Delacroix froze.
Someone just knocked on his door. No one knows this place, and even the people that know had a special knock rhyme.
This knock doesn't sound familiar.
His fingers tightened around the stack of papers he'd been reviewing under the dim light of his desk lamp. His pulse spiked. No one should know he was here.
A second knock followed, firmer this time. His breath hitched.
His hand shot out, grabbing the gun he kept within arm's reach. The weight of it felt reassuring, steadying the tremor in his fingers, and the deep fear in his heart.
He moved toward the door cautiously, as his mind raced. Richard? No—he had blocked and cut those ties. But had Richard found out? Had one of his old allies betrayed him? The paranoia never fully faded, not after years of working under a man like Richard Carvil.
Delacroix stood motionless, as he listened. Silence. No voices. No shuffling. Whoever it was knew how to stay quiet.
A third knock. Louder. More deliberate.
