Hotel Belmond – André's Suite
Lucas steps into the room.
Empty.
He checks the bathroom.
Empty.
Balcony.
Empty.
A breath he didn't realize he was holding tightens in his throat. He doesn't hesitate—his movements turn frantic, hands shoving aside furniture, yanking open drawers, pacing the length of the suite. His voice—André's name—rips through the air, over and over, but there's no response.
No presence.
The guards arrive, sweeping through the suite in a calculated search. Lucas barely registers them as they check every possible hiding spot. But the realization settles in like cold steel against his spine.
André is gone.
Disappeared like he never existed.
The room is pristine—too pristine. The sheets, untouched. The curtains, undisturbed. The air itself feels sterile, as if it had never been breathed in by a living soul.
Across the courtyard, in the dimly lit suite opposite his, she watches.
Red.
She doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stares—a silent specter in the shadows.
Lucas sees her. And for a moment, neither of them move.
The weight of unspoken words, of unconfirmed suspicions, hangs in the air between them. A battle of gazes. A quiet, seething war of unreadable expressions.
Red.
Lucas's mind reels.
She was hired. This was part of the plan. André was supposed to stage his own kidnapping—disappear in a way that left no trail. Dalia was supposed to erase all records. Red was supposed to execute it, make it look real.
So why is Red here?
Why does she look just as lost as him?
Lucas doesn't waste another second. He pulls out his phone, thumbs flying over the screen, sending one message to two people.
Ms. Lombardi.
Lincoln.
"Where is André?"
A simple text. But the weight of it presses against his chest like a countdown clock ticking too fast.
Red doesn't move. Not an inch. She stands like a statue, watching, waiting. No flicker of emotion. No tells.
And why would she?
She was Spectre's Black Bishop—a piece Lincoln played with precision.
Dalia's Apartment – Hotel Belmond
Lucas barely breathes as he bursts into Dalia's apartment. His phone is still clutched in his grip, his knuckles tight around it. The moment he steps inside, she's already pulling up the security feeds.
"How?" His voice is sharp, edged with something he doesn't recognize—panic. "How did he get out?"
Dalia's eyes flicker toward him, then back to the screen.
"The CCTVs," she mutters, scrolling through footage. "Last night."
Lucas leans in. The footage plays in grainy resolution, a silent sequence of events unfolding frame by frame.
Two men.
The royal seal on their uniforms.
André walking between them. No struggle. No hesitation.
"But…" Lucas exhales. "There's no sign of force. No sign of coercion."
"Exactly." Dalia's tone sharpens. "And we only have footage of them leaving. Nothing before. Nothing after."
Lucas straightens. His chest is rising and falling too quickly now, his mind racing.
"Where do the cameras trace after that?"
Dalia's expression hardens.
"Blind spots." She exhales through her nose. "After they left the hotel, there's nothing."
"Dammit."
Lucas's phone vibrates in his grip. A response.
Lincoln.
"You lit the match. Don't ask me where the fire spread."
Bullshit.
Lucas clenches his jaw and slams his fist against the desk. Papers scatter, a glass topples over, and Dalia's chair scrapes against the floor as she turns to face him.
"Mind yourself, Mr. Sinclair." Her tone is steady, but there's something colder beneath it.
Lucas doesn't acknowledge it. His mind is already five steps ahead. "Lincoln definitely knows something."
Dalia folds her arms. "And you think Red will tell us?"
"She's our only lead."
"She's his pawn. What's she going to do?"
Lucas's gaze hardens. "We don't have the luxury of options, Ms. Lombardi. A CCTV timestamp is nice, but I need something concrete. Someone messed up our plan, and now it's either you or me who figures out who."
Dalia lets out a scoff, crossing her arms. "You're suspecting me?"
Lucas inhales sharply. "I'm suspecting that if we keep playing this game with lies and distrust, we're going to lose before we even get our first move in."
A beat of silence.
Then Dalia leans back against the desk, her eyes sharp, calculating.
"Then I suggest you move quickly, Mr. Sinclair."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Get Andre in."
Only one text and she'd be damned if she ignored it. The only thing was for her to erase the records. The one thing she always did. This time just on someone's order. She couldn't tell Lucas.
Some things aren't right. They're just required.
The Garage – Lincoln & Red
The air is thick with gasoline and damp concrete. Shadows stretch long against the dim glow of flickering lights.
Lincoln steps forward.
Red is already waiting.
She's leaning against the side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, posture unshaken.
"Red."
She doesn't react to the name. Just tips her chin up slightly, watching him.
"Mr. Sinclair."
A tense beat passes. Then—
"Where is he?" Lucas demands.
Red's expression doesn't shift. "Like hell I'd know."
Lucas's eyes narrow. He studies her—the way her hands remain steady at her sides, the way she doesn't flinch, doesn't break eye contact.
She's unreadable.
She's always been unreadable.
And yet—she's still here.
"Then why are you still standing around and having this conversation?" His voice is sharp. "If you're off-duty, he's not your problem anymore, right?"
Something flickers across Red's eyes. But it's gone before Lucas can place it.
A beat of silence. Then—
"What do you know?" she asks.
Lucas doesn't hesitate.
"Lincoln."
Red exhales, tilting her head slightly.
"He wouldn't."
Lucas scoffs. "How do you know?"
Red doesn't answer immediately. She just holds his gaze, unwavering.
Then—finally—
"I know."
And somehow, that answer doesn't settle him at all.