The Ministry of War's testing ground sprawled under a gray morning sky, its muddy field pocked with target boards and the air sharp with the scent of damp earth and gunpowder. Julien stoodat the edge, the ten Mark I rifles gleaming on a wooden table, their sleek barrels a testament to his fusion of Patrick Arnaud's future knowledge and his own relentless grit. Today was General
Leclerc's trial, the culmination of weeks of sabotage, spies, and Victor Moreau's machinations.
The coded letter's mention of a "patron," the tobacco-scented stranger at the inspection, and Monsieur Roche's oily threats loomed like specters, but Julien's soldier instincts—forged in the trenches of his past life—kept him steady. The contract was within reach, and with it, the chance to save his family, Antoine, and France itself.
Antoine stood beside him, his pistol tucked discreetly in his coat, his poet's charm replaced by a warrior's focus. Claire lingered nearby, her auburn hair tied back, her hazel eyes scanning the crowd of Ministry officials, officers, and curious onlookers. Élise, ever the fox, hovered at thetable's edge, her notepad tucked away, her sharp gaze catching every detail. The faint whiff of tobacco—rich, not the spy's cheap brand—drifted from the crowd, setting Julien's nerves on edge. The stranger from yesterday, the "patron's" eyes, was here.
General Leclerc approached, his gray mustache bristling, his flinty eyes warm with expectation. "Dubois," he said, clapping Julien's shoulder, "your rifles better live up to the hype. The Ministry's watching—Roche and his cronies included. Show me they're worth it." Julien nodded, his voice calm despite the storm in his chest. "They'll do more than that, General.
Pick any rifle, any target. The Mark I's ready." He gestured to the table, his heart pounding as he recalled the sabotaged oil vial Élise had found. They'd replaced every drop, but the memory of Moreau's arson attempt 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, avial 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.