Monaco glittered like a jewel box spilled across the Mediterranean. Yachts gleamed in the harbor, engines idling like patient predators. High above, the palace perched against the cliffside, its floodlit walls daring anyone to doubt its legacy.
And tonight, that palace hosted a gala where half the world's elite gathered to toast themselves — and where one CIA asset had just been compromised.
The job: extract Elena Dubois, a deep-cover agent posing as an aide to the Monégasque ambassador. Someone had burned her identity, and enemy operatives were circling. If she vanished tonight, every secret she carried would vanish with her.
I adjusted my tuxedo cufflink, trying to look every inch the suave Charles Carmichael. Smooth. Confident. Dangerous.
"Try not to embarrass yourself, Bartowski."
The growl came from behind me.
I turned and saw him. John Casey.
Square shoulders, jaw set like granite, eyes sweeping the room with the calm intensity of a sniper sighting targets. He wore a tux, but somehow it looked more like a uniform. The bow tie didn't soften him. Nothing could.
"Casey," I said with a half-smile. "Pleasure."
He didn't smile back. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm here to complete the mission. You're just here because Beckman thinks that brain of yours might keep you alive. Don't slow me down."
I exhaled, trying to keep the Carmichael mask on. "Nice to meet you too."
Inside the ballroom, crystal chandeliers spilled light across a sea of silk gowns and tailored suits. A string quartet played softly while waiters weaved between tables with silver trays. Monaco's elite smiled, laughed, lied.
I leaned on the bar, scanning the crowd. Flash. The Intersect fired — dossiers unfurling in my mind: foreign dignitaries, arms dealers in disguise, a Russian "businessman" with ties to Moscow intelligence. All potential threats.
"Eyes on Dubois," Casey muttered through the comm. He was perched near the balcony, posture rigid, scanning like a hawk. "Far corner, blue dress."
I found her easily — elegant, calm, but her eyes betrayed tension. She sipped champagne and smiled politely, but her gaze flicked constantly toward the exits. She knew she was burned.
I started toward her, weaving through guests with practiced Carmichael charm. A smile here, a compliment there, the dance of blending in. Casey, of course, moved like a soldier in enemy territory — stiff, direct, scaring a waiter half to death when he brushed too close.
"Subtlety," I whispered into the comm. "Ever heard of it?"
"Subtlety gets you killed," he grunted.
"Or it gets you invited to the right table." I slid next to Dubois, flashing a smile. "Evening. Charles Carmichael. I couldn't help but notice you look like someone who could use better company."
Her lips twitched — a tiny crack in her mask. She knew my name was cover. She knew what I was here for.
But before she could answer, two men in tuxedos stepped onto the dance floor — too stiff, too sharp-eyed. Not guests. Operatives.
"Company," Casey muttered. "Three more by the west door."
The gala music swelled. I extended a hand to Dubois. "Dance?"
For a second, she hesitated. Then she took it.
We slid onto the floor, weaving between couples. From a distance, we were just two more guests moving to the waltz. Up close, she whispered: "They know who I am. They'll move the second I step out of this room."
"Then don't step out," I murmured, guiding her with a spin. "Step through."
Casey's voice cut in. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Keeping her alive," I said, twirling Dubois away from the approaching operatives.
Casey grunted something that sounded like a curse, then added: "Fine. I'll clear the exits. Don't screw this up."
The operatives moved closer, trying to close the circle. One reached into his jacket.
Flash. SIG Sauer P226. Nine rounds. Safety catch loose.
I spun Dubois under my arm, shifting us just enough that the man's draw caught fabric instead of flesh. The gun clattered to the floor, swallowed by gasps and screams.
"Time to go!" I hissed.
Casey was already there, plowing through the crowd with all the subtlety of a freight train. He shoved one man into a table of champagne flutes, decked another with a single brutal punch, and grabbed Dubois by the arm.
"I've got her," he barked.
"Easy," I snapped, yanking the gunman's tie around his throat just enough to drop him unconscious. "She's not a football."
"Move, Carmichael!"
We barreled through the kitchens, pots clattering as chefs shouted in three languages. Operatives stormed in behind us, bullets sparking off steel counters.
Casey returned fire with icy precision, dropping one man clean through a rack of wine bottles. I ducked low, grabbed a tray, and flung it like a frisbee into another's face. He collapsed, groaning.
Casey gave me a look. Half disbelief. Half… reluctant respect.
"Not bad," he muttered.
"Thanks," I said, breathless. "I try to keep dinnerware multipurpose."
Minutes later, we were in the getaway car, the palace shrinking behind us. Dubois sat in the backseat, silent, shaken but alive.
Casey kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight. "You improvise too much."
"And you improvise too little," I shot back.
We drove in silence for a while, the sea glittering to our left.
Finally, Casey spoke, voice low. "Doesn't matter how we got her out. What matters is we did."
I glanced at him, surprised. "Was that… almost a compliment?"
His mouth twitched — maybe the faintest ghost of a smile. "Don't get used to it, Carmichael."
By the time we handed Dubois off to Agency contacts, the night air was heavy with salt and silence. The mission was over.
Casey stood with arms crossed, watching the handoff. I stood beside him, tucking my tie back into place.
We didn't speak. We didn't have to.
The clash was obvious. The connection, undeniable.
And somewhere in that silence, the foundation of a partnership had been set.