Eliot stood outside the eastern wall of Montmartre Cemetery. The night was as black as ink, with only a few distant streetlights casting faint glimmers. Beside him stood three men—his former police academy classmates, now scattered across Paris’s various departments, all here tonight in a personal capacity.
“This is the situation,” Eliot whispered, unfurling a hand-drawn map. “Beneath the cemetery lies an abandoned ossuary. The entrance is behind Degas’s tomb. The Pure Eye is holding a gathering there at eight o’clock. We have three objectives: locate and protect Liam Sterling, who may be imprisoned; keep tabs on ‘the Collector’ if he appears; and most importantly—ensure no children are brought here.”
“No authorization, no backup. If we get caught…” Marc, a tactical advisor for the anti-
