The Dubois estate's study was a cocoon of lamplight and shadows, the air thick with the musty scent of old books and the faint tang of ink from Julien's furious scribbling. He sat at a cluttered desk, surrounded by stacks of paper—technical drawings of the Mark I rifle, notes on alloys, and a half-drafted patent application. The gas-operated mechanism, the lightweight frame, the tenround magazine—all were revolutionary, and Julien knew they'd change warfare. But only if he could protect them. Victor Moreau's sneering face from the demonstration and the tobacco-scented spy haunting the estate's edges drove home the urgency: his enemies were closing in, and a patent was his first line of defense.
The clock struck ten, its chime sharp against the quiet. Julien's hand cramped as he finalized the patent draft, his mind racing with Patrick Arnaud's knowledge of intellectual property from 2025—a concept barely understood in 1911 France. He needed to lock down the Mark I's design before Moreau's spies could steal it, and the memory of his past life's failures—Antoine's death, France's devastation—pushed him to work faster. The threatening note, still hidden in his drawer, whispered its warning: Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you.
A soft knock broke his focus, and Antoine slipped in, his usual grin tempered by a wary glance at the hallway. "Burning the midnight oil, genius?" he said, dropping into a chair. His coat was rumpled, his hair mussed from a day spent charming contacts in Paris. "Leclerc's trial is set for next month. He's pushing the Ministry hard, but word's out—Moreau's spreading lies, saying your rifle's a pipe dream."
Julien leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "Let him talk. The Mark I works. But if he gets his hands on the design before I patent it, we're done. I'm filing this tomorrow—Paris patent office. You know anyone there?"
Antoine nodded, his eyes sharp. "My cousin, Philippe, clerks at the office. He's discreet, owes me a favor. I'll get him to fast-track it. But Julien, this spy business—Élise told me about the tobacco man. I saw someone like that in Paris today, near the Ministry. Low cap, cheap cigarette. Watching me."
Julien's gut twisted, his soldier's instincts flaring. "Moreau's moving fast. He knows the Mark I's a threat. If he steals the design, he'll slap his name on it and sell it to the highest bidder." He tapped the patent draft. "This locks him out. But I need to get to Paris before his spies do."
A rustle outside the door made them both freeze. Julien's hand slid to the knife in his belt, a habit from his trench days. He motioned Antoine to stay quiet and crept to the door, easing it open. The hallway was empty, but the faint whiff of tobacco lingered, curling like a ghost in the air. He shut the door, his heart pounding. "They're close," he whispered. "Too close."
Antoine's face hardened, his playful air gone. "You're scaring me, Julien. This isn't just about rifles, is it? What aren't you telling me?"
Julien hesitated, the weight of his past life—a future Antoine couldn't know—choking his words. "I've seen what happens when we're not ready," he said finally, his voice low. "I won't let it happen again. You're with me, right?"
Antoine studied him, then nodded. "Always, mon ami. But you're carrying something heavy. When you're ready, tell me."
Before Julien could respond, Élise burst in, her nightgown tucked into trousers, her eyes wide with urgency. "Julien, I found something!" She held up a crumpled cigarette pack, the brand unfamiliar, reeking of the same cheap tobacco. "It was under the stable window. And this—" She handed him a scrap of paper, scrawled with a single word: Blueprints.
Julien's blood ran cold. "They're after the designs. Now." He grabbed the patent draft and blueprint, stuffing them into his satchel. "Élise, wake Papa. Tell him I'm leaving for Paris at dawn. Antoine, you're with me. We file this before sunrise, or Moreau wins."
Élise nodded, her mischief replaced by steel. "I'll cover for you. But Julien, the stablehand saw someone sneaking toward the factory tonight. Be careful."
Julien's mind raced, Arnaud's strategic insights kicking in. "They're desperate. That means we're close." He turned to Antoine. "Get your father's carriage ready. We're not waiting for them to strike."
As they slipped out into the night, the estate's grounds were silent, the air cool and heavy with the scent of dew-soaked grass. Julien's hand stayed on his knife, his eyes scanning the shadows. The factory loomed in the distance, its silhouette a reminder of his mission. But as they reached the stables, a figure darted across the path—low cap, cigarette glowing briefly before vanishing into the dark.
Antoine grabbed Julien's arm. "That's him. The spy."
Julien's jaw clenched, his vow to protect Antoine and the Mark I burning hot. "Let him run," he said, his voice steel. "He's too late. Paris is ours." But as they climbed into the carriage, the spy's cigarette glow lingered in his mind, a warning that the race was far from over.