Rain continue to tell over Paris like a curtain drawn over a stage before the final act.
But no theater could contain the blood being spilled.
Inside the intelligence bureau's war room, General Delon stood over the central operations table, his gloved hand pressing down on a map of Paris riddled with pins, blood stains, and cigarette burns.
Beside that map was a list.
It bore no title, only names.
The Ghost List.
Each name had a consequence, each one a rot that had spread through the bones of France.
Varenne entered quietly.
His coat was soaked, collar turned up, a folder tucked beneath his arm.
He first adjusted his coat and lit a cigarette looking towards the list.
"The last six," Varenne said softly, handing Delon a fresh document.
""Thirteen on the list," Varenne said. "Seven confirmed arrested. You were right. They're not hiding. They're burrowing in."
Delon took the file, his voice colder than the wind outside. "Then we flush them out. Every last one."
