The second floor of the printing factory smelled of old ink and damp concrete, but what was more pressing at this moment was the tension among the three of them. Elliott spread a map of Paris on an abandoned printing press, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness like a scalpel.
"Theodore has four known hideouts in Paris," Elliott's finger traced along the warehouse district in the 19th arrondissement, "but according to the communication intercepted by Interpol last week, he’s most likely at this location—the old textile mill along the Saint-Denis Canal. It has underground structures, easy to defend, hard to infiltrate."
Liam leaned against the wall, picking up a satellite photo with his uninjured right hand. "He’s got at least twelve men. Mercenaries with Eastern Europea
