—”

  Callum froze.

  Not a terrorist.

  A hostage.

  Footsteps echoed behind him.

  Not rushed. Not sloppy.

  Controlled.

  Callum spun, rifle coming up too fast, heart slamming.

  A shadow filled the corridor.

  A man stepped into the emergency light—long coat, plain clothes, pistol held low but ready. His face was unreadable, eyes already cataloguing everything: Callum, the hostage, the bodies behind him.

  The man’s gaze flicked to Callum’s radio.

  Then back to his eyes.

  For half a second, neither moved.

  Then the man spoke—not loud. Not angry.

  “Lower the weapon,” he said.

  Callum’s hands shook.

  Above them, a child coughed again—closer now.

  The man’s eyes lifted, just slightly, calculating distance and time.

  And Callum understood, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that whatever happened next would not be forgiven by anyone.

  Not the terrorists.

  Not the police.

  Not the man standing in front of him.

  Callum swallowed and began to lower the rifle.

  The footsteps above stopped.