Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 214: Ghosts are waking, Vidal. And they’re walking.

Chapter 214: Ghosts are waking, Vidal. And they’re walking.

The warehouse sat on the outskirts of Avignon.

Marceau Vidal stepped inside, flashlight cutting through the dark.

His coat was damp, and his nerves raw.

He’d been called here at 2:03 a.m., no explanation, just coordinates from his source of information.

He walked through the empty space.

It felt like the kind of place where you could disappear, and no one would ever find you.

He finally saw the man standing near a broken window.

The man didn’t turn to acknowledge him, his back stiff and unmoving.

No name, no greeting.

Just a long silence.

Marceau exhaled sharply, the cold air making his breath visible. "You call me out here in the middle of the night. You’d better tell me something worth frostbite."

The man turned and spoke in a low voice.

"Something big is moving."

Marceau narrowed his eyes. "Big how?"

"Too many redeployments," the source muttered. "Too many familiar names showing up on restricted movement logs. Units that were ghosted years ago suddenly have activity. Retired officers back in circulation. Encrypted bursts from locations we haven’t seen alive in decades."

Marceau felt a chill run down his spine, but he kept his voice steady. "And? You’ve always been good at connecting dots, but this sounds like a goddamn conspiracy theory."

The man gaze met Marceau’s.

His eyes were exhausted but unwavering. "Ghosts are waking, Vidal. And they’re walking."

Marceau’s blood ran cold. "What the hell are you saying?"

"I’m saying that something very big is happening inside the French army," the source continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Bigger than drills. Bigger than border security. This... this smells like the end of something."

Marceau’s chest tightened. "You bring anything?"

The source nodded and handed over a sealed folder.

Marceau took it without hesitation, tearing it open and scanning through the pages by the beam of his flashlight.

His pulse quickened with each name.

Names.

Dozens of them.

Some of the most decorated officers still on record.

Others were supposed to be dead.

Missing.

Disavowed.

Every one of them accounted for.

Moving.

Meeting.

He read the list twice.

It didn’t shrink.

His throat tightened. "No. No way. These are top brass. Courbet. Rousse. Gaudin. Mercier. Even Delacroix?"

The source didn’t respond.

His face was unreadable.

Marceau looked up sharply, his voice low but full of disbelief. "You know what this looks like."

"I do," the source said quietly, his eyes dark. "And I know it’s not just some military exercise. There’s something else happening here, Vidal. Something deeper than we can even imagine. They’re making moves."

Marceau clenched his fists. "Well?"

"They’re gathering," the source said. "I don’t know where. But I’ve worked intel my whole life, and I’ve never seen movement like this without an operation coming."

Marceau stared at him.

His mind raced, and a hundred questions flooded his thoughts, but one stood out among them all. "What kind of operation?"

The source hesitated for a moment.

Then, with a resigned look in his eyes, he whispered.

"A coup."

Marceau’s heart hammered in his chest.

His skin crawled.

His breath came faster now, panic beginning to gnaw at the edges of his calm facade. "You sure?"

"No one calls in this many ghosts unless they’re planning to rewrite the system," the source said.

Marceau’s mind thought.

A coup?

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

The possibility was there, yes, but the implications were staggering.

Marceau closed the file, and with a steady voice he said.

"Get out of here. Disappear. Burn everything. I’ll take this straight to Rivet."

The source nodded.

"Be quick."

Marceau didn’t look back as he sprinted to his car.

He had to get this information to Rivet immediately.

It took nearly an hour to reach the house. Lieutenant Colonel Louis Rivet lived in a secure estate south of Paris.

No nameplate.

Just guards and silence.

Rivet didn’t trust many people, and it was obvious why.

Marceau slowed as he approached, the guards at the gate stopping him immediately.

Rifles raised.

"State your business."

Marceau’s hands tightened on the wheel, his voice calm but urgent. "I have urgent intel. For Rivet. Now. Life or death."

The guards didn’t move.

"I swear to God," Marceau said, his voice cutting through the tension, "if you delay me, France won’t exist in a month."

The seconds dragged on like hours.

Finally, one of the guards relented, stepping back. "He’ll see you."

Marceau drove through, the heavy gates slowly grinding open.

He parked quickly, getting out and making his way to the door.

Rivet emerged from a hallway, his robe hanging loosely around him, hair sticking up as if he’d been roused from a deep sleep.

He rubbed his eyes, the fatigue clear in his movements.

"This better be worth waking me," Rivet muttered.

Marceau took a steadying breath.

He couldn’t afford any mistakes now. "I have intel. Movement across the military. Orders, patterns, redeployments. It looks like a coup."

Rivet blinked.

His eyes widened with disbelief. "You’re sure?"

Marceau handed him the file. "I have names. They’re all in there. It’s not speculation. It’s happening."

Rivet flipped through the pages, his expression unreadable at first.

But then it shifted.

"Jesus..." he murmured, his hand shaking slightly as he reached for a glass of water.

He drank deeply, trying to steady himself.

He set the glass down, his eyes still wide. "You show this to anyone else?"

"No, sir," Marceau replied, watching him closely. "Only you."

Rivet nodded, his gaze intense. "Your source?"

Marceau hesitated.

He had no choice.

Rivet needed the information, but the source’s identity had to remain protected. "I can’t."

Rivet’s eyes narrowed, the stern commander rising to the surface. "Marceau." His voice was flat, hard.

"This isn’t about favors anymore. If this is true, France changes tomorrow. Don’t hesitate."

Marceau looked at him for a long moment, then slowly pulled out a notepad from his coat pocket.

He scribbled down a name and an address, handing it over.

Rivet scanned it once.

His lips curled into a thin smile. "Good."

He stood up, pacing around the room for a moment before turning to Marceau. "You stay here. I have a call to make."

Marceau nodded, sinking onto a leather sofa.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the water and took a long sip.

He could feel the tension starting to loose in his body, but it didn’t last long.

Then nothing.

A deafening crack filled the air.

Pain.

Bright.

Splitting.

And then... darkness.

Rivet stood over the body, his pistol still warm in his hand.

His face was blank, void of any emotion.

The only sound was the ticking of a clock on the wall.

The door burst open, and two of his men rushed in, frozen at the sight.

"Clean it," Rivet ordered, his voice calm, detached.

They hesitated, looking at the lifeless body on the floor.

"Now," Rivet growled.

They moved quickly, but Rivet wasn’t finished.

He looked up at them, his eyes cold. "Kill anyone else who knew he was here. Family, neighbors, friends. Leave nothing."

He handed the notepad with the address to his most trusted agent. "Go to this address. Burn it. Everyone inside. Erase them."

The agent nodded without a word and disappeared into the shadows.

Rivet walked back to his desk, lit a cigarette, and pulled out a blank envelope.

He wrote carefully, his hand steady despite the chaos around him.

Delon,

The plan was nearly leaked. I’ve handled it.

Hurry. Every hour we wait, more cracks form.

Rats come through cracks.

—R.

He sealed the envelope, his expression unreadable.

Rivet handed it to another runner.

"Deliver in person. No stops. No phone."

He waited until the door shut before sinking back into his chair.

The cigarette in his hand burned slowly as he took another drag.

"Vive la France," he murmured.