Chapter 22 - Chapter 22: The Inspection Trap

The Dubois factory's workshop was a hive of controlled chaos, the air thick with the metallic tang of steel and the rhythmic clatter of hammers as workers finalized the ten Mark I rifles for General Leclerc's trial. Dawn light streamed through high windows, glinting off the polished barrels stacked on a workbench, each a testament to Julien's blend of Patrick Arnaud's future knowledge and his own relentless drive. But the new note Élise had found—Inspection's your last chance. Give up, or the factory burns—weighed like lead in Julien's pocket, its threat echoing the tobacco­scented menace that had haunted the estate for weeks. The Ministry's inspection, set for this afternoon, loomed as both opportunity and trap, with Victor Moreau and his mysterious "patron" pulling strings to sabotage Julien's dream. Julien stood by the workbench, checking a rifle's gas mechanism, his hands steady but his eyes scanning every shadow. Claire stood nearby, her auburn hair tied back, her presence a quiet fire that both steadied and unnerved him. Her insistence on joining him last night, her hand in his, had stirred a longing he couldn't afford, yet her strength was a weapon he couldn't refuse. Antoine, armed with a pistol and a grim resolve, patrolled the workshop's perimeter, his poet's charm replaced by the warrior Julien had trained. Élise, ever the fox, hovered near the door, her notepad clutched like a shield, her eyes darting for signs of trouble. "We're ready," Julien said, his voice low to Claire. "Ten rifles, perfect down to the last screw. Leclerc's trial is in four days—if we pass this inspection, the contract's ours. But Roche is coming, and he's Moreau's dog. This note means they're planning something." Claire's hazel eyes met his, unflinching. "Then we outsmart them," she said, her voice steady. "You've got the riflttempt and the note—Inspection's your last chance—kept him vigilant. Roche stepped forward, his ruddy face smug, the stranger from the inspection at his side. The man's waxed mustache and cold eyes marked him as a predator, his tobacco scent stronger now. "Monsieur Dubois," Roche said, his voice dripping with false courtesy, "the Ministry expects reliability, not theatrics. Your demonstration was flashy, but can these rifles hold up under pressure?" Julien's smile was sharp, his playboy charm masking a soldier's steel. "Pressure's where they shine, Monsieur Roche. Unlike Moreau's knockoffs, these won't jam when lives are on the line." He handed a rifle to Leclerc, his eyes flicking to the stranger, whose hand lingered near his coat— a gesture Julien knew too well from his trench days. Leclerc raised the Mark I, aiming at a target seventy-five yards out. The crowd fell silent, the only sound the rustle of wind and the distant clatter of a carriage. He fired—ten crisp shots, each a clean crack, the target shredded in seconds. The officers erupted in applause, but Roche's face tightened, and the stranger's eyes narrowed, his hand slipping inside his coat. Julien moved instinctively, stepping between Claire and the stranger, his knife ready but hidden. "Impressed, gentlemen?" he said, his voice loud, drawing eyes to distract the man. "That's one rifle. Let's try another." He handed a second Mark I to an officer, who fired with similar precision, the crowd's cheers growing louder. Roche's smile was forced, his voice sharp. "A good start, Dubois, but we need endurance. Fire all ten rifles, fifty rounds each, no breaks. Let's see if they last." Julien's gut twisted—five hundred rounds was a brutal test, but he'd built the Mark I for worse. "Done," he said, nodding to Antoine, who organized the officers to take up the rifles. The field echoed with gunfire, each Mark I performing flawlessly, their gas mechanisms cycling without a hitch. Élise watched the crowd, her eyes catching a figure at the edge—a worker, not one of theirs, slipping toward a supply tent. The tobacco scent hit her, and she nudged Claire, whispering, "Trouble." Claire's hand tightened on Julien's arm, her voice low. "Julien, Élise sees someone. Could be another sabotage." Julien kept his face neutral, his mind racing with Arnaud's tactical clarity. "Stay with Antoine," he whispered. "I'll handle it." He slipped toward the tent, his knife drawn, as the rifles continued firing. Inside, the worker—a new hire, Marcel's cousin—fumbled with a crate of ammunition, a vial of the same chemical oil in his hand. Julien tackled him, pinning him to the ground, his voice a growl. "Who sent you? Moreau? The patron?" The man spat, his eyes wild. "You're finished, Dubois. The patron owns the Ministry. Your rifles won't save you." Julien tied him up, his heart pounding as he dragged him to Leclerc, who'd finished the test, the rifles still smoking. "General," Julien said, shoving the man forward, "this is Moreau's doing. Sabotage, just like the arson attempt. His 'patron' wants my factory." Leclerc's face darkened, his voice a roar. "Roche, explain this!" Roche stammered, his smugness crumbling as the stranger slipped into the crowd, vanishing with the tobacco scent. The officers murmured, their trust in Roche wavering. "The trial's over," Leclerc declared. "Dubois, you've got your contract—five hundred rifles, first batch. We'll deal with Roche and his friends later." He turned to the crowd, his voice carrying. "The Mark I's the future. Anyone who doubts it answers to me." As the crowd cheered, Antoine clapped Julien's back, Claire's smile warm with pride, and Élise's grin fierce. But Julien's eyes followed the spot where the stranger had vanished. The contract was his, but the "patron" was still out there, and the tobacco scent promised more battles. For now, he'd won—but the war was just beginning.