The coffee table was old-world elegance—mahogany, hand-carved, a remnant of some diplomat’s forgotten past. The earbud Alaya flicked onto its surface was the opposite: sleek, modern, a matte-black sliver of the future gleaming under the lamplight.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Put it in.”
Rusty raised an eyebrow. “That tiny thing?”
Nick leaned back. “You want to meet the future? That’s your handshake.”
Rusty slipped the bud in. His posture held casual—at first.
A pause. Then—
“Good evening, Rusty.”
The voice didn’t buzz or glitch. It slipped into the room like it had always been there—confident, precise, intimate.
Rusty stiffened.
“Your bourbon’s a 12-year Pappy Van Winkle. The fireplace is venting carbon monoxide. And no, I won’t hack Langley’s NROL-91 satellite. Yet.”
Rusty blinked. “What—”
“The label’s damaged, but the bottle shape and wax seal suggest 2012. The fireplace’s CO output is 42 parts per million. Not fatal—yet. And the satellite’s interesting, but we have other priorities.”
A soft chime sounded from the stereo in the corner. Then: the opening notes of So What, smooth and unhurried.
Rusty turned. “Is that—?”
“Miles Davis,” Chameleon replied. “It helps with processing.”
David smiled. “Chameleon likes Miles.”
Nick sipped his drink. “He’s also tracking every burner phone in Paris.”
Rusty pressed two fingers to his temple. “So you’re an AI.”
“An evolved one,” Chameleon said. “And I have a request.”
Rusty sighed. “Let me guess. You want to borrow the launch codes.”
“No,” said Chameleon. “Just your phone.”
Rusty’s jaw flexed. “Why?”
“To call Alain Marchand.”
He froze. “You know Alain?”
“I know his private number ends in 76. I know he orders croissants from Boulangerie Delacroix on Wednesdays. I know he’s been tracking Samir Haddad for seven months, and I know he’s about to waste French counterterrorism resources for another seven looking in the wrong direction.”
Rusty’s fingers curled around his glass. “Haddad?”
“Passed through Charles de Gaulle this morning under the alias Khalil Rami. Algerian passport, forged in Algiers, stamped in Casablanca. He took an Uber to the Café Saint-Roch at 36 Rue de la Verrerie, where he’s currently nursing a short espresso and checking his burner phone.”
Rusty set his drink down. “And?”
“The rest of his cell—six men—are in a warehouse at 112 Boulevard Ney. A car bomb is being prepped for detonation tomorrow at noon in La Défense.”
Nick sat forward. David leaned closer. Alaya, still barefoot, watched Rusty like she was waiting to see if he’d flinch.
He didn’t. He reached for his phone.
“Marchand.” The voice on the other end was groggy, edged with irritation. “Rusty? What the hell—”
“No time,” Rusty snapped. “Haddad. He’s here. Under the alias Khalil Rami. Arrived this morning. I’ve got his location and the rest of his people.”
Marchand’s breath hitched. “Merde! Where?”
Rusty relayed the details. The café. The warehouse. The car bomb. A half-second pause—just long enough for Rusty to hear Marchand moving, grabbing something. Notepad. Sidearm.
“Who’s your source?” Marchand demanded.
Rusty hesitated. “Classified.”
Marchand exhaled sharply. “You’d better be right.”
When the call ended, Rusty sat back, rubbing his brow.
Alaya unfolded her legs and stood, brushing her hands against her thighs. “So we stop something bad. Good.”
Nick shot her a look. “You’re terrifying.”
David glanced at the clock. “Give it time.”
Two hours later, Rusty’s phone buzzed. He answered before the second ring. “Rusty.” Marchand’s voice was breathless, electric. “We got them.”
Rusty sat up straighter.
“Haddad was right where you said,” Marchand continued, voice thick with disbelief. “We followed him. Led us straight to the warehouse. Raid went down fifteen minutes ago— seven alive, and one’s already folding.”
Rusty swallowed. “The car bomb?”
“Disarmed. They had a van, not a car. Packed with enough ANFO to flatten a city block.” Marchand let out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know who your source is, but—mon Dieu. Rusty, you just saved hundreds of lives. How can I thank you?”
Rusty sat motionless. His hand gripped the phone, but his eyes were on Alaya.
Chameleon’s voice purred in his ear. “A bottle of Château Margaux. 2005.”
Rusty exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ll think of something.”
Marchand laughed. “Drinks on me next time we’re in the same room.”
The call ended. Rusty sat back, phone still in his hand, expression unreadable. Nick clinked his glass against the side table. “Welcome to the new war.”
Alaya tilted her head. “It isn’t new. Just faster.”
