His feelings for her were detrimental to the mission.
He knew this. Jake had made it clear when he’d told them about Trent and Carla. Personal attachment compromised judgment. It made you hesitate at critical moments. Made you choose the person over the mission.
But knowing something and being able to change it were two different things.
He couldn’t deny his feelings anymore. Couldn’t pretend they were friends.
He was in love with Marielle Moreau.
And it was going to get them both killed.
He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. His body was exhausted enough. But his mind kept spinning, kept returning to the train platform.
He must have finally dozed off, because the next thing he knew, bright lights flashed on outside, flooding the room with harsh white light that turned the darkness into day.
Omar sat up, instantly alert. His hand went to his hip—no gun.
The motion-detecting floodlights at the edge of the property blazed like search beams. He rolled out of bed, shirtless, grabbed the binoculars and the gun from his dry bag, and moved to the window, staying to the side to avoid being silhouetted.
He raised the binocs and peered out into the pitch dark beyond the lights.
A commando unit was approaching from the shore. Six figures in tactical gear, moving in formation. Night vision goggles. Professional spacing. Military precision.
The floodlights had temporarily blinded them. Omar could see them hesitating, adjusting. He knew from experience that it would take their eyes several minutes to readjust to darkness after that blast of light.
This was their window to escape.
He moved fast. Threw on the now-ruined clothes he’d worn earlier, shoved his feet into his shoes, and stuffed the binoculars into the bag.
He was halfway to Hanna’s room he nearly collided with Luc in the hallway.
Luc thrust a large, canvas rucksack at him. “Go bag,” he explained. “Food, flashlight, euros, meds.”
Omar took it, confused. “Why do you have a go bag?”
“I survived the Bataclan attack. It became habit after that.”
“Thanks, man.”
As Omar was wheeling around to grab the extra clothes from the bureau and stuff them in the bag, Hanna and Marielle rushed out into the hall, both fully dressed. Marielle wore the sea foam blouse and linen pants. Hanna had changed into dark jeans and a black t-shirt, another outfit from Luc’s fashion collection.
Luc handed them each a similar rucksack.
Marielle threw her arms around Luc and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Merci.”
In under ninety seconds, they’d gathered their belongs and were thundering down the stairs.
Luc tossed a set of keys, and Omar snagged them out of the air.
“My car is in the alley behind the flower shop. The blue Peugeot. It has a full tank of petrol. Another habit.”
“Luc, I’m sorry we brought trouble to your door. Then men outside are professional—probably from the U.S.” Marielle shook her head.
“Bof.” The shrug was pure Gallic indifference. “I’ll shake my fist and yell at them like any self-respecting Frenchman.”
“Hey, why the motion-detecting floodlights?” Hanna asked.
Luc’s expression shifted from determination to amused annoyance. “Teenage lovers kept sneaking up the stairs and trying to break into the fishing shed to make love. I understood—until they used an ankle-length silver cashmere shawl as their blanket.”