Chapter 19 - Chapter 19: A Dangerous Game

The Dubois factory stood like a fortress under the twilight sky, its brick walls glowing faintly in the last light, the air thick with the tang of cooling steel and the distant scent of pine from the estate's woods. Julien crouched behind a stack of crates near the side entrance, his knife gripped tightly, his breath steady despite the pulse hammering in his ears. The decoded letter Élise had slipped him—mentioning a "delivery" to the factory tonight—had set his soldier's instincts ablaze, honed from his past life in the trenches. Victor Moreau's reach, backed by the mysterious "patron" tied to the Ministry, was tightening, and with General Leclerc's trial just days away, Julien couldn't afford a misstep. The Mark I rifles, ten nearly finished prototypes locked in the workshop, were his lifeline to the contract—and France's future. Antoine crouched beside him, his face tense but resolute, a borrowed pistol tucked into his belt. His training with Julien had sharpened his edge, but the poet's charm still flickered in his eyes. "You sure about this, Julien?" he whispered, his voice low against the hum of crickets. "Ambushing spies in the dark? Feels like one of Élise's adventure novels." Julien's lips twitched, but his eyes stayed on the factory door, its scratched lock a reminder of the tobacco-scented intruder. "No novels," he said, his voice steel. "This is real. The letter said 'delivery'—could be sabotage, theft, or worse. We stop them tonight, or the trial's dead." He didn't add the deeper fear: losing Antoine again, like in that blood-soaked alley of his past life. A rustle in the shadows snapped their attention. Julien signaled Antoine to stay low, his hand tightening on the knife. The faint whiff of cheap tobacco drifted on the breeze, unmistakable, chilling. Footsteps crunched—two sets, deliberate, moving toward the factory's side door. Julien's mind raced, Patrick Arnaud's tactical knowledge from 2025 blending with his own combat experience. Trap them, don't chase. He pointed to a stack of barrels, motioning Antoine to circle around. The figures emerged—two men, one tall and wiry, the other stocky, both in dark coats and low caps. The wiry one carried a satchel, its bulk suggesting tools or worse. The tobacco scent clung to him, marking him as the spy who'd haunted the estate. They paused at the door, the stocky man fumbling with a crowbar, muttering, "Moreau wants those rifles gone. Burn the lot if we have to." Julien's blood ran cold. Sabotage. He nodded to Antoine, who crept behind the barrels, silent as a shadow. Julien waited, his body coiled, then sprang as the wiry man turned. He tackled him, knife at the man's throat, his voice a low growl. "Move, and you're done. Who's the patron? Talk." The man froze, his cigarette falling to the dirt, its ember winking out. "You're dead, Dubois," he spat, but fear cracked his voice. "You don't know who you're crossing." Antoine pinned the stocky man, the pistol pressed to his back. "Answer him," Antoine said, his voice steady, no trace of the poet now. "Or we hand you to the gendarmes with that letter you wrote." The wiry man's eyes darted, but before he could speak, a third figure lunged from the shadows—a knife glinting, aimed at Julien's back. Instinct took over; Julien rolled, the blade grazing his coat, and kicked the attacker's knee, dropping him with a grunt. Antoine swung his pistol, cracking the man's temple, and he crumpled, unconscious. "Nice move," Julien panted, tying the wiry man's hands with rope from the crates. "You're learning." Antoine's grin was tight. "You're a bad influence. Now what? These bastards aren't talking." Julien searched the wiry man's satchel, finding matches, a can of kerosene, and a rough sketch of the factory's layout. His stomach twisted—arson. "They were going to burn the workshop," he said, his voice grim. "We take them to Leclerc. The letter, the kerosene—this ties to Moreau and his 'patron.'" As they dragged the men toward the estate, Élise appeared, her trousers streaked with mud, a lantern in hand. "Heard the noise," she said, her eyes wide but gleaming. "Caught your spies, did you? Maman's got the stablehands ready to guard them." Julien nodded, his relief tinged with dread. "Good work, little fox. But this isn't over. The patron's still out there, and they're not stopping." He glanced at Antoine, alive and fierce, and felt a flicker of hope. He'd saved his friend tonight, but the letter's mention of a "patron" higher than Moreau meant the real enemy was still hidden. As they locked the men in the stables, the tobacco scent lingered, a reminder of the danger circling closer. Leclerc's trial was days away, and Julien needed more than rifles—he needed answers. The game was getting deadlier, and he was running out of time to unmask the puppeteer.