Whenever Sébastien arrived, I’d be ready to go. Thankful I’d stopped to fill up the tank with gas on the way, I tried to stay positive, but I couldn’t help worrying that North was onto us. How had that happened? I was positive nobody had followed us from the Mont. We were the only people on the pre-dawn shuttle bus to the car park. Even if North had figured out what we were up to, how had he found us at the Machines of the Island of Nantes? I’d called Lane from our burner phones. We’d done everything right. Hadn’t we? I didn’t have to wait much longer for my answer. Two minutes later, Sébastien appeared. He walked as quickly as a man could walk without breaking into a run. Under one arm he carried a bulging canvas bag. Over his other shoulder hung a duffle bag. “Open the boot!” he called. I located the switch and popped the trunk. Sébastien dumped his gear into the trunk and slid into the passenger seat.
