Time for a recon mission.

Sitting on the fireplace, he leaned back and slid his head and torso through the flue. It was tight, the walls crowding in, the stink of wet ash clogging his throat. He wiggled up to a standing position.

Past the vent the chimney opened up a bit. That made it easy for him to shove his way up off the floor, using his forearms and the tread of his boots to push outward against the scorched brick. He moved in lurches, a few inches at a time.

Every foot or so, he’d stop and listen. He’d pulled a similar Santa ploy once in a chimney in the Czech Republic, squirming his way between floors to eavesdrop on a conversation. But given the thick walls of the old chalet, he had no luck hearing anything aside from his own breathing.

He made slow, painful progress. Grit caked his cheeks, crammed itself beneath his nails. The glow of his bedroom vanished underfoot, leaving him in absolute darkness. After a time he saw a spill of golden light from a room above. He wormed his way up toward the next floor.

His calves cramped, his thighs burning. He was unable to wipe off the sweat tickling his brow, so he blinked hard, contorting his face. He couldn’t look up to gauge his progress because flakes of ash fell down into his eyes. But he sensed the light growing stronger, sweeping across his shoulders.

At last his hand made contact with a lip in the flue. After so many tentative climbing holds, the firm grip felt reassuring. He grabbed the lip with both hands, put the soles of his boots against the wall beneath, wedged his back against the opposite wall, and rested.

He wiped his forehead on his sleeves and then took stock.

He’d arrived at the edge of a shaft angled down to a fireplace on the fourth floor. The log holder below was stacked high with unlit cedar logs.

Before scouting the room he wanted to check what was above.

Gathering his strength, he pulled himself farther up the flue, put his boots on the lip he’d just been gripping, and strained to reach above him.

Two thick bars, coated with soot and welded into place, blocked the way up.

He stood there, balanced above the fourth floor in the guts of the building, breathing away his disappointment. There’d be no going up and out onto the roof, which would have afforded him an ideal vantage to pinpoint the locations of René’s men. But all hopes for intel gathering weren’t dashed; he could still make it down through the fireplace beneath him and into that fourth-floor room. And if there was one thing Jack had taught him, it was that there was useful information to be had everywhere.