N’oublie Pas
“I’m telling you man, if Fletch doesn’t get his shit together, I’m shipping him off to Syberia,” Fran shook his head, Oliver responded with an amused smile and a knowing look.
Empty threat. Empty talk. Both of them knew it. For the Hell would sooner freeze over than François St. Clair ever give up on any of his men. He knew all of them, their middle names, their families, their favourite cars and their saddest stories, everyone, from commandants to errand boys. They were his family. To most of them, Fran had given a second chance at life, found them on the streets, took them in, give purpose and more than they could ever dream.
“Come on, let’s go, it’s almost midnight,” Aurélie rose to her feet. Fran looked around to spot his date, but to no avail. Sévérine had been an old friend from Paris, one of Julien’s most capable commandants, and one of the first Fran had asked to join him once he took over as the head of Launceston. It cost him his finest Whiskey to shut Julien up.
Launceston had been as hellish as ever, yet Fran, for the first time in nearly four decades of his life, had finally felt at peace. Gone were the days of trying to impress the man that would never be impressed by him, the father who would never appreciate his son and the value he brought to the Organisation. Any chance of finally getting the validation Fran had so desperately sought had died along Nicolas. But perhaps it was a good thing. He was free.
2019 had been tough, but they hadn’t lost a family member. That, in Fran’s book, had been enough of a win. Adrienne, Aur, Faye, Daniel, Delphine, Oliver – they were all safe and sound. 2020 would be even better, he had a feeling. The Russians had been foolish to think they could fight the war on two fronts, they’d spread themselves too thin.
With these thoughts, Fran followed Aurélie and Oliver outside, where guests had been asked to gather to countdown together and enjoy the lavish fireworks show once the clock would strike midnight.
“Looks like you’re in need of a partner for a midnight kiss,” the brunette teased and squeezed his arm.
“Oh, Alliot. I knew you couldn’t keep your hands off of me for too lo–,” he turned around to face Maya, but caught Sévérine looking at him in the background. She stood near the fountain, in the corner of the building. Before Fran rushed off to see what was up with her, he leaned in for a kiss. “It’s New Year’s, I’m feeling charitable,” the St. Clair shrugged and left Maya behind, shaking her head.
Ten..
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Fran asked, but Sévérine averted her eyes.
Nine…
“I’m sorry, Fran…”
Eight…
“Sorry? For what?”
Seven…
Only when Sévérine turned around and ran, Fran noticed another figure in the shadows. He reached for his gun, but it had already been too late.
Two…
“Tell Aurélie, Andrew Rutherford says hello.”
One..
Gunshot. Then another. And another… Bullets after bullets, for no one to hear, as the celebratory fireworks went off with a deafening sound. Fran was on his knees now, but he had to move, he had to warn them. He tried to drag his shredded body, but his left leg had completely given out. Inching closer to the hotel steps, Fran struggled to yell, but only blood came out.
A strange sensation washed over him. The pain was gone now.
He stopped moving, and collapsed on the concrete, he heard Maya scream. He could feel the cold grasp of death taking a hold of him. A fitting end, he mused. Many years ago, Fran had made his peace with the fact that his end would be at the end of a blade or a barrel of a gun.
The last thing François St. Clair would ever see, would be fireworks over the London sky, in a shape of a Russian flag, and Aurélie’s face that looked so much like Emily’s.
Emily.
“See you soon, big sister,” he thought with his dying breath, “see you soon.”
