Guardian's Vendetta

Anna Gabriel

Book 6

Georgia Wagner

Text Copyright © 2025 Georgia Wagner

Publisher: Greenfield Press Ltd

The right of Georgia Wagner to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved.

The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

‘Guardian’s Vendetta’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue:

Also by Georgia Wagner

Also by Georgia Wagner

Also by Georgia Wagner

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About the Author

Chapter 1

Three months later…

Anna Gabriel stared at the three men with automatic rifles. She stood over a pile of bodies.

Six dead. Two more wounded. She could hear them moaning behind her.

But her gun was empty, and at least one of the surviving assailants knew it.

The man had a thick Turkish accent as he pointed his weapon at her head. “Drop it!” he snapped. “Now,” he growled.

Anna held the empty weapon steady, her face betraying nothing as she assessed the three men confronting her. The warehouse air hung thick with cordite and copper, the acrid perfume of violence that had become as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Behind her, the wounded men's labored breathing created an uneven counterpoint to the rain drumming against the metal roof overhead.

"I said drop it!" the Turkish man repeated, his voice rising with tension. The muzzle of his AK-47 remained fixed on the center of Anna's forehead, his trigger finger visibly tightening. The two men flanking him maintained their distance, weapons similarly trained on her, their eyes constantly shifting between her face and the carnage she had left in her wake.

She could read their expressions even through the tactical balaclavas they wore—a mixture of fear and disbelief. They had entered this warehouse with eleven experienced operators, all heavily armed, all with combat experience. Now eight were down, and the woman responsible stood before them looking almost bored, a streak of white hair gleaming like a battle standard against her dark locks.

Anna’s hair had grown back slowly after she’d shaved it three months ago to break into a Russian prison. Since then, things had gotten progressively worse. A failed meeting, a billionaire private security czar in hiding, and multi-millions in bounties on Anna’s head.

But she was on a hunt of her own.

"The children," Anna said, her voice flat and emotionless. "Where are they being moved to?"

The Turkish man barked a laugh, though there was no humor in the sound. "You think you're giving orders? Look around you. Your luck has run out."

Anna's gaze never wavered, her empty weapon still aimed at his chest with perfect steadiness. "This isn't luck," she replied softly. "This is mathematics: trajectory and physics. I counted every round."

Confusion flickered across the man's eyes, visible even behind his mask. "Your gun is empty."

"Yes," Anna agreed. "Mine is."

The Turkish man opened his mouth to respond when a single shot echoed through the warehouse. The sound was curiously muffled, almost gentle compared to the firefight that had preceded it. A perfectly round hole appeared in his forehead, followed a microsecond later by a much larger exit wound that sprayed crimson mist into the air behind him.

Before his body began to fall, two more shots in rapid succession dropped his companions, their fingers reflexively tightening on triggers that sent wild bursts of automatic fire into the ceiling. Sparks showered down as bullets shredded ancient electrical conduits, plunging portions of the warehouse into a moonlit darkness of long shadows and the faint glisten of skin and eyes catching the little light that remained.

Anna didn't flinch as the bodies collapsed around her, didn't blink as blood spattered across her tactical gear. Her expression remained unchanged as she lowered her empty weapon and turned toward the shadowed mezzanine that overlooked the warehouse floor.

"You're late," she called, her voice carrying easily in the sudden silence.

Kovac emerged from the darkness, moving with fluid grace along the metal catwalk. The suppressed sniper rifle in his hands looked almost delicate in his grip, an extension of his body rather than a tool. His face, once battered and swollen from prison beatings, had healed into a mask of angular intensity. Only his eyes remained unchanged—pale to the point of colorlessness, filled with a cold light that never quite reached human warmth.

"Not late," Kovac replied, his voice carrying a faint Eastern European accent that added texture to his words. "Precisely on time. You needed to know if they had information."

He descended the metal stairs with measured steps, the rifle now slung casually across his back. Each footfall was deliberately placed, avoiding the spreading pools of blood with the fastidiousness of someone avoiding puddles after rain. It wasn't squeamishness—Anna knew better. Kovac considered bloodstains to be signatures. He never left them carelessly.

"And did they?" Anna asked, already moving toward the nearest wounded man. The operative lay against a shipping crate, clutching a stomach wound that had painted his hands crimson.

Kovac's lips curved in what might have been a smile on another man's face. "Third radio frequency. The backup channel they weren't supposed to use except in emergencies." He gestured toward the dead Turkish man. "He activated it when you started killing his men. Very informative conversation."

Anna crouched beside the wounded operative, who stared up at her with hatred burning through the pain in his eyes. She studied him dispassionately, noting the quality of his tactical gear, the professional way he'd applied a pressure bandage despite his injuries.

"Private military," she observed. "Not the usual traffickers."

"Blackwater rejects," Kovac agreed, circling the other wounded man with the clinical interest of a collector examining a specimen.

The man at Anna's feet spat blood. "You're dead," he hissed. "Both of you. Do you have any idea who you're—"

Anna silenced him with a single, efficient strike to the throat. She straightened, checking her watch.

"We have ninety minutes," she said.

Kovac nodded, already retrieving a small, leather-bound notebook from his pocket. He opened it carefully, selecting a page with deliberate consideration. "I've been working on something special for this occasion," he murmured, eyes scanning the handwritten notes. "A variation on the Belgrade method, but with certain... aesthetic improvements."

Anna didn't look at the notebook. She never did. The partnership she'd formed with Kovac three months ago was one of necessity, not preference. He was a monster by any reasonable definition, but he was a monster with skills she needed and a peculiar code of ethics that made him trustworthy within carefully defined parameters.

"No time for art," she said flatly. "Clean and quick. We need information about the ship's security protocols."

Disappointment flickered across Kovac's face, but he closed the notebook with a nod. "As you wish.”

She’d offered him the same fee that her nephew and niece had been sold for. Four million. Contingent on recovery of the children and discovery of the man who’d purchased them.

Anthony Starr, a four-star US general was said to have died in combat 3 years ago. After he’d retired, he’d built one of the largest private security firms in the world.

Then he’d vanished.

Starr Private Solutions was still operating with a profit margin of nine figures, while its founder remained officially deceased. She’d narrowly missed him in Russia. He’d known she was coming and hadn’t shown for a meeting—it had been a trap which had nearly cost Anna her life.

Barely surviving the encounter, Anna had spent the past three months peeling back layers of shell companies, offshore accounts, and falsified records to track the man's movements.

The trail had led her through six countries, four firefights, and two assassins who'd come for the bounty on her head. And now, finally, to this warehouse on the outskirts of Istanbul and a cargo ship scheduled to depart within the hour.

It was all going to plan.

And then the helicopter arrived.

Anna heard it first—the distinctive whup-whup-whup that cut through the patter of rain on the metal roof. Her muscles tensed, a predator's instinct recognizing an approaching threat.

"Kovac," she said, voice tight.

He was already moving, head tilted, listening with the focused intensity of a hunting animal. "Two birds," he confirmed, the notebook disappearing into his pocket as he retrieved his rifle in one fluid motion. "Heavy rotors. Military-grade."

The sound swelled, no longer distant but directly overhead, the building's metal skin vibrating with the pressure waves. Dust and debris sifted down from the rafters as powerful searchlights suddenly pierced through the skylights, casting harsh white columns through the warehouse gloom.

"Someone was waiting for the emergency channel," Kovac muttered, his pale eyes tracking the movement of the searchlights. "Triggered a prepared response."

The warehouse erupted in chaos as the main doors exploded inward, the heavy metal barriers crumpling like paper beneath the impact of armored vehicles. Six Turkish military Otokar Cobras roared into the cavernous space, their engines growling in unison, tires crushing spent shell casings beneath their treads. Soldiers poured from the vehicles with practiced precision, weapons up, moving in textbook tactical formations.

Anna dropped to a crouch, dragging the wounded man as a shield between herself and the approaching forces. "We need an exit," she hissed.

"We always have an exit," Kovac replied, his voice betraying neither fear nor excitement. He gestured toward the rear of the warehouse with a subtle nod. "Service corridor. Three hundred meters to the water."

The helicopters hovered lower, their downdraft now powerful enough to send empty crates skittering across the floor. A voice boomed from an external speaker, first in Turkish, then in accented English:

"YOU ARE SURROUNDED. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. THERE IS NO ESCAPE."

Anna met Kovac's gaze across the distance. A silent understanding passed between them—they had contingencies for this. They'd discussed the possibility of being cornered, of needing to separate.

"The ship leaves in fifty-seven minutes," Anna said, her voice barely audible above the helicopter rotors.

Kovac nodded once, a barely perceptible movement. "And if you don't make extraction?"

Anna's green eyes hardened. "Then you finish the job.”

A soldier appeared at the edge of Anna's peripheral vision, and she reacted without conscious thought. Her empty weapon became a bludgeon, smashing into his helmet with calculated force before she relieved him of his sidearm.

She raised the weapon.

But the door behind them burst open. Machine guns fired.

Kovac flung himself through the window.

Anna's body jerked as the rounds struck her—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The impacts hammered against her chest and abdomen, each one driving the air from her lungs in violent bursts. She staggered backward, her stolen sidearm still clutched in her fingers, vision swimming as she tried to process what was happening.

No blood.

The realization cut through the shock. No blood, no searing pain of bullets tearing through vital organs. Instead, a spreading numbness radiated from each impact point, a heaviness that seemed to pull at her limbs with inexorable force. Her mind, still racing with tactical calculations even as her body betrayed her, cataloged the sensations with clinical precision.

Non-lethal rounds. Specialized impact munitions loaded with powerful sedatives.

She fought against the chemical darkness creeping into her consciousness, her legs buckling beneath her. The warehouse floor rushed up to meet her, the concrete jarring against her knees. The sidearm slipped from fingers suddenly clumsy and unresponsive, clattering away across the floor. Around her, the Turkish soldiers advanced in a tightening circle, their weapons trained on her.

Through dimming vision, Anna watched Kovac's form disappear through the shattered window, glass fragments catching the helicopter searchlights like falling stars.

The sounds around her distorted, stretching and compressing like audio played through damaged speakers. The soldiers' shouted commands blurred into unintelligible noise. Anna forced herself to focus, to remain present even as the sedative pulled her toward unconsciousness. Her training had prepared her for this—resistance to chemical interrogation had been part of her specialized military curriculum. She drew on those lessons now, using pain to anchor herself to consciousness.

She bit down hard on her tongue, the sharp pain providing momentary clarity. Blood filled her mouth, hot and metallic, as she tried to push herself upright. Her muscles refused to cooperate, responding with the sluggish reluctance of limbs submerged in concrete.

"Subject is still conscious," someone shouted in accented English. "Administer secondary dose."

Rough hands seized her, fingers digging into her shoulders with bruising force. Anna fought back with the only weapons left to her—dead weight and unpredictability. She allowed herself to collapse completely, then suddenly twisted, using the momentum to slam her head backward into the face of the soldier behind her. The crunch of cartilage and bone was followed by a satisfying howl of pain.

Her victory was short-lived. A boot connected with her ribs, driving what little air remained from her lungs. Another struck her shoulder, sending white-hot pain lancing down her arm.

Then, darkness took her.

Chapter 2

The low rumble of an engine reverberated through the metal confines. Anna felt each vibration resonate in her bones, amplifying the dull ache left by the soldiers' assault. Her body swayed with the motion of a vehicle bumping over uneven terrain, and she forced herself to remain limp, eyes shut against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights.

She was lying on a cold, hard surface, her arms and legs bound with coarse restraints that bit into her skin. But they weren't expecting her to wake this soon. They thought she'd be under for hours yet.

Her wounded tongue found the cracked tooth—a premeditated fracture, jagged edges deliberately exposed before she'd lost consciousness. She worked it now with single-minded purpose, finally freeing a bitter-tasting chemical compound that flooded her mouth. Waldo Strange had assured her it would counteract any sedative they'd use.

She hoped he was right.

Minutes passed, stretching into eternities as she lay perfectly still, heart pounding against her ribs in defiance of the drug-induced lethargy. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, sensation began to return to her extremities: fingers twitching beneath their bindings, muscles tensing with renewed urgency.

Voices drifted from somewhere beyond the walls of the vehicle. Turkish, intermixed with snatches of English—confident and certain. "Five minutes," someone called out.

Anna gauged her surroundings without moving, relying on sound and intuition as much as sight. The space was small and spartan; she wasn't alone. Through barely parted lashes, she glimpsed two figures seated near the rear doors—young men in military fatigues cradling rifles across their laps. Their attention was elsewhere, focused on a radio crackling with static-laden orders.

Her mind raced ahead, fitting each piece into place. The ship had been a decoy. Kovac and Anna had both known it.

But Starr? The private security magnate who’d faked his own death didn’t know that they knew. He’d laid a trap on that cargo ship.

Kovac would pretend to spring it. To keep Starr looking in the wrong direction.

For three months, now, the man who’d purchased Beth’s kids like commodities had been two steps ahead. She had to hand it to him. He was good—very good—at what he did. She’d only managed a glimpse of the man once.

And even then, it had been from a great distance. She still wasn’t entirely convinced Anthony Starr really had survived the IED which had purportedly claimed his life.

But she’d seen the transactions in the Albino’s phone. Tony and Sarah were still alive, and Starr Private Solutions knew where.

"Poor bitch won't know what hit her," one of the soldiers laughed over his shoulder, glancing back at Anna's inert form.

She didn't flinch. Her breathing remained slow and shallow, just another body slumped in captivity.

The vehicle began to slow, its vibrations changing pitch as gravel gave way to smoother concrete beneath them. The voices outside grew louder; more numerous—shouting instructions and responding with crisp acknowledgment.

Through heavy-lidded eyes she saw sunlight slanting in through narrow gaps around the doorframe—brilliant against the dim interior—and knew they were passing through into open air again.

She shifted slightly within her bonds, allowing herself only the smallest movement as she prepared for what came next.

The sounds outside changed abruptly—metallic clanging followed by a grinding halt—and then they were stationary; parked within some vast echoing structure that swallowed all other noise except its own empty resonance.

Doors swung open and harsh voices demanded her exit. Rough hands pulled her from the vehicle, dragging her into blinding sunlight. Anna kept her body limp, trusting that they'd underestimate her until it was too late.

She blinked against the brightness, allowing her eyes to adjust and take in as much detail as possible. The base was sprawling, a labyrinth of concrete buildings and barbed wire, with soldiers moving purposefully among them.

Her captors hauled her across an open expanse, their footsteps echoing off steel and cement. She noted the layout: the position of guard towers, the number of personnel, potential escape routes. Every detail could be critical.

It was the details that would carry her through this. Details like Anthony Starr’s family-life. And those details said there was only one person he loved in this world—his son.

She hadn’t been able to find Starr himself, but Waldo Strange III had tracked down his son under a name change, Simon Argon, currently on a Turkish military base.

Her captors dragged her through another set of doors, into cool dimness that smelled of oil and metal and sweat. The space was cavernous; their shouted orders reverberated off high walls as she was hauled past rows of equipment and vehicles.

They would take her for interrogation, thinking they could break her before delivering her to whoever held the real power here.

But she was already inside. Already hunting.

Her quarry was clear: Simon Argon—Anthony Starr's only son. She just had to find him.

But every mission was only as good as its intel. Waldo had gathered some. Casper had gathered most. And if any part they’d gathered was incorrect, Anna could find herself trapped with no payoff for the enormous risk she was taking.

She had to trust them. They had done their part, and now, on the inside, it was her turn.

Keeping her head lolling, her eyes blinking lethargically as if she were scarcely conscious, Anna’s mind moved at a rapid pace, sorting the details she glimpsed through half-lidded eyes.

This military base wasn’t one publicly documented like the one she’d visited in Ankara, rather, the base consisted of ramshackle structures, hastily constructed but heavily fortified. Fencing and razor wire crisscrossed in layers—haphazard yet effective—and the soldiers operated with a mix of discipline and chaos that spoke to private interests working behind the scenes.

Her captors pulled her through a warren of interconnected buildings, past rooms packed with crates marked in multiple languages: English, Russian, Arabic.

It was all heavily guarded but not military—at least not officially.

These men were mercenaries, barracks full of them. They'd shoot first and ask questions never.

She was deep inside Anthony Starr’s world now, and a bullet would be the least of her worries if they realized who she was before she found Simon Argon.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp sting across her face—a slap that snapped her head sideways.

"Eyes down," a guard barked in Turkish, his tone commanding as he leaned over her.

Anna let her head hang low, feigning compliance.

They dragged her onward, deeper into the bowels of the base. If this gamble didn’t pay off... If Anthony Starr's son wasn't here...

She shoved those thoughts aside with grim determination and focused on what she knew: Waldo's intel had been solid so far.

Simon Argon was here. He had to be. It was only a matter of time until she found him.

They dragged her into a cold, concrete room.

A muted bulb buzzed in the ceiling as they dumped her into a chair and snapped metal cuffs around her wrists. The sharp clink echoed off bare walls, and the guards stepped back, their eyes cautious.

They spoke quickly in Turkish, their tones alternating between amusement and urgency.

"Amerikan casus."

"We should call it in."

"No," one interrupted. "They'll want to break her first. See what she knows."

Anna remained motionless, her head slumped forward. She listened intently, catching every word through the dull throb of blood rushing in her ears.

"This bitch? She won't last long."

"She doesn't have to," another replied darkly.

Their voices faded as they exited, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room. Anna lifted her head slightly and scanned her surroundings. The place was stark—more of a cell than an interrogation room—with nothing but the chair bolted to the floor.

A small vent high on one wall offered the only hint of ventilation. No windows. One heavy door.

Time was going to be short unless she moved fast.

She tested the cuffs around her wrists. They were solid but not unbreakable… if she had the right leverage.

Casper’s voice echoed in her mind from a long-ago lesson: “Nothing is unbreakable, Anna.” He’d been saying it in reference to her ability to survive interrogation. But she’d decided to take it to mean the mission.

No mission was impossible—not with the proper will.

Anna had served in the blackest of ops.

She’d been recruited right out of high school into the most secretive division of the Army, her aptitude and willingness making her an ideal candidate for missions with no oversight and absolute deniability.

They'd honed her skills, turning her into a ghost who haunted warzones around the globe. Combat had shaped every piece of her: Her body was a map of scars, each marking a victory—survival against impossible odds. High cheekbones, celestial nose, piercing green eyes, and a single streak of white in her dark hair stood as testament to some shock or trauma she couldn’t quite remember.

As adept as she was deadly, Anna could disappear from radars both literal and figurative, only resurfacing when missions were complete and trails were cold.

It was her sister’s pleas that had brought her back out of the shadows she'd never meant to leave: Beth, her murdered husband, and her missing children. The hope that she could somehow recover them, that she could somehow return her niece and nephew to her grieving sister, drove her as surely as any mission she’d ever had. And now she was here.

Anna’s mouth curled into something like a smile—more grim than amused—as she twisted in the chair.

The cuffs bit into old wounds on her wrists, but pain was an old friend. She ignored it and focused on the room’s silence, waiting for any sign that someone was approaching before she began.

Silence. Silence meant time.

She shifted position, wincing at the pull on old wounds and new bruises. They'd underestimated just how awake she'd be by now; how much fight she had left.

Focusing on her breathing, steadying herself as she took stock of everything she knew about this place—the layout she'd glimpsed on the way in, the number of personnel, how they'd spoken with deference about calling something in—Anna used the distraction to mask the pain as she strained again.

Calling something in… No, not something; someone. A commander? Private security members? Someone related to Starr’s outfit? Starr himself?

That was unlikely, she thought. Starr was careful, very careful.

Anna forced herself to relax into the chair, conserving energy for when it mattered most. Her fingers probed deftly at the inside seam of her shirt where she'd hidden a slender piece of wire and began working it against the cuffs.

Footsteps approached outside, hurried and accompanied by terse voices that heightened the tension in the air.

Anna's pulse quickened, but she pushed down adrenaline-fueled impatience with cold focus.

The door swung open again, and two figures entered: one carrying a tray laden with decidedly un-sanitized medical instruments, implements that glinted ominously under harsh light; the other clutched a camera to document what they expected would be bloody sport.

The man with the camera set it on a tripod, adjusting the angle to capture every detail.

The other loomed over Anna, selecting a knife and holding it up to the light.

Anna kept her eyes half-closed, her breath slow but ready. The wire slipped deftly against metal—grinding quietly—and she felt the first signs of give.

The man with the knife wore a uniform devoid of insignia—a common practice among those who didn't want their actions traced back to any official organization. His face was weathered, eyes flat and emotionless beneath heavy brows. A professional, then. Not some thug given a blade and permission.

"You Americans," he said in English tinged with an accent Anna couldn't immediately place—something Eastern European layered over something Middle Eastern. "Always so arrogant. Coming where you don't belong."

The wire between Anna's fingers made incremental progress against the cuff's locking mechanism. She kept her movements microscopic, imperceptible to anyone watching.

"You think we don't know who you are?" he continued, using the flat of the blade to lift her chin. "Anna Gabriel. Ghost of Kabul. The woman who disappeared entire units in Yemen."

A flicker of surprise threatened to cross Anna's face, but she suppressed it. Few people connected that name to her face, even fewer lived to speak of it.

Starr knew her name. The Albino had given it. But the Albino was dead.

So that meant Starr was watching. She wasn’t a ghost anymore.

"You have quite the bounty on your head," he said, circling her with calculated steps. "But we have questions first. Then, perhaps, we collect."

The cameraman adjusted his equipment with practiced efficiency. "Ready," he announced.

The interrogator nodded, then leaned in close to Anna's ear. "Let's start with something simple. Why are you here?"

Anna remained silent, her eyes unfocused as though still fighting the sedatives. The wire in her fingers found purchase against the internal spring of the handcuff. One more careful movement and—

The interrogator's fist crashed into her stomach, driving the air from her lungs in a painful rush. "I asked you a question!"

Anna doubled over as far as her restraints allowed, using the movement to mask the final twist of her wrist. The left cuff clicked imperceptibly, now loose enough to slip free when the moment came.

Anna remained silent, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the interrogator's shoulder. The man's face darkened with frustration, a vein pulsing at his temple as he grabbed her jaw, fingers digging into the hollows beneath her cheekbones.

"You think silence protects you?" he hissed, his breath hot against her face. "There are no rules here. No Geneva Convention. No oversight."

The cameraman adjusted his position, ensuring a better angle as the interrogator released her with a contemptuous shove and reached for his tray. Metal instruments clinked against each other—a whisper of promised pain that Anna recognized from both sides of interrogation.

"We know about the warehouse," the man continued, selecting a pair of pliers that gleamed dully under the harsh light. "We know about your partner. The psychopath, Kovac." He spat the name like a curse. "He won't be joining us. My men are very thorough."

A lie. Anna knew it instantly. Kovac was too good, too careful to be caught by these men. It was a standard tactic—isolate the subject, convince them they were alone: break their spirit before breaking their body.

The blow landed across her cheekbone, snapping her head to the side with enough force to make her vision blur. Blood filled her mouth, warm and metallic. She spat it onto the concrete floor but offered nothing else.

"Who sent you?" The question punctuated another blow, this one to her ribs. Something cracked beneath the impact, a white-hot flare of pain that threatened to consume her focus. "CIA? Defense Intelligence? Or are you private now?"

Anna's breathing remained measured, controlled despite the agony that radiated through her torso. Each inhale was fire, each exhale carefully modulated to reveal nothing. The loose handcuff around her left wrist could be slipped at any moment, but she waited. Patience had kept her alive through worse than this.

The interrogator circled behind her, his footsteps deliberate and measured. She tracked him by sound, by the shift in air pressure, by instinct honed through years of combat. When his hands gripped her shoulders, she didn't flinch.

"Perhaps you need more persuasion," he murmured, too close to her ear.

The knife appeared in his hand again, its edge catching the light as he pressed it against her forearm. With deliberate slowness, he drew the blade across her skin, opening a shallow cut that immediately welled with blood. Anna watched it with detached interest, her mind cataloging the pain and filing it away as irrelevant.

He moved around to face her again, studying her with clinical interest. The cameraman zoomed in, focusing on the blood that now trickled down her arm to drip from her fingertips onto the floor…

Documentation… Video evidence.

That was it. That was Starr’s weakness. He liked seeing what his operatives did, what the men who didn’t even know they worked for him did.

Video evidence was the weakness.

And so they’d come up with a plan to exploit it.

She needed one more punch—to the face, preferably. It needed to look good, and she needed to sell it.

Anna's gaze drifted to the camera, then back to the interrogator, a faint smile touching her lips—barely perceptible, but enough to register with the interrogator.

"Something funny?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave, dangerous now.

Anna let her smile widen just a fraction. "Your technique," she whispered in English, her voice raspy from disuse. "Amateur. Sloppy."

The interrogator's nostrils flared, his grip tightening on the knife. "You think you know torture? You think you understand pain?"

Anna met his gaze directly for the first time, her green eyes suddenly sharp and focused. "I've forgotten more about pain than you'll ever know," she said, each word precise and measured. "You're just... disappointing."

The cameraman shifted uncomfortably, clearly sensing the dangerous current now flowing between captive and captor. The interrogator's face darkened, a storm gathering behind his eyes.

"You want to see technique?" he hissed.

Anna's response was to spit blood onto his boots.

The reaction was instantaneous. The interrogator's control shattered, his professional demeanor crumbling beneath the weight of wounded pride. His fist swung in a vicious arc, connecting with Anna's face with a sickening crack. The impact rocked her head back, stars exploding across her vision as pain bloomed white-hot across her cheekbone.

Perfect.

Even as her head snapped back from the force of the blow, Anna's tongue was already working at her upper right molar—the second compromised tooth, positioned just behind the one that had delivered the stimulant. The cap cracked under the pressure, and a bitter, chemical taste flooded her mouth. Unlike the first compound, this one worked almost instantly, designed to mimic death rather than counteract sedatives.

Waldo Strange III had been explicit about the effects. "It'll shut down almost everything," he'd warned, hands fluttering nervously as he'd explained. "Heart rate drops to barely detectable. Respiration becomes so shallow it's practically nonexistent. Body temperature plummets. For all practical purposes, you'll appear dead. You'll still be conscious, but unable to move. Not for the faint of heart."

The riskiest part of the plan.

It was the part that had made Casper refuse to accompany her to the warehouse. Kovac had been crazy enough to join, or perhaps he had simply wanted to see her dead. But Anna didn’t quit a mission. Starr had hidden, had fled, had built mountains of obstacles between himself and any hunter.

She was here to break through.

The compound hit her bloodstream like liquid nitrogen, a cold wave that swept through her veins with terrifying speed. Her muscles seized, then went slack. Her vision tunneled, narrowing to pinpricks of light in an expanding darkness. She felt her heart stutter in her chest, its rhythm faltering before settling into a beat so faint it would be undetectable without specialized equipment.

Anna allowed herself to slump forward, head lolling as if the punch had rendered her unconscious. Blood dripped from her split lip onto the concrete floor, forming a small, perfect circle beneath her.

The interrogator cursed, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back as her vision swam, then faded again.

She’d use any tactic—even her own death. The intel was good. She could read people. Now all she could do was hope her intuitions were correct—that as she lay paralyzed in feigned death, they would not simply stuff her into an oil drum to be buried and forgotten.

Darkness came, for the second time, as quick as thought.

Chapter 3

Simon Argon jammed his hands into his jacket. He grimaced against the biting, evening wind. The cold nipped at his face, and he hastened down the side street in the small, seaside Izmir village.

The wind off the Aegean cut through Simon's jacket like a blade, carrying the scent of salt, fish, and diesel fuel. He hunched his shoulders against it, quickening his pace through the tangled streets of Izmir's Basmane district. The ancient quarter had once been the jewel of Ottoman architecture; now it was a labyrinth of crumbling facades and shadowy alleys where tourists rarely ventured after dark.

Simon's hand instinctively pressed against the thick roll of bills in his left pocket—twenty thousand euros bound with a rubber band, each note crisp and unmarked as requested. The weight of it was reassuring, a talisman against the growing unease that tightened his chest with each step deeper into the district.

He'd chosen his route carefully, avoiding the main thoroughfares where CCTV cameras monitored the flow of humanity through Turkey's third-largest city. Izmir had changed since his last visit three years ago. The government's crackdown had driven certain businesses further underground, making transactions like his more complicated, more dangerous.

A stray cat darted across his path, disappearing into a narrow gap between buildings where the plaster had crumbled away to reveal ancient stonework beneath. Simon paused at the corner, taking in his surroundings with practiced efficiency. The minaret of a distant mosque pierced the twilight sky, its silhouette a stark reminder that he was far from the sanitized corporate offices of Starr Private Solutions.

Ahead, neon signs flickered in Turkish and Arabic, casting pools of garish light onto the wet cobblestones. A group of men huddled in the doorway of a çay house, their conversation dropping to whispers as Simon passed. He kept his gaze forward, his stride purposeful—neither hurried enough to attract attention nor slow enough to invite confrontation.

The roll of bills seemed to grow heavier with each step. It wasn't just money he carried; it was silence, compliance, continuation of the carefully constructed fiction that had become his life since his father's "death." He was, and would forever be, Simon Argon: business consultant and occasional fixer, a man with connections but no official ties to the sprawling security empire his father had built.

He was only twenty-years-old. None of them took him seriously. Only his father’s reputation opened doors, and now, after the “death,” his name didn’t even do that.

But Simon was determined to change this.

The address he sought was at the end of a particularly narrow alley, where the buildings leaned toward each other like drunken conspirators. The few functioning streetlights here cast more shadows than illumination, transforming ordinary doorways into yawning mouths of darkness. The smell of the sea was stronger here, mingling with the aroma of grilling meat from a nearby kebab stand and something else—the metallic bite of recent violence.

Simon spotted a splash of darker color on the stones near his feet. Fresh blood, not yet washed away by the intermittent rain. He stepped carefully around it, his hand now fully closed around the roll of bills. Twenty thousand euros to make a problem disappear—a bargain, considering the alternatives.

Twenty thousand to buy his own reputation. And also… if he was honest… Swallowing, Simon sighed, the thought softening his expression for a moment. The money wasn’t simply to buy him out of his misery. It was also to help her.

He hadn’t expected to fall in love. He’d been on the military base for nearly four months now. And she was the daughter of the main commander—a Turkish official who'd taken substantial bribes from Starr Private Solutions. The man despised Simon, viewing him as nothing more than a pampered American brat playing at business.

But Leyla was different. She saw beyond the façade he presented to the world, past the carefully constructed identity of Simon Argon to glimpse something of the boy who'd grown up in Anthony Starr's shadow. She understood what it meant to live with secrets, to navigate the treacherous waters where private desires collided with family obligations.

The building he approached was unmarked save for a faded blue door with peeling paint. Simon knocked three times, paused, then twice more—the agreed-upon signal. The sound echoed in the narrow confines of the alley, seeming to reverberate off the ancient stones.

Seconds stretched into a minute. Simon fought the urge to look over his shoulder, to betray the nervousness that crawled beneath his skin like insects. Twenty thousand euros. A fortune to most, pocket change to his father. But this was his money, earned through legitimate consulting work—his attempt to establish himself as something other than Anthony Starr's son.

The door opened a crack, revealing nothing but darkness beyond and the glint of what might have been a weapon. A voice, low and raspy, spoke in rapid Turkish.

"I'm here about the package," Simon replied in carefully practiced Turkish, the syllables feeling clumsy on his tongue despite months of lessons.

The door opened wider, just enough to allow him entry. Simon slipped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The space beyond was sparsely furnished—a few chairs, a table with a laptop, walls bare except for a large map of the eastern Mediterranean marked with shipping routes.

The man who had opened the door was shorter than Simon had expected, with the compact build of a fighter and eyes that betrayed nothing. A scar bisected his left eyebrow, disappearing into his hairline.

"You brought the money?" the man asked, his accent thicker than Simon had anticipated, vowels stretching like taffy between consonants sharp as broken glass.

Simon nodded, withdrawing the roll from his pocket with deliberate slowness. The man's eyes tracked his movements, pupils dilating slightly at the sight of the euros. Not greed, Simon realized—assessment. He was calculating whether this American boy might be trouble.

"Twenty thousand," Simon said, keeping his voice steady. "As agreed."

The scarred man shook his head. “Price went up. Forty-thousand now.”

Simon blinked.

This was all the money he’d brought.

“That’s not what we agreed on…”

“Forty-thousand!” snapped the man in Turkish. “Now.” Simon noticed the knife in his hand.

The scarred man stepped closer, the knife glinting in the dim light. Simon felt a cold knot form in his stomach, a familiar sensation of adrenaline and rapid-fire risk assessment. He'd been in situations like this before—not often, but enough to recognize the delicate balance between capitulation and confrontation.

"Forty thousand," the scarred man repeated, his voice hardening as he twisted the knife slightly, letting the edge catch what little light filtered through the grimy windows. "Market conditions have changed. Very dangerous now. Very complicated."

Simon's jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath the skin as he stared back at the man. The roll of bills in his hand suddenly felt insubstantial, a prop in a negotiation that had veered dangerously off-script. Twenty thousand euros—his money, earned through legitimate work, part of his desperate attempt to forge an identity separate from his father's shadow.

Something shifted in Simon's eyes, a coldness settling over his features that transformed his youthful face into something harder, older. The scarred man must have noticed it too, because he hesitated, knife hand dropping slightly.

"No," Simon said, the single syllable falling between them like a stone. "That's not how this works."

The scarred man's eyebrows rose, clearly unused to rejection. "You think you have choice? You come to my place, my territory—"

"Your territory?" Simon's laugh held no humor, the sound brittle and sharp in the confined space. "Let's be clear about whose territory this really is."

He took a step forward rather than back, invading the scarred man's space with a confidence that belied his twenty years. The anger that had been simmering beneath his carefully maintained facade—anger at his father's machinations, at the constant compromises, at his own complicity—suddenly found focus in this cheap attempt at extortion.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" Simon's voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing the scarred man to lean in slightly to hear him. "Do you know who my associates are?"

"American boy with money. That's all I need to know."

"Then you should have done better research. Because Colonel Aydin would be very interested to know you're trying to extort his future son-in-law."

The name landed like a physical blow. Colonel Aydin—Leyla's father—commanded not just a military base but a network of influence that extended throughout the region. A man whose favor was currency more valuable than the euros clutched in Simon's other hand. A man whose daughter had somehow, improbably, seen something worth loving in Simon Argon.

It didn’t matter that Aydin himself hated Simon. This thug didn’t need to know that.

"Colonel Aydin?" The scarred man's complexion turned ashen, his eyes darting. He licked his lips. Then flashed a smile. He hid his knife, backing away. “Just a joke… just joking. Funny.” Another forced smile. The scarred man gestured toward a doorway at the rear of the room. "Waiting for you. With Kemal."

Simon hesitated, every instinct honed by his father's paranoid training screaming caution. Entering a second room meant another level of vulnerability, another potential trap. But he hadn't come this far to balk now. He stepped forward, past the scarred man whose breath smelled of anise and cigarettes, into a back room illuminated by a single hanging bulb.

The second space was smaller, dominated by a metal workbench where a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair worked with meticulous precision. Before him lay disassembled firearms in various stages of modification—barrels, triggers, firing pins arranged with the obsessive orderliness of a surgeon's instruments. The walls were lined with locked cabinets, their contents visible through reinforced glass: weapons of every description, from elegant sniper rifles to brutal close-quarters combat tools.

This was Kemal—the gunsmith whose reputation extended throughout the Eastern Mediterranean and beyond. A man who could procure, modify, or create almost any weapon imaginable, provided the price was right and the client properly vouched for.

"The American," Kemal said without looking up from his work. His hands continued their dance across metal components, assembling what appeared to be a modified Beretta with practiced efficiency.

Simon felt a flash of irritation at the designation but suppressed it. "I was told you could help me with a specialized item."

Kemal's hands stilled, and he looked up for the first time. His eyes were a startling blue against his weathered olive skin, assessing Simon with the detached interest of a master craftsman evaluating raw material.

"Depends on what you need," he replied, wiping his hands on a rag stained with oil and what might have been blood. "And why you need it."

Simon held the man's gaze, refusing to flinch under the scrutiny. "I need something concealable. Reliable. Something that won't be traced back to me or the person carrying it."

Kemal nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied with what he saw in Simon's face. He reached beneath the workbench and produced a polished wooden case, its surface inlaid with intricate mother-of-pearl designs that caught the light. With reverent care, he placed it on the bench between them and opened the lid.

Nestled in custom-cut foam lay what appeared at first glance to be an elegant fountain pen. The barrel gleamed with a subdued metallic finish, neither flashy nor so dull as to be forgettable—precisely the sort of accessory a business consultant might carry without raising eyebrows.

"Ceramic composite," Kemal said, lifting the pen with practiced fingers. "Undetectable by standard security measures. Two shots, .22 caliber. Silent. Effective at close range." He demonstrated the mechanism with a subtle twist of the barrel. "Simple. Reliable."

Simon studied the weapon, appreciating its lethal elegance. Not the sort of thing he would normally seek out—his father's training had focused on more conventional firearms—but perfect for what Leyla needed. Something she could carry past her father's security, something that would give her a fighting chance if the worst happened.

The roll of bills was dumped on Kemal’s desk. He looked down, frowning.

Kemal glanced at the money, then back at Simon's face. Something like respect flickered in the gunsmith's eyes. "For Colonel Aydin's daughter? Fifteen is enough."

Simon blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. "How did you—"

"I know who comes through my door," Kemal replied with a slight shrug. "And why." He carefully returned the pen to its case, closing the lid with a soft click. "The colonel is not a gentle man. His enemies are many. His daughter deserves protection."

Simon hesitated, then peeled five thousand euros from the roll and returned them to his pocket. There was no point in pretending Kemal was wrong—the man's intelligence network was clearly better than Simon had anticipated.

"She won't use it unless absolutely necessary," Simon said, taking the wooden case and tucking it inside his jacket.

Kemal nodded, a gesture that somehow conveyed both approval and warning. "Tell her to practice the mechanism. When fear comes, fingers become stupid."

"I'll make sure she understands."

As Simon turned to leave, Kemal spoke again, his voice lower now, meant only for Simon's ears. "The colonel's new guest—the woman they brought in today. She is dangerous."

Simon froze, his back to the gunsmith. "What woman?"

"American. Military, perhaps. They are keeping her in the old interrogation building. The colonel is very interested in her." Kemal's voice held a note of grim amusement. "Your father should be careful about his business associates these days."

Simon's mouth went dry. His father. How much did Kemal know? How much was he guessing?

"My father is dead," he said, the practiced lie falling from his lips.

Kemal's laugh was dry as autumn leaves. "Of course. My mistake." The gunsmith returned to his work, hands once again moving with surgical precision across metal components. "Give Leyla my regards. Tell her the gift comes with my blessing. She is brave, like her mother."

Simon nodded wordlessly, slipping the wooden case deeper into his jacket. As he exited through the blue door into the alley, his mind raced with the implications of Kemal's information. A dangerous American woman being held at the base and brought in today. It couldn't be coincidence.

The cold Aegean wind hit him with renewed force as he emerged into the darkening streets. Simon pulled his collar higher, shielding his face from both the elements and any watching eyes. The five thousand euros remaining in his pocket felt heavier now, weighted with responsibility rather than mere currency.

Leyla would need more than a concealed weapon for this to work.

She’d need guts.

The narrow alley opened onto a wider street where vendors were closing their stalls for the night, their faces illuminated in brief flashes as they counted the day's earnings. Simon moved among them with practiced anonymity, another shadow among many in a city that had harbored secrets for millennia.

As he walked, his phone vibrated against his thigh. Simon tensed, knowing before he looked that it would be his father. Anthony Starr never called unless something had gone catastrophically wrong—or was about to.

He ducked into the recessed doorway of a closed spice shop, the air still fragrant with cardamom and saffron, and pulled out the phone. The screen displayed not a call but a text message, the number unlisted but unmistakable:

BASE COMPROMISED. DO NOT RETURN. MEET AT EXTRACTION POINT C. 2300 HOURS.

Simon's breath caught in his throat. Extraction Point C—an abandoned lighthouse on the southern peninsula, miles from the base. Something had spooked his father enough to activate emergency protocols.

The dangerous American woman. It had to be.

Simon's thumb hovered over the screen, muscle memory nearly driving him to acknowledge the order as he had countless times before. But something stopped him—a resistance that had been building for months, perhaps years. An image of Leyla waiting for him, unaware of the storm about to break over them both.

His father's empire was built on blood and secrecy, on the calculated application of violence dressed up as security. Simon had accepted his role in it, had even convinced himself he was somehow separate from the worst of it. But the weight of the weapon in his jacket and the fear in his gut told a different story.

Decision crystallized in his mind with sudden clarity. He couldn't leave Leyla—not like this, not with whatever was happening at the base.

Simon typed a response, his fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins:

DELAYED. WILL EXTRACT PACKAGE FIRST. ETA 0100.

The lie came easily, shaped by years of watching his father operate. Buy time. Create plausible deniability. Establish parameters. Besides, the weapon wasn’t for Leyla’s protection.

It was for her use.

Only one person stood between them and what they desired most. It had been Leyla’s idea, after all. And she would be the one to pull the trigger.

Chapter 4

The essence of the concern Anna had carried into unconsciousness had been two bullets to her skull. But she was blinking, rousing to consciousness… so at least they hadn’t shot her.

Which in turn meant they’d bought the ruse: they’d assumed she was dead.

Anna grimaced as the effects of the drugs wore off. Something landed on her lips, but she resisted the urge to spit. Something more landed on her face. She tasted dirt.

Oh. She was being buried.

Already, her arms were heavy, half-buried. Shit.

How many would be there? Who was watching?

She took in a slow, deep breath. She couldn’t afford anyone to see her chest rise and fall, she needed every advantage she could get. More mud landed on her. Voices were muttering above her—multiple men then.

Her instincts screamed to rise, to attack. She was being buried alive.

No, she’d come too far to compromise everything now. She couldn’t let anyone know she was alive, and a couple of dead ditch diggers would give her away.

She’d have to crawl out.

Desperately, she scrounged through what she knew about exhuming a corpse. How could the corpse exhume itself?

The shovel blade struck again, heavy soil landing across Anna's chest with the dull finality of earth returning to earth. She lay perfectly still, fighting every instinct that screamed for oxygen, for movement, for the violent reassertion of life against this premature burial. The chemical compound still coursed through her system, slowing her heartbeat to an almost imperceptible flutter, but its effects were waning—consciousness returning in waves that threatened to betray her with an involuntary twitch or gasp.

"Hurry up," a voice growled above her in Turkish, words muffled through the thin layer of soil already covering her face. "I don't want to be out here all night."

"You think I do?" another replied, accent thicker, vowels stretched like taffy. "Woman weighs nothing but the colonel wants her two meters down. Two full meters! Like anyone's going to look for an American spy out here."

“You only dug maybe one meter…”

Anna heard a pause and she could almost feel the unspoken glare between the men. Then the critic coughed and said, “Then again, that does look like two meters to me.”

The measurement aligned with what she was hearing, the timing between shovel scoops and the contact of dirt on her body. She was in a hole a little under three feet deep. Another shovelful landed, this time across her legs. The weight of it was substantial, a cold, damp pressure that would soon become immovable if much more was added. Anna focused on the micro-movements of her fingers, testing her mobility without disturbing the soil. Her right hand was already partially immobilized, but her left remained relatively free, angled slightly away from her body where it had fallen when they'd dumped her in the shallow grave.

"Did you see what they did to her?" the first voice asked, a note of reluctant admiration creeping in. "Never seen anyone punch a prisoner to death before."

"Wasn't supposed to happen," the second man grunted, the rhythm of his shoveling never faltering. "Colonel wanted information. Can't get much from a corpse."

"Wasn't the colonel who hit her. Was that new guy. The one they brought in from Antalya."

The conversation continued above her, but Anna's attention had narrowed to a singular focus: survival. The grave wasn't six feet deep—as the men had implied, it was perhaps three at most, judging by the sounds of their movements and the distance of their voices. But three feet of soil might as well be a mountain when you're pinned beneath it.

More earth cascaded down, some of it slipping past her collar and into the back of her shirt. Anna used the sound of the impact to mask a careful inhalation, drawing precious oxygen into her lungs while keeping her chest movements imperceptible. The air in the grave was already growing stale, heavy with the mineral scent of freshly turned soil and the lingering metallic tang of her own blood.

"You ever wonder what they do with the ID?" the first gravedigger asked, his shovel scraping against what sounded like a rock. "Military types like her, they always have something."

"Above my pay grade," his companion replied dismissively.

If they didn’t grow tired, she’d have no choice. Amusing, in a way. If the men were too lazy to continue past a foot or two of dirt, she’d let them live.

If they kept going, she’d have to kill them.

Still, she waited.

The shovel struck again, soil raining down on Anna's face with suffocating finality. The weight was becoming oppressive, each new layer compressing her chest and limiting what little movement remained possible. Her lungs burned with the effort of maintaining shallow, imperceptible breaths.

"Forty centimeters is good enough for this bitch," the first man announced, his voice farther away now as he stood above the grave's edge. "Let’s go."

"What if the wolves dig her out?" his companion insisted, though with noticeably less conviction.

"And what? Drag her to the American embassy? So much the better if the wolves take her face."

Anna felt a surge of cold relief. Lazy gravediggers might just save her the trouble of killing them.

"Fine," the second man relented. "But if the colonel asks—"

"Two meters. Hell, I'll tell him we dug to China. Come on, I'm freezing my ass off."

The sound of shovels being tossed into what might have been a truck bed followed, then the crunch of boots moving away from the grave. An engine sputtered to life—old, diesel by the sound of it—and the rumble gradually diminished until silence descended, broken only by the soft whisper of wind across the disturbed earth.

Anna waited, counting her heartbeats, giving the men time to truly depart. One hundred beats. Two hundred. The compound was wearing off faster now, her pulse strengthening with each passing minute. The weight of soil pressed against her like a vise, threatening to immobilize her completely if she waited too long.

When she was certain they were gone, Anna began to move. Slowly at first, flexing fingers that had grown stiff with cold and lack of circulation. Her left arm was her lifeline—the limb with the most freedom of movement. She worked it carefully upward through the soil, creating a small pocket of space that would eventually lead to the surface.

The earth fought her, each handful displaced threatening to collapse back into the space she'd created. Anna worked methodically, her movements economical and precise. This wasn't her first time escaping a grave—though the previous instances had been training exercises, not the real thing. She knew the key was to avoid panic, to conserve oxygen, to create a breathing channel before attempting to free the rest of her body.

Her fingers broke through to open air after what felt like an eternity. Cold night air rushed into the small tunnel she'd created, sweet as water to a dying woman. Anna gulped it greedily, feeling strength return with each breath. The stars were visible through the narrow opening, pinpricks of light in a velvet sky that seemed impossibly distant.

Working with renewed vigor, she expanded the breathing hole, then began the painstaking process of freeing her other arm. The soil had compacted with her movements, making each inch gained a battle against increasing pressure. Sweat mingled with dirt, creating a mud that coated her skin.

Anna managed to excavate enough space to pull herself upward. Her muscles screamed in protest, abused by the interrogation and stiffened by the cold earth. The cut on her forearm had reopened, blood mixing with soil to create a macabre paste. She ignored it, focusing solely on the mechanical process of escape.

When she finally dragged herself free of the grave, Anna lay flat on her back beside the disturbed earth, chest heaving as she drew deep, unrestricted breaths. The night sky sparked above her, stars hard and bright in the clear air.

She allowed herself exactly thirty seconds of recovery before pushing to her feet, cataloging injuries with clinical detachment: two cracked ribs; numerous contusions; the knife wound on her forearm was superficial but would need cleaning to prevent infection; her cheekbone throbbed where the interrogator's fist had connected, but the bone remained intact. Overall, she'd survived worse. Much worse.

Anna oriented herself, taking in her surroundings with practiced efficiency. The grave was located in a remote area beyond the base perimeter, a scrubby stretch of land that sloped gradually toward distant hills. No lights were visible except for a faint glow on the horizon that marked the base itself. The gravediggers' truck had left clear tracks in the soft earth, providing a path back if she chose to follow it.

But Anna had no intention of returning through the main entrance. According to Waldo's intelligence, there was a maintenance tunnel near the eastern fence line, a remnant from the base's earlier construction that had been improperly secured during renovations. That would be her point of entry.

She stripped off her outer shirt, now caked with grave dirt, and used it to bind the wound on her arm. The night air bit into her exposed skin, but the cold helped clear the last vestiges of the chemical compound from her system. Dressed now in only a thin black tank top and her tactical pants, Anna moved silently across the terrain, a shadow among shadows.

The base perimeter came into view after twenty minutes of careful navigation. Anna dropped to her stomach at the edge of a small rise, studying the fence line through narrowed eyes. The security was substantial—motion sensors, regular patrols, cameras mounted at intervals—but not impenetrable—not to someone with her training.

But how could she find the son of the private security magnate? Just ask?

Observe.

She needed an observation point.

Her gaze landed on one of the security towers facing the cliffs. Perfect. Only one guard was stationed. She could avoid him and climb onto the wooden roof. That would serve well enough. And if he made a sound or spotted her, she’d move swiftly.

But first, entering the rear compound. This portion of the base was technically still inside the military structure. But the second, larger ring of surveillance was where most guards were stationed.

This section of the terrain was the shooting range, but at night, it lay dormant. The trash heap, and apparent burial spot, rested next to the range.

A larger, high-grade fence was behind her. She didn’t need to worry about that one—at least, not now. When it was time to leave, that was the time to worry about it.

Instead, she focused on a smaller palisade ahead, at the base of the lookout tower was her current obstacle.

She approached hurriedly, rubbing her muddied palms on her hips to regain her grip.

Anna scaled the palisade with practiced efficiency, her movements fluid despite the injuries that sent dull throbs of pain through her body. The fence topped out at twelve feet—a deterrent to casual trespassers rather than trained operatives. She cleared it in under twenty seconds, dropping silently to the packed earth on the other side.

Moving in the shadows, her body instinctively hugged the contours of darkness as she navigated toward the observation tower. The structure rose thirty feet above the range, a wooden platform enclosed on three sides with the fourth open to overlook the firing line. Her initial observation was correct: a single guard occupied it, his silhouette visible against the night sky as he paced a slow circuit.

Anna studied his movements, timing the pattern. Seventeen steps across, pause at the corner for approximately twelve seconds, seventeen steps back, another pause. A bored man following a routine that had become muscle memory rather than active surveillance.

Perfect.

She approached from the blind side, using the support struts as handholds to climb swiftly and silently. The wood was rough beneath her fingers, offering a good grip despite the moisture that had seeped into the aged timber. Anna ascended with the fluid grace of a predator, each movement calculated to avoid creaking boards or dislodged debris that might alert the guard.

Reaching the underside of the platform, Anna paused, listening to the footfalls directly above her head. The guard was at the far end now, facing away from her position. She pulled herself up and over the edge in one smooth motion, rolling into a crouch behind a stack of ammunition crates.

The guard continued his circuit, oblivious to her presence. He was young—perhaps twenty—with the lanky build of someone who had grown too quickly for his coordination to catch up. His rifle was slung casually over one shoulder rather than held at the ready, another sign of complacency.

Anna could have taken him out easily—a quick strike to render him unconscious—but unnecessary violence created complications. Instead, she remained motionless, becoming part of the shadow cast by the crates as she waited for him to complete another circuit.

When the guard reached the far corner again, Anna slipped past him to the ladder that led to the roof. The wooden rungs were slick with dew, but she climbed them without a sound, emerging onto the slanted roof that crowned the observation tower. From this vantage point, she had an unobstructed view of the entire base.

The compound sprawled before her, a patchwork of buildings arranged in concentric rings around a central command structure. Security lights illuminated the main thoroughfares while leaving pockets of darkness between buildings. Patrols moved in predictable patterns, their routes marked by the rhythmic sweep of flashlight beams across asphalt.

Anna settled into position, her body flat against the wooden planks.

The central building was her primary target—a two-story structure with reinforced doors and guards posted at each entrance. If Simon Argon was on this base, he would likely be found there, where the commanding officers and VIPs were quartered. But approaching it directly would be suicide. She needed more information, a weakness to exploit.

Simon was in his twenties. No, exactly twenty. Details mattered.

What did she remember about him?

She closed her eyes and then reached up to rub the clinging dirt from her eyelid. As she did, her mind ran back through her memories of the countless briefings Waldo had given her.

Simon Argon: born Simon Anthony Starr, only child of General Anthony Starr and his wife Marianne, who had died during childbirth. Educated at exclusive boarding schools until his father's "death," after which he'd been quietly removed from the academic record. Reappeared three years ago under his new identity, ostensibly as a business consultant with connections to various defense contractors.

But what made him tick? What were his vulnerabilities?

Leyla.

One of the on-staff chefs had given this nugget to Casper. Something about a girlfriend… No. A romantic interest?

She didn’t remember exactly. Taking a moment to breathe, Anna tried to shake the last haze of being drugged and buried from her mind, straining to recall the details from Casper's intelligence. Leyla... daughter of a Turkish colonel—the base commander's daughter. The connection crystallized in her mind—Simon Argon was romantically involved with Leyla Aydin, whose father commanded this very installation. A classic security vulnerability that even Anthony Starr's paranoia had failed to anticipate.

From her vantage point, Anna scanned the compound methodically, sector by sector. The officers' quarters occupied the western quadrant, a collection of low buildings distinguished by their superior construction and the small gardens that surrounded them. If the colonel's daughter lived on base, she would be there.

Anna nodded slowly to herself.

Target acquired.

What else would a young man in his twenties do on a weeknight when sequestered in a military base? He’d visit the pretty girl, of course.

Anna maintained her post a moment longer, tracking the troop movements far below.

She frowned as she watched, memorizing, studying. And then, still listening to the footsteps on the wood below, she slipped off the edge of the roof and slid back down the ladder.

Unseen, she disappeared into the night, eyes never leaving the officers’ quarters.

Chapter 5

Anna moved like liquid shadow across the base, her body hugging the contours of darkness between security lights. The wound on her forearm throbbed with each heartbeat, but she compartmentalized the pain, filing it away as irrelevant data. Pain was merely information—useful only if it affected operational parameters.

She paused behind a maintenance shed, studying the officers' quarters through narrowed eyes. The building was an incongruous mix of military utility and Ottoman architectural flourishes—a two-story structure with arched windows and a terracotta roof that spoke of Turkey's imperial past rather than its martial present. Unlike the utilitarian barracks that housed regular troops, the officers' quarters featured small balconies, decorative ironwork, and gardens that softened the harsh angles of an otherwise stark military installation.

It was also, Anna noted with professional assessment, heavily guarded.

Four sentries patrolled the perimeter at staggered intervals, their movements suggesting a rotation designed to ensure no approach remained unwatched for more than thirty seconds. Additional guards stood at attention beside the main entrance—two at the door itself and another pair at the garden gate twenty meters distant. All were armed with standard-issue rifles and sidearms, their postures alert despite the late hour.

Too many for a direct approach. Even with the element of surprise, she couldn't neutralize them all before an alarm was raised. And an alarm would bring the entire base down on her head.

Anna's gaze tracked upward, evaluating the balconies as potential entry points. The decorative ironwork provided excellent handholds, but the windows were likely alarmed, and the approach would leave her exposed during the climb. Not impossible, but far from optimal.

She needed another way in. Something that wouldn't trigger immediate suspicion.

A flicker of movement near the side entrance caught her attention. A small convoy of vehicles was approaching—three white vans with commercial plates, their headlights cutting through the darkness as they slowed at the checkpoint. Anna watched as guards inspected each vehicle, checking beneath with mirrors and examining documentation before waving them through.

The vans parked in a designated area near a service entrance, and figures emerged—men and women dressed in crisp white uniforms. Kitchen staff, Anna realized, noting the timing. Late enough for dinner preparation, early enough for the officers' mess to serve its evening meal. The staff moved with practiced efficiency, unloading containers from the vans and carrying them toward the building.

These weren't military personnel. They were civilians—local contractors who came and went from the base on a regular schedule, people whose faces might change frequently enough that new ones wouldn't immediately trigger suspicion.

Anna's lips curved in the ghost of a smile. The timing would be tight, but the opportunity was perfect.

She retreated deeper into the shadows, circling around the maintenance shed toward the service road where the vans had parked. The kitchen staff continued their work, transferring supplies from vehicles to building with the smooth choreography of a routine long established. Anna studied them, noting details—the cut of their uniforms, the way they carried themselves, the deference they showed to the military personnel who occasionally crossed their paths.

A young woman struggled with a particularly heavy container, her slight frame bending under its weight as she attempted to lift it from the van. Anna noted the way the guards' eyes lingered on her, their attention momentarily diverted by her presence. Another data point, another potential advantage.

As she was planning this, though, Anna heard muffled arguing from down a side alley between the kitchen's service entrance and what appeared to be a storage facility. She approached and peered down, cautious. A young woman, very pretty, maybe nineteen, was trying to pull away from a large man.

The young woman's hair was coal black, cascading down her back in loose waves from the tie of a ponytail. Her face was youthful and symmetrical, her features soft and delicate. She struggled to break free from the man's grasp. The man was tall and muscular, with neatly styled dark hair and sharp features. His expensive suit only added to his air of sophistication, but there was a cruel glint in his eyes as he held onto the young woman's wrist.

"Hayir dedim!" the young woman hissed, her voice carrying the unmistakable edge of someone trying to maintain composure while also keeping their volume down. The Turkish woman’s protests grew louder, "You don't understand what you're asking."

"I understand perfectly," the man replied. He gripped her wrist tightly, preventing her retreat. "It's a simple request. Just a few questions."

The young woman tried to wrench her arm free, dark eyes flashing with a mixture of fear and defiance. She wore civilian clothes—designer jeans and a cashmere sweater that spoke of wealth—rather than a uniform. With her dark hair tied back, the light emphasized the delicate structure of her face and the tension now evident in her jawline.

"Let go of me!"

But the man didn’t comply.

Anna assessed the situation coldly. The large man wasn't military—at least not Turkish military. His stance suggested training, but his clothes were civilian: expensive dark slacks and a tailored shirt beneath a leather jacket that probably concealed a weapon—private security, most likely, one of Starr's men.

The young woman’s gaze darted toward the main path. No one else seemed to hear the commotion. Or if they did, they’d heard it enough times to know better than to intervene.

The woman’s expression hardened. "Let. Go. Of. Me." Each word was precise, edged with a dignity that seemed to infuriate the man rather than impress him.

His response was immediate and brutal. The slap echoed in the narrow alley, the force of it sending the woman stumbling backward until she fell, landing hard on the concrete. The sound of her body hitting the ground was sickeningly final, like a punctuation mark at the end of a violent sentence.

Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she stared up at her attacker, eyes wide with shock and fear. The man loomed over her, his posture changing subtly—weight shifting forward, shoulders hunching, his expression transforming from controlled intimidation to something far more primal. Something predatory.

"Maybe there are other ways you can be useful," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he reached down to grasp the front of her sweater. With his other hand, he reached for his belt buckle, the metallic clink of it unnaturally loud in the confined space.

Anna's body tensed, muscles coiling with lethal potential. This wasn't her mission. This man wasn't her target. Every second she spent here increased the risk of detection, of compromising her primary objective. The logical course of action was clear: remain hidden, gather intelligence, proceed with the plan to locate Simon Argon.

But logic warred with something deeper—an instinct that had nothing to do with training.

Anna moved without conscious thought, her body responding to a command that bypassed deliberation entirely. She flowed from shadow to substance in one fluid motion, crossing the distance between concealment and confrontation in the space between heartbeats. The world narrowed to tactical variables: distance, angle, force required.

The man never heard her approach. His attention remained fixed on his victim, his breathing already quickening with anticipation as he loomed over the fallen woman. His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, the sharp metallic sound of it sliding free masking the whisper of Anna's footsteps on concrete.

Three meters became two. Two became one.

Anna's hand found the combat knife sheathed at the small of her back—the weapon she’d taken from the guard tower. The blade cleared its sheath without a sound, balanced and lethal in her grip. Her approach was a study in calculated violence, each step measured to maximize impact while minimizing noise.

The man began to turn at the last possible second, some primal instinct finally registering the predator at his back. Too late. Far too late.

Anna's strike was surgical. The knife entered at the base of his skull, angled upward with just enough force to sever the brain stem without striking bone that might slow the blade's progress. Her other hand clamped over his mouth, stifling the involuntary sound that might have escaped as his nervous system registered the catastrophic damage.

His body went instantly limp, dead weight collapsing toward the ground. Anna controlled the descent, easing him down with the same economical movements she'd employed to kill him. No wasted motion. No unnecessary sound. The wet, sucking noise as she withdrew the blade was the loudest part of the execution, a soft counterpoint to the distant sounds of the kitchen staff continuing their work, oblivious to the death that had just occurred meters away.

Blood pooled beneath the man's head, spreading in a dark halo across the concrete. Anna's gaze flicked from the corpse to the woman still sprawled on the ground, her expression a complex mixture of shock, relief, and dawning horror as she stared up at her unexpected savior.

In that moment, as their eyes met, Anna felt recognition slam into her with physical force. This wasn't some random kitchen worker caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. This wasn't a nameless victim whose path had briefly intersected with Anna's mission.

This was Leyla Aydin, the daughter of Colonel Aydin, commander of this base—the girlfriend of Simon Argon. This was the very person Anna had hoped to use as leverage to locate her target.

Leyla's eyes widened, taking in Anna's appearance—the dirt-streaked skin, the improvised bandage on her forearm, the knife still dripping blood onto the concrete between them. Her gaze darted to the dead man, then back to Anna's face.

Her lips parted, whether to scream or speak, Anna didn’t know. She didn’t give her the time to find out.

Chapter 6

Anna moved with lightning speed, covering the distance between them in two silent strides. Her hand clamped over Leyla's mouth, firm but not brutal—enough pressure to prevent sound without causing pain. The knife disappeared from view, tucked away with practiced efficiency.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Anna whispered, her voice barely audible above the ambient noise of the base. "Nod if you understand."

Leyla's eyes remained wide, pupils dilated with fear, but after a moment's hesitation, she gave a small nod. Her body remained rigid beneath Anna's grip, poised for flight.

"I'm going to remove my hand. Don’t scream…”

Another nod, this one more decisive. Anna slowly withdrew her hand, keeping it close enough to clamp down again if necessary. Leyla's breathing was rapid and shallow, the sound of prey in the presence of a predator.

"Who are you?" Leyla whispered, her voice remarkably steady despite the circumstances. A trickle of blood still marked the corner of her mouth where the man had struck her.

"That depends. Who was that?”

Leyla's eyes darted to the corpse, a visible shudder running through her frame. "He worked for Simon's father," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "He's been following me for weeks. Threatening me."

Anna's expression remained neutral, but her mind raced with the implications. One of Starr's men, harassing the base commander's daughter. The situation was more complex than their intelligence had suggested.

"Simon Argon," Anna said, testing the reaction. "Where is he now?"

Leyla's face transformed, suspicion replacing fear. "Why do you want to know?" Her hand moved subtly toward the pocket of her jeans.

Anna's reflexes were faster. She caught Leyla's wrist in a grip that was impossible to break, though she was careful not to apply enough pressure to bruise. "What's in your pocket?"

"Nothing—"

"Don't lie to me," Anna interrupted, her voice hardening. "I just saved your life.”

A silent battle of wills played out between them, green eyes locked with dark brown. Finally, Leyla relented, slowly withdrawing her hand from her pocket to reveal what appeared to be an elegant fountain pen.

Anna recognized it instantly for what it was—a disguised weapon. The craftsmanship was exceptional, the deadly purpose concealed beneath sophisticated aesthetics. "Where did you get this?"

"Simon gave it to me earlier tonight," Leyla admitted, her chin lifting slightly in defiance. "For protection."

"From men like him?" Anna nodded toward the corpse. She shot a look towards the mouth of the alley. The two of them remained undiscovered.

For now.

But how much longer?

Leyla's gaze dropped to the dead man, her expression hardening. "Yes. From men like him." She drew a shaky breath. "They're always watching us. Reporting back. Simon says his father's paranoia has gotten worse."

Anna processed this information, filing it away alongside what she already knew. Anthony Starr was indeed alive, and apparently micromanaging his son's life to the point of having him surveilled. The pen weapon suggested Simon was attempting to protect Leyla—or perhaps arming her for something else entirely.

"You still haven't told me who you are," Leyla said, her composure returning by degrees. The initial shock of violence was fading, revealing a core of steel beneath the delicate exterior.

Anna made a split-second decision. "I'm looking for Simon. It concerns his father."

"Are you with them? The ones who want to hurt him?"

"No." Anna's response was immediate and firm. "I'm here about something his father took. Something that doesn't belong to him."

Leyla studied Anna's face, searching for deception. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she nodded slowly. "Simon isn't here."

"When will he be back?"

"Soon." Leyla glanced at her watch, a sleek silver timepiece that looked incongruous against her blood-spattered sweater. "He was supposed to meet me an hour ago."

Anna's gaze swept the alley, assessing their situation. The body would be discovered eventually, and when it was, the entire base would go on high alert. They needed to move.

"We can't stay here," Anna said, already calculating their next move.

Leyla nodded, surprisingly composed for someone standing meters from a fresh corpse. "My father's quarters. No one will look for you there."

Anna raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "The base commander's quarters? That's the first place they'll search when they realize I'm not dead."

"Dead?" Leyla's eyes widened, taking in Anna's appearance with new understanding. "You're her. The American they brought in today. The one they said died during interrogation."

So word had spread already. Anna filed that information away—it meant her ruse had worked, at least temporarily. But it also meant Starr would soon know she'd been captured. If he didn't already.

"My father isn't there," Leyla continued, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "He's at a meeting in Ankara until tomorrow morning. And the staff knows better than to enter without permission." She gestured to her face, where the mark from the earlier slap was beginning to darken into a bruise. "They're used to looking the other way."

The implication was clear—Colonel Aydin's abuse of his daughter was an open secret on the base. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Simon's gift of the weapon made more sense now.

Anna weighed her options, gaze flicking between Leyla's face and the corpse sprawled on the concrete. The pool of blood had spread, creeping toward their feet like a dark tide. Every moment they remained increased the risk of discovery.

"Help me with him," Anna decided, already moving toward the dead man. "We need to hide the body."

Leyla blanched, taking an involuntary step backward. "I can't—" Her voice caught, a tremor running through her slender frame. Despite the steel core Anna had glimpsed, Leyla was still young, still unaccustomed to the brutal realities of violence and its aftermath.

"You can. And you will. Unless you want to explain to the entire base why you're standing over a dead man with blood on your clothes."

Leyla swallowed hard, then nodded, squaring her shoulders with visible effort. "What do you need me to do?"

Anna assessed their surroundings with practiced efficiency. The alley was narrow, flanked on one side by the kitchen's service entrance and on the other by what appeared to be a storage facility. A large dumpster stood at the far end, partially concealed by shadows—an obvious hiding place, but one that might buy them enough time to reach safety.

"Check if anyone's coming," Anna instructed, already kneeling beside the body. She searched the dead man's pockets with swift, practiced movements, retrieving a wallet, a phone, and a set of keys. The wallet contained several thousand Turkish lira, American dollars, and three different identification cards—all with the same photograph but different names. Professional work, the kind that came from government or high-level private security operations.

The phone was locked, but Anna pocketed it anyway. Waldo might be able to crack it remotely if she could establish a secure connection. The keys were standard—car, possibly apartment—but potentially useful.

Leyla stood at the mouth of the alley, her posture tense as she scanned the area beyond. "No one's coming," she reported, voice barely above a whisper. "But the kitchen staff will be finishing soon. We don't have much time."

Anna nodded, tucking the dead man's possessions into her own pockets before gripping him under the arms. "Grab his feet," she ordered. "We need to get him to that dumpster."

Leyla hesitated only a moment before complying, her face set in a mask of determination as she took hold of the man's ankles. Together, they lifted the corpse, the dead weight more substantial than either had anticipated. Blood dripped from the wound at the base of his skull, leaving a macabre trail across the concrete as they moved toward the dumpster.

The body swayed between them, Leyla struggling to maintain her grip as they navigated the narrow space. Her breathing came in short, sharp bursts, her knuckles white with strain. Anna bore most of the weight, her movements economical despite her injuries.

When they reached the dumpster, Anna shifted her grip to open the metal lid, wincing as it creaked on rusty hinges. The smell that wafted out was powerful—rotting food and other refuse that had baked in the Turkish sun. Anna ignored it but Leyla turned her head away, fighting a visible wave of nausea.

"On three," Anna instructed, repositioning herself. "One, two, three."

They heaved the body upward with synchronized effort, tipping it over the edge of the dumpster with a muffled thud as it landed among bags of kitchen waste. Anna quickly arranged some of the garbage to conceal the corpse, then closed the lid, careful to minimize noise.

Leyla stumbled backward, her composure finally cracking as she braced herself against the alley wall. Her breathing was ragged, her face pale beneath its natural olive tone. "I just helped hide a body," she whispered, the reality of their actions seemingly hitting her all at once.

"You just helped us survive," Anna corrected, already scanning the ground for blood trails. "He would have hurt you, possibly killed you afterward."

"I know." Leyla's voice strengthened, her eyes hardening as she pushed away from the wall. "I know what men like him do. What they're capable of." She glanced down at her sweater, now stained with blood and dirt. "We need to get inside before someone sees us like this."

Anna nodded. "Lead the way."

Leyla hesitated, studying Anna's face with unexpected intensity. "You never told me your name."

"Anna."

"Just Anna?"

"For now."

Leyla seemed to accept this, turning toward the mouth of the alley with renewed purpose. "Follow me. Try to look like you belong here."

They emerged from the alley into the wider courtyard, Leyla moving with the confident stride of someone who had every right to be there. Anna followed a step behind, adopting the deferential posture of service personnel—head slightly bowed, gaze lowered, body language suggesting subservience rather than threat. It was a disguise she'd worn many times before, in many different contexts, the invisible woman, beneath notice.

They crossed the open space between buildings, Leyla nodding to the occasional passing soldier. No one questioned them. No one looked too closely at the dirt on Anna's clothes or the blood on Leyla's sweater, visible even in the dim evening light. The willful blindness of those accustomed to looking away from uncomfortable truths worked in their favor, creating a bubble of invisibility around them as they approached the officers' quarters.

The guards at the entrance snapped to attention as Leyla approached, their eyes carefully avoiding her face. "Miss Aydin," one acknowledged, stepping aside without question.

Leyla swept past them, Anna in her wake. The guards' gazes slid over Anna as if she weren't there at all—just another servant, another faceless attendant to the base commander's daughter. The invisibility of the powerless, turned now to advantage.

The interior of the building was cool and quiet, the sounds of the base muffled by thick walls. Polished marble floors reflected the soft glow of ornate light fixtures, creating an atmosphere more reminiscent of a luxury hotel than a military installation. Leyla led Anna up a curved staircase to the second floor, moving with the swift confidence of someone navigating familiar territory.

"My father's quarters occupy the entire east wing," she explained in a low voice. "Mine are adjacent. The staff knows not to enter without explicit permission."

They reached a heavy wooden door inlaid with intricate carvings. Leyla produced a key from her pocket, unlocking it with practiced ease before ushering Anna inside and securing it behind them.

The space beyond was expansive—a large sitting room furnished with an incongruous mix of military austerity and Ottoman opulence. Leather sofas shared space with antique side tables; modern communications equipment sat alongside centuries-old brass lamps. The walls were adorned with a combination of military citations and traditional Turkish artwork.

"Bathroom is through there," Leyla said, gesturing toward a door on the far side of the room. "You should clean up. I'll find you some clothes."

Anna nodded, already assessing the space for tactical advantages. Two windows overlooked the courtyard, offering potential escape routes if necessary. A desk in the corner likely contained information that could be useful. The communications equipment might provide access to base security systems.

She crossed to the bathroom, closing the door behind her before turning to confront her reflection in the mirror. The woman who stared back was barely recognizable as Anna Gabriel. Dirt and dried blood caked her skin, her hair matted with filth from the grave.

She considered her options. Did she trust Leyla?

Yes. For the moment, she decided the young woman was in a grateful mood. Or, perhaps, knew she had just as much to lose.

Anna's gaze held her own reflection for a long moment. Dirt streaked her face like primitive war paint, blood—both hers and others'—crusted at the corners of her mouth and along her hairline.

She turned on the tap, watching as rust-colored water swirled down the drain from her hands. The bathroom was luxurious by military standards—marble countertops, gold fixtures, a shower stall large enough for two. Colonel Aydin clearly believed in the privileges of rank.

Anna stripped methodically, cataloging her injuries as she removed each article of clothing. The knife wound on her forearm had stopped bleeding but needed cleaning. Bruises bloomed across her ribs where the interrogator's fist had connected. Her cheekbone throbbed, the skin split and swollen. Various other contusions marked her body—a map of the day's violence written in purple and yellow across her skin.

She stepped into the shower, letting hot water sluice away the grave dirt and dried blood. The heat sent needles of pain through her injuries, but she welcomed the clarity it brought. Pain kept her focused, kept her present. Pain was useful.

She listened. Any sound of approaching footsteps, any sound of guards, and she’d have to move.

But no, she finally decided, Leyla… was young. She could be trusted.

For now.

As she cleaned herself, Anna's mind worked through what she'd learned. Simon Argon had armed his girlfriend, suggesting he anticipated trouble. Starr's men were monitoring both of them closely enough to provoke armed response. The base commander was conveniently absent, creating a window of opportunity that seemed almost too perfect.

And now she was inside the commander's quarters, with access to his daughter—the key to finding Simon Argon, and through him, Anthony Starr.

Anna shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping herself in a plush towel that bore the colonel's initials. She wiped steam from the mirror, studying her clean face with clinical detachment. The bruises were more visible now, stark against her pale skin. Her green eyes stared back at her, cold and calculating as she considered her next move.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"I found some clothes," Leyla called through the door. "They might be a bit small, but they're clean."

Anna cracked the door open, accepting the bundle Leyla offered. The clothes were civilian—jeans, a dark sweater, undergarments still bearing tags. New purchases, never worn.

"They were meant for me," Leyla explained, noticing Anna's questioning glance at the tags. "My father buys them. He doesn't like what I choose for myself."

Anna nodded, retreating to dress. The jeans were snug but wearable, the sweater loose enough to conceal a weapon if necessary. She emerged from the bathroom to find Leyla had also changed, her blood-stained outfit replaced with a simple white blouse and dark pants.

The younger woman sat perched on the edge of a leather sofa… she rung her hands, swallowing and staring at the ground.

She looked nervous.

Anna glanced past her. Door closed.

No sounds. No sign of approaching threat.

Anna returned her attention to the girl. “What’s wrong?”

Leyla looked up. She gnawed on the corner of her lip, shifting. She released a slow breath. “Do you… Do you kill people? Have you done it before?”

Anna didn’t reply but quirked an eyebrow. The eyebrow screamed, what do you think? But then she hesitated and both brows came together. Why?

Leyla, it seemed, was able to interpret the language of eyebrows. She released a breath and said, “B-because I need you to show me how.”

Anna blinked. Still, she said nothing, just watching.

“I have to,” Leyla said. She released a slow, shaking breath. And then she burst into sobs, her shoulders shaking. “I… I have to kill someone. If I don’t…”

Leyla's voice shattered, emotions breaking through the composed facade she'd maintained since the alley. Her slender shoulders heaved with each sob, hands pressed to her face as if trying to physically contain her grief.

"If I don't kill him," she whispered through her fingers, "he'll never stop. And Simon and I will never be free."

Anna remained perfectly still, her expression neutral as she processed this unexpected development. She had anticipated many scenarios upon infiltrating the base—this wasn't one of them. The colonel's daughter, asking for lessons in murder.

"Who?" Anna asked, her voice flat and emotionless.

Leyla lowered her hands, revealing eyes reddened from tears but suddenly clear with resolve. "My father."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of confession and calculation. Anna studied the younger woman with renewed interest, reassessing everything she'd observed thus far: the bruises, the weapon Simon had given her, the staff trained to look the other way.

"You want to kill Colonel Aydin," Anna stated, neither judgment nor surprise coloring her tone. "That's why Simon gave you the weapon."

Leyla nodded, swallowing hard. "We planned it together. Simon says once my father is gone, we can leave this place. Go somewhere his father can't find us." Her voice strengthened, an edge of steel emerging beneath the vulnerability. "But I've never—I don't know how to make sure it's done right. One chance is all we'll have."

Anna crossed to the window, positioning herself where she could observe the courtyard below while maintaining distance from anyone who might glance up. The base continued its nighttime operations, soldiers moving with purpose between buildings, security lights casting harsh shadows across concrete. Somewhere out there, Simon Argon was making his way back.

"Killing isn't simple," Anna said finally, her back still to Leyla. "Not even when it's necessary."

"I know," Leyla replied, her voice small but determined. "But sometimes it's the only way."

Anna turned, her green eyes meeting Leyla's dark ones across the room. "Your father. Tell me about him."

Leyla's expression hardened, years of pain crystallizing into something cold and implacable. "He's a monster. Has been since my mother died when I was twelve. To the world, he's a respected officer. Behind closed doors..." She gestured vaguely to her face, where the mark from the earlier slap was darkening into a bruise. "I’ve had these before. This is nothing, just a reminder of who holds the power."

"And Simon? How does he fit into this?"

"We met when he came to the base six months ago. Some kind of security consultation." A ghost of a smile touched Leyla's lips, softening her features momentarily. "He saw the bruises. He understood without me having to explain. His father..." She trailed off, then shook her head.

"Simon knows what it's like to live with fear," Leyla continued, her voice softening. "To calculate every word, every action, to exist in a cage that no one else can see."

Anna nodded once, a barely perceptible movement. She understood cages, both visible and invisible. Had lived in them, escaped them, sometimes built them herself.

"My father would never let me leave," Leyla said, rising from the sofa to pace the room with restless energy. "I've tried. Three times. The first time, he broke my arm. The second, he had me drugged and kept under house arrest for a month. The third..." Her voice faltered, and she unconsciously touched her side, as if feeling phantom pain. "The third time, I nearly died."

Anna watched her movements, assessing. The girl was desperate but not unstable. Frightened but not paralyzed by fear. There was calculation behind her tears, resolve beneath her vulnerability. Useful qualities, if properly directed.

"And Simon believes killing your father is the only solution?"

"It was my idea," Leyla corrected, her chin lifting with unexpected pride. "Simon wanted to help me escape, but I know my father. He would hunt us to the ends of the earth. The only way we'll ever be free is if he's dead."

Anna moved from the window, crossing to where Leyla stood. She circled the younger woman slowly, studying her from all angles with the critical eye of someone evaluating a tool for a specific purpose.

"Have you ever fired a weapon before?" Anna asked.

"No."

"Struck someone with intent to harm?"

Leyla hesitated, then shook her head.

"Watched someone die?"

"Only in movies," Leyla admitted, a flush creeping up her neck. “And… and tonight…” She swallowed

Anna completed her circuit, coming to stand directly before Leyla. Their eyes met—green against brown, experienced against innocent, predator against... what? Not prey. Not anymore. Something evolving, transforming under pressure.

"The weapon Simon gave you," Anna said, "is designed for close-range use. Silent. Effective. But it requires absolute commitment. You must be close enough to touch your target. Close enough to smell his breath. And you must not hesitate, not for a fraction of a second."

Leyla swallowed but held Anna's gaze. "I won't hesitate."

"You don't know that. Not until the moment arrives." Anna's voice was dispassionate, as if discussing the weather rather than premeditated patricide. "Fear does strange things to the body. To the mind. Even with training, even with experience, fear can paralyze you at the critical moment."

"I'm more afraid of staying than of killing," Leyla whispered.

Anna considered this, head tilted slightly as she weighed options, calculated risks, assessed potential outcomes. This unexpected development could either complicate her mission or provide the perfect cover for it.

But another part of her felt torn.

Did she want to use this girl’s suffering as just another platform for the mission?

Another, smaller part of her—which sounded strangely like Beth—whispered in her ear. You can’t let this poor girl kill her own father. She’ll never recover.

Anna considered this, frowning.

But just then, there was a rapid knock on the door. A pause. Two more knocks.

Leyla let out a shaking breath.

“What?” Anna demanded.

Leyla looked over, grimacing. “It’s… Simon. He’s here.”

Chapter 7

Anna stared as the door slowly swung inward. Her secondary target entered the room.

The twenty-year-old resembled his father but had softer, rounder features.

Simon Argon stepped into the room, his movements betraying a controlled tension that radiated from his slender frame. He was not what Anna had expected—not the hardened mirror of his father she'd prepared herself to confront. Instead, the young man before her possessed a curious duality: the unmistakable bone structure of Anthony Starr softened by youth and what might have been compassion. His father's sharp, predatory features were present but muted, like a weapon wrapped in velvet.

His dark hair was styled with careful precision, shorter on the sides and slightly longer on top—the kind of cut that spoke of expensive barbers and regular maintenance. Unlike his father's military bearing, Simon carried himself with the studied casualness of privilege, a posture that suggested both confidence and the constant awareness that comes from a lifetime of surveillance.

He wore dark jeans and a charcoal sweater under a tailored jacket—clothing selected to blend in rather than stand out, though the quality was unmistakable to a trained eye. A thin silver watch gleamed at his wrist, its face turned inward—a habit of someone accustomed to checking the time discreetly during meetings.

His eyes were perhaps his most striking feature—darker than his father's, almost black in the room's dim lighting, but with the same intensity, the same evaluative quality that seemed to catalog and assess everything they touched. Those eyes moved now from Leyla to Anna with the swift precision of someone trained to identify threats.

Simon's face was still young enough to betray emotion before he could master it. Surprise flickered across his features, followed immediately by alarm as recognition dawned. Anna saw the moment it happened—the slight widening of his eyes, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture as his body prepared for confrontation.

"Leyla, get back!" Simon's voice cracked with urgency as he lunged forward, putting himself between the two women with the instinctive protectiveness of someone who had appointed himself guardian.

In the same fluid motion, his hand disappeared inside his jacket and emerged with a matte-black combat knife—military-grade, carbon steel with a partially serrated edge. He held it with the practiced grip of someone who had been trained in close-quarters combat, though his stance betrayed his inexperience—too wide, weight distributed unevenly, telegraphing his intentions before his body could execute them.

"Simon, no!" Leyla cried, her voice sharp with alarm as she reached toward him.

But Simon was already moving, driving forward with the knife extended in a textbook strike aimed at Anna's midsection—a killing blow if it connected, designed to slip between ribs and pierce vital organs.

Anna sidestepped with liquid grace. The knife sliced through empty air where she had stood a fraction of a second earlier. Before Simon could recover from his momentum, Anna's left hand clamped around his wrist, fingers finding pressure points with unerring accuracy.

Pain bloomed across Simon's face as nerve endings fired in protest. The knife clattered to the floor, his fingers unable to maintain their grip against the precise application of pressure. In the same fluid motion, Anna pivoted, using his forward momentum against him. Her right foot swept his legs from beneath him, and Simon found himself airborne for a heartbeat before crashing to the marble floor with bone-jarring force.

Anna completed the takedown by dropping one knee onto his sternum, effectively pinning him while her left hand maintained its grip on his wrist, now twisted at an angle that promised dislocation if he struggled. Her right forearm pressed against his throat—not enough pressure to cut off his air supply, but sufficient to communicate the threat.

The entire sequence had taken less than two seconds.

"Stop!" Leyla's voice cut through the sudden silence, her hands outstretched in a placating gesture. "Simon, she's not here to hurt us!"

Simon stared up at Anna, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of fear and dawning recognition. Despite his compromised position, his gaze was analytical, mind working behind the panic.

"You're her," he whispered, voice strained against the pressure on his throat. "The operative they captured. The one they said died during interrogation."

Anna's expression remained impassive, but she eased the pressure on his throat slightly. "Reports of my death were... premature."

"She saved me, Simon," Leyla interjected, kneeling beside them. Her hand came to rest on Anna's arm, a gentle pressure suggesting release rather than demanding it. "One of your father's men attacked me in the alley behind the kitchen. She killed him."

Confusion flickered across Simon's features.

"He had three different IDs," Anna added, her voice clinical. "Professional work. The kind your father's organization specializes in." She maintained her position but allowed Simon enough freedom to breathe comfortably. "He was about to rape your girlfriend when I intervened."

Simon's face drained of color, his eyes darting to Leyla for confirmation. What he saw there—the lingering fear, the bruise darkening her cheek—seemed to confirm Anna's words. His body went slack beneath her, the fight draining away to be replaced by something closer to despair.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to Leyla. "I should have been here."

Leyla shook her head, tears threatening again. "You couldn't have known."

Anna studied the exchange with detached interest, noting the genuine emotion that passed between them, not a manipulation.

This left her in a difficult position.

She needed access to Anthony Starr. She’d come for Simon. And now… he was in the room with her.

But another part of her felt only sympathy for these two young lovebirds.

They both felt like trapped pets, caught in gilded cages. She felt a flicker of sadness… Did she really want to go through with it? What choice was there?

Information. She needed information.

She allowed the two lovers to embrace and hastened to the window, peering out into the street below, looking for any approaching soldiers, but no one seemed the wiser. The body remained undiscovered. Her empty grave seemed unnoticed.

But Anna knew better than to count on good fortune much longer. As the saying went, the tide always turns.

She turned towards Simon again, watching where his cheek pressed to Leyla’s as he embraced her, whispering comfortingly in his lover’s ear.

Anna felt a strange pang in her heart at the sight. A pang that was becoming more and more familiar. She knew the echo of loneliness. It was one of her oldest companions.

“Where’s your father, Simon?”

As she spoke, he turned, looking at her with wide eyes.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” she said softly. “You seem… softer. Gentler, I guess is the kinder word. You’re not like him. And so I’m going to give you a chance not to be a pawn in this game. Tell me where he is.”

Simon's expression hardened, shadows collecting in the hollows of his young face as he disentangled himself from Leyla's embrace. He rose slowly to his feet, retrieving his knife from the floor with deliberate movements. For a moment, Anna thought he might attempt another attack, but instead, he simply sheathed the weapon inside his jacket.

"My father is dead," he said, the practiced lie falling from his lips. "He died three years ago.”

Anna's lips curved in a humorless smile. "We both know that's not true."

Simon met her gaze, something calculating replacing the initial fear in his eyes. "What do you want with him?"

"He has something that belongs to my family," Anna replied, her voice steady despite the cold fury that stirred beneath her controlled exterior. "Children. Two of them. My sister's children."

Simon blinked, genuine confusion crossing his features. "What are you talking about?"

"Three months ago, your father purchased two children from an international trafficking network: a boy and a girl, six and four years old." Anna's words were precise, each syllable edged with steel. "Their mother is my sister. I'm here to take them back."

A heavy silence filled the room. Leyla's hand had risen to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Simon seemed frozen, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and something that might have been dawning comprehension.

"That's not possible," he finally said, but there was a new hesitation in his voice. "My father has done... questionable things, but not that. Never that."

"Are you certain?" Anna asked, watching him closely. "How well do you really know what Anthony Starr does with his resources? With his connections?"

Simon began to pace, his movements agitated. "I've distanced myself from his operations. From his world. But child trafficking—" He shook his head vehemently. "No. There are lines even he wouldn't cross."

"Everyone has lines they won't cross," Anna replied, her voice soft but implacable, "until they do."

Simon stopped pacing, his back to both women as he stared out the window at the night-shrouded base. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, and when he turned back, his expression had changed—hardened in a way that suddenly made his resemblance to his father more pronounced.

"If what you're saying is true," he said carefully, "I had no knowledge of it."

"I believe you," Anna acknowledged. "But that doesn't change what I need from you."

"Which is?"

"Your father's current location. And a way to access him."

Simon laughed, the sound brittle and without humor. "Even if I wanted to help you—which I'm not saying I do—I couldn't. My father changes locations every seventy-two hours. Minimum security detail of sixteen men, all former special forces. Communications are encrypted, routes are never repeated, and security protocols change weekly." He shook his head. "He's a ghost."

"No one is a ghost," Anna countered, her voice level. "Everyone leaves traces. Especially men with your father's appetites."

Simon's jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath the skin. "What makes you think he has these children? Do you have proof?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?" Anna's expression remained neutral.

Leyla moved to Simon's side, her hand finding his in a gesture of solidarity. "Simon, if there are children..." She let the implication hang in the air between them.

Simon closed his eyes briefly, the weight of decision visible in the tight line of his shoulders. When he opened them again, something had shifted in his gaze—a resignation, perhaps, or the first tentative step toward rebellion.

"I have a secure communication channel," he said finally. "It's meant for emergencies only. A direct line that bypasses his normal security filters." He hesitated, then added, "But using it will alert him. He'll know immediately that something's wrong."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Anna replied.

Simon studied her face, his expression calculating. "And what happens after? If you find these children—if they even exist—what then?"

"I take them home."

"And my father?"

Anna's silence was answer enough.

Simon nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself. "I need to know if what you're saying is true. I need to see your evidence."

"I don't carry evidence on assignments," Anna countered.

Simon paced, frustration mounting. “You can’t hurt him.” He shook his head. “You have to promise not to hurt him.”

Anna paused. “If he doesn’t give me cause to.”

Simon was still speaking, continuing as if he hadn’t heard her reply. “And… and you have to do something for us!” He rounded on her.

Anna gave a shake of her head before he could speak. “I’m not killing her father for you.” She nodded at Leyla. “And neither are you,” she added.

Simon blinked, stunned. “W-wh… you told her?” he asked, looking at Leyla.

His girlfriend just winced, cheeks reddening. “I… She’d just saved my life.” She trailed off, her voice small and hurt now.

Simon looked like a cornered animal.

He ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, disrupting the perfect arrangement as he struggled to regain control of a situation spiraling beyond his expectations. The facade of confident young businessman fell away, revealing something more vulnerable underneath—a child playing at adulthood, suddenly confronted with the consequences of games he'd only partially understood.

"You don't understand," he said, voice dropping to an urgent whisper despite the privacy of the room. "Colonel Aydin isn't just abusive. He's part of this. All of it."

Anna's attention sharpened, her gaze intensifying as she studied Simon's face for deception. "Explain."

"My father and Colonel Aydin have been business partners for years," Simon continued, the words tumbling out with the force of long-suppressed truths. "The colonel provides security for certain... transportation routes through Turkey. Access to restricted airspace. Documentation for cargo that needs to disappear from official records."

"Human cargo?" Anna asked, her voice dangerously soft.

Simon winced. "I didn't know. Not for certain. Not until—" He broke off, glancing at Leyla, who nodded encouragement. "Three weeks ago, I accessed files I wasn't supposed to see. Shipping manifests coded in my father's private cipher."

"And?" Anna prompted when he hesitated.

"And there were entries that didn't match known weapons shipments or technology transfers. Entries with biological designations. Physical descriptions. But I didn’t know about children, I swear!" Simon's voice had gone hollow, the horror of realization evident in his tone. "I told myself it could be something else. Medical research subjects, maybe. Anything but—"

"Children," Anna finished for him.

Simon nodded, unable to meet her eyes. "If what you're saying is true, if my father really has your sister's children..." He swallowed hard. "Then Colonel Aydin is complicit. This base is likely a transit point."

The pieces clicked into place with terrible clarity. Anna had suspected the Turkish military installation might be connected to Starr's operations, but she hadn't anticipated direct involvement in the trafficking network. This changed the tactical landscape significantly.

"That's why we need him dead," Leyla interjected, her voice stronger now, edged with conviction. "Not just for what he's done to me. For all of it."

Anna assessed the young couple with new eyes. She shook her head. “No. You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to ask me to do that. You can’t unring that bell. Trust me. I know.”

The two of them glanced at each other, both looking sheepish—scared.

“Then what do we do?” Leyla whispered. “You saw what this place is like. What… what almost happened. Again…”

Her boyfriend drew closer to her, placing an arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, both of them drawing on the other for strength.

Anna considered this.

“Take me to your father,” she said simply. “Tell him you need evac. I’ll drive you out of this base personally. I’ll take you wherever you want. Then, I’ll speak to your father myself. And,” she added, “I’ll try not to hurt him. As long as he gives me what I want.”

Chapter 8

The tension hung in the air between them, a tangible force that seemed to distort the space like the shimmer over hot pavement. Simon's gaze darted between Anna and Leyla, calculation warring with desperation behind his dark eyes.

"You don't understand what you're asking," he finally said, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "My father doesn't just give things back. Especially not... assets—assets he's acquired at considerable expense."

"I'm not asking," Anna replied, her tone flat and implacable as desert stone. "And they're not assets. They're children. And you have a line for me to reach your father—to find him."

Simon flinched at the word, a shadow of shame crossing his features before he mastered it. "The emergency channel, it's not a direct line to my father. It's to his security chief.”

Anna went perfectly still, only her eyes betraying a flicker of recognition. “Name?”

“Gregor something… I don’t ask.”

The mention of Gregor sent a cold ripple down Anna's spine, though her expression remained impassive. She knew exactly who Simon meant—Gregor Antoni, former commander turned private contractor. The man responsible for training Anthony Starr's security detail. A man whose methods were notorious even among those accustomed to violence.

"I know him," Anna said simply.

Simon's eyebrows rose slightly. "Then you understand why this won't be simple."

"Nothing worth doing ever is." Anna moved to the window again, scanning the courtyard below with practiced efficiency. The base continued its nighttime operations, unaware of the deadly calculus being performed in the colonel's quarters. "How soon can you establish contact?"

Simon hesitated, glancing at Leyla. Some unspoken communication passed between them, a silent negotiation conducted through microexpressions and the subtle pressure of fingers against palm.

"I have the equipment in my quarters," he finally said. "But once I activate it, we'll have minutes at most before my father's security protocols kick in. He'll know something's wrong."

"Then we move quickly." Anna turned from the window, her decision made. "You contact your father's security chief. I'll arrange our transportation off the base."

"And then what?" Leyla asked, her voice small but determined. "Even if you get these children back—what happens to us? My father will never stop hunting me. Simon's father will never let him go."

Anna studied the young woman, seeing beyond the fear to the steel beneath. "One problem at a time. First, we leave this base. Then we negotiate from a position of strength."

Simon shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You don't negotiate with Anthony Starr. You survive him, if you're lucky."

"I'm not interested in luck. I'm interested in results. And right now, the result I need is to locate my sister's children."

Simon's jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath the skin as he struggled with his decision. Finally, he nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. "My quarters. Ten minutes. Bring only what you absolutely need."

"I already have everything I need," Anna said, gesturing to herself. No weapons visible.

Simon nodded again, then turned to Leyla. "Pack light. One bag. Nothing that can be traced."

Leyla didn't waste time with questions. She moved immediately to a door on the far side of the room, disappearing into what must have been her bedroom. The efficiency of her response suggested this wasn't the first time they'd planned an escape.

Simon watched her go, something vulnerable flickering across his features before he mastered it. When he turned back to Anna, his expression had hardened, becoming more like his father's than perhaps he realized.

"If you're lying about these children," he said, voice low and tense, "if this is just some elaborate trap to get to my father, I will personally ensure you regret it."

Anna met his gaze without flinching. "I don't lie about family."

A flicker of surprise crossed Simon's face at the simple declaration. He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded once—not agreement, exactly, but acknowledgment. Without another word, he moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

"Ten minutes. My quarters are in the west wing, second floor. Room 214." His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. "The corridor cameras rotate on a forty-five second cycle with a three-second blind spot between sweeps. Time your approach accordingly."

With that, he slipped out, closing the door silently behind him.

Anna remained motionless for several seconds, listening to the fading echo of his footsteps in the hallway beyond. Her mind was already mapping the base layout, calculating routes, assessing variables. The inclusion of Simon and Leyla complicated her extraction plan but also provided cover—the colonel's daughter and her American boyfriend would draw less immediate suspicion than a lone operative.

Leyla emerged from her bedroom carrying a small backpack. She'd changed again, now dressed in dark jeans and a fitted jacket, her long hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. The casual outfit couldn't disguise the tension in her movements or the fear that still lingered in her eyes.

"He's trying to help," she said, misinterpreting Anna's silence as doubt. "Simon wants to do the right thing. He's not like his father."

"We'll see," Anna replied, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She gestured to the backpack. "What did you pack?"

"Essentials. Cash. Fake IDs Simon arranged months ago. Some clothes." Leyla hesitated, then added with unexpected practicality, "First aid supplies. Pain medication. Bandages."

Anna nodded approval. "Good thinking."

"I've been planning this escape for a long time," Leyla admitted, a hint of pride coloring her voice. "Just... not like this. Not with..." She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

"Not with a stranger who killed a man in front of you?"

Leyla flinched but didn't look away. "Not with someone who might get us all killed."

The honesty was refreshing. Anna felt the corner of her mouth twitch in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Fair assessment. But right now, I'm your best chance at getting off this base alive."

"I know," Leyla said simply. She shouldered her backpack, squaring her shoulders with visible determination. "Let's go."

They moved toward the door, Anna pausing to listen for movement in the hallway beyond. Satisfied it was clear, she eased the door open just enough to scan the hall.

The corridor stretched empty before them, its polished marble gleaming under the soft glow of wall sconces. Anna gestured for Leyla to follow, her movements precise and economical as she led the way toward the west wing. They moved with careful purpose—not skulking, which would attract attention, but walking with the confident stride of people who had every right to be there.

Anna kept track of the security cameras, their subtle movements barely perceptible as they panned across predetermined arcs. She timed their progress to exploit the blind spots Simon had mentioned, guiding Leyla with gentle pressure on her elbow when they needed to pause or accelerate.

They reached the west wing without incident, the architectural style shifting subtly from Ottoman opulence to more utilitarian military design. The hallway narrowed, the marble giving way to polished concrete, the ornate light fixtures replaced by functional fluorescents that cast harsher shadows.

Room 214 was marked by a simple numeric plaque beside a heavy wooden door. Anna rapped softly—three quick taps, a pause, then two more. The door opened immediately, Simon's face appearing in the narrow gap before he stepped back to admit them.

The space beyond was spartan compared to the colonel's quarters—a standard officer's room that had been adapted for civilian use. A single bed occupied one corner, neatly made with military precision. A desk dominated the opposite wall, its surface cluttered with electronic equipment that hummed with quiet purpose. The walls were bare except for a large map of the eastern Mediterranean marked with shipping routes and what appeared to be military installations.

Simon secured the door behind them, engaging a series of locks that seemed excessive for standard base housing. "I've prepared the communication equipment," he said without preamble, gesturing to the desk. "But before we use it, we need to be clear on our story."

Anna moved to examine the setup, her trained eye recognizing the sophisticated encryption hardware that had been seamlessly integrated with more conventional communications equipment. "Impressive."

"My father doesn't believe in technological half-measures," Simon replied, a note of bitterness coloring his voice. "Especially when it comes to keeping tabs on me."

Anna nodded toward the map on the wall. "Your father's operation?"

Simon's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Major shipping routes. Transit points. Security checkpoints." His finger traced a line from the Turkish coast toward Cyprus. "This is the primary corridor for moving... sensitive cargo."

"Children," Anna corrected, her voice flat.

Simon flinched but didn't contradict her. "If what you say is true—"

"It is."

"—then they would have come through here." He tapped a point on the Turkish coast not far from their current location. "A private dock with minimal oversight. From there, overland transport to a secure facility."

"Where?" Anna demanded, her focus narrowing.

Simon hesitated, conflict evident in his expression. "I don't know the exact location.”

“You two want your freedom? I can make that happen,” Anna said simply. “Well, more accurately, a friend of mine named Waldo. He can make you disappear, like really disappear. No one will find you.”

Simon's eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with desperate hope. "Who's Waldo? Another operative?"

"In a manner of speaking," Anna replied, her expression giving nothing away. "He specializes in making problems disappear. Sometimes those problems are people who need to vanish."

Leyla moved closer to Simon, her hand finding his in a gesture that seemed as automatic as breathing. "Can we trust him?"

"I'm trusting him with my family's lives." She didn’t add the fact that she also found the man insufferable. He was good at what he did, and that was what mattered.

Simon turned away, pacing the small confines of the room with agitated energy. The conflict was written in every line of his body—the son of Anthony Starr, caught between loyalty and horror, between self-preservation and the first stirrings of conscience.

"The secure facility," he finally said, the words seeming to physically pain him. "It's called Olympus. My father's private compound. Technically it doesn't exist on any map or registry."

"Location," Anna pressed, sensing his resolve weakening.

Simon moved to the map, his finger hovering over a remote area in the mountains north of their position. "Here. About two hundred kilometers inland. Accessible only by helicopter or a single mountain road that's patrolled around the clock."

Anna memorized the coordinates, her mind already calculating approach vectors, security parameters, extraction routes. "And the children? Would they be kept there?"

"If they exist—" Simon caught himself at Anna's sharp look. "If my father has them, then yes. Olympus is where he keeps his most valuable... assets."

The word hung between them, ugly in its clinical detachment. Simon seemed to hear it himself, wincing slightly.

"How do we get there?" Anna asked, her focus unwavering.

"We don't," Simon replied, shaking his head. "Olympus is a fortress. Military-grade security systems, former special forces personnel, aerial surveillance. You don't just walk in."

"Everything has a weakness."

"Not Olympus," Simon insisted. "My father designed it personally, incorporating every lesson from thirty years in private security. The only people who enter or leave are those with explicit authorization."

"Then we get authorization," Anna said simply.

Simon stared at her for a moment, then understanding dawned in his eyes. "The emergency channel. You want Gregor to bring us in."

Anna nodded once. "Your father's security chief would have the authority to clear our arrival, especially if he believes you're in danger."

"And what happens when we arrive? When Gregor realizes you've manipulated him?"

"By then, it will be too late." Anna's voice held absolute certainty, the kind that came not from bravado but from experience.

Simon exchanged a glance with Leyla, some unspoken communication passing between them. Finally, he nodded, decision made.

"I'll make the call. But we need to be ready to move immediately afterward. Once Gregor realizes I'm activating the emergency protocol, we'll have fifteen minutes at most before the entire security apparatus mobilizes."

Anna nodded, already mentally preparing for rapid extraction. "How will we leave the base?"

"There's a vehicle," Simon said, moving to a small safe concealed behind the map. He entered a combination and extracted a set of keys and what appeared to be security passes. "A modified Range Rover in the officers' motor pool. Bulletproof glass, reinforced chassis, satellite communications. My father insisted on it when I came here."

"Of course he did," Anna murmured, unsurprised by Anthony Starr's paranoia. "Security clearance?"

Simon held up the passes. "These will get us through the main checkpoint. After that..." He shrugged, a gesture that conveyed both resignation and determination. "We improvise."

Leyla spoke up, her voice steady despite the fear evident in her eyes. "The guard rotation changes at midnight. There's a twenty-minute window when security is lighter as shifts transition. If we time it right, we can be through the main gate before the new shift is fully briefed."

Anna glanced at her watch. Twenty-three thirty. Thirty minutes until the guard change. It would be tight but manageable. "Then we move now. Simon, make the call."

Simon nodded, turning to the communications equipment with practiced efficiency. His fingers moved across the keyboard, entering a series of commands that activated the encrypted channel. The screen before him flickered, lines of code scrolling past too quickly to read before resolving into a simple command prompt.

"This is a one-way transmission," Simon explained, his voice dropping to a near-whisper despite the privacy of the room. "Text only. Once sent, we'll receive acknowledgment through a separate channel—my father's private server. We'll have access for exactly ninety seconds before the system locks us out and triggers security protocols."

Anna moved closer, watching over his shoulder as he began to type:

EMERGENCY PROTOCOL ALPHA. LOCATION COMPROMISED. IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION REQUIRED. ACKNOWLEDGE.

Simon's finger hovered over the enter key, a momentary hesitation that betrayed the enormity of his decision. This was the point of no return—the moment he officially betrayed his father. Anna could see the weight of it in the tension of his shoulders, the barely perceptible tremor in his hand.

"If we do this," he said without turning, "there's no going back. Colonel Aydin will never stop hunting me. Us." He glanced at Leyla, who stood beside the door, backpack clutched in white-knuckled hands.

"He already won't stop hunting you," Anna replied, her voice steady. "The moment you decided to help Leyla escape, you crossed a line he won't forgive. At least this way, you have a fighting chance.

Simon's finger descended, the keystroke final as a gunshot in the quiet room. The message transmitted, disappearing from the screen to be replaced by a simple status indicator: AWAITING RESPONSE.

"Now we wait," Simon murmured, tension radiating from him like heat.

The seconds stretched, each one feeling longer than the last. Anna positioned herself by the window, scanning the courtyard below for any sign of increased activity. So far, the base maintained its normal nighttime operations—guards patrolling in predictable patterns, occasional vehicles moving between buildings, the distant sound of an aircraft somewhere beyond the perimeter.

The computer emitted a soft chime, drawing their attention. A new message appeared on the screen:

AUTHENTICATION REQUIRED. VERIFY IDENTITY.

Simon inhaled sharply, then typed a series of characters—a complex alphanumeric code that appeared to be at least twenty digits long. His fingers moved with the automatic precision of muscle memory, suggesting this was a sequence he had committed to heart rather than written down.

Another pause, briefer this time, before a new message appeared:

IDENTITY CONFIRMED. EXTRACTION TEAM DISPATCHED. MAINTAIN POSITION. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

"He bought it," Simon whispered, a mixture of relief and dread in his voice. "But they'll expect us to stay put. Standard protocol is to secure in place until the extraction team arrives. But given the circumstances, we need to leave the base.” He looked at her. “We can lure them… we just did, but Leyla and I are not getting on that helicopter with Gregor.”

Anna shook her head. “Leave that to me. We need to get off base, and I’ll take you to my compatriots. They’ll keep you safe.”

“And you?”

She flashed a rare smile. “I’ll be taking a helicopter ride with a lieutenant of a private army. We’ll see how accommodating this Gregor guy is.” She paused. “And at the end of that helicopter ride. Your father will be at Olympus?”

A nod. “His favorite rabbit hole. He hides there, lifts a lot of heavy weights, and rants about the state of the world. That’s all he does. That’s all he ever does.”

Suddenly, loud voices outside. The sound of shouting.

Shit.

“Think they found the body?” Leyla asked, her voice shaking.

Anna didn’t bother replying. They couldn’t stay put now even if they wanted to.

They were already out of time.

Chapter 9

The thought of having to assault a secret mountain base protected by the highest levels of technology and security melted under the heat of the more proximate threat.

If they didn’t get off the Turkish base, they’d all die. Anna doubted the guards looked kindly on unexplained murder in their territory.

The shouting grew louder, accompanied by the distinctive sound of booted feet moving at double-time down the corridor outside. Anna moved away from the window in one cat-like motion, positioning herself beside the door where she would be concealed when it opened. Her hand found the combat knife at the small of her back, the weapon clearing its sheath with a whisper of steel against leather.

"Simon," she said, her voice low and controlled, "how many entrances to this room?"

"Just the one," he replied, already moving to shut down the communications equipment. His fingers flew across the keyboard, erasing logs, severing connections, initiating what appeared to be a comprehensive data wipe. "No other way in or out."

"Bathroom window?" Anna suggested, eyeing the narrow door on the far wall.

Simon shook his head. "Sealed shut. Security protocol."

Of course. Anthony Starr wouldn't leave such an obvious escape route unaddressed, even in his son's quarters. The man's paranoia was methodical, if nothing else.

The commotion in the hallway grew louder, voices calling back and forth in Turkish. Anna caught fragments—"security breach" and "perimeter alert"—enough to confirm her suspicions. The body had been discovered, or perhaps her empty grave. Either way, their window of opportunity was closing rapidly.

"New plan," she announced, decision made. "We move now. Not at the guard change."

Leyla's face paled, but she nodded, slipping the backpack over her shoulders with trembling hands. Simon finished with the computer, pressing a final key that caused the screen to go dark.

Anna nodded once, then turned her attention to the door. The voices outside had receded slightly, moving further down the corridor. "We'll head for the motor pool directly. Stay close, follow my lead, and if I tell you to do something, do it without question. Understood?"

Both nodded, their faces set with the grim determination of people who recognized they were out of options.

Anna eased the door open a fraction, enough to scan the hallway beyond. Clear for the moment, though the sounds of increased activity echoed from further within the building. She slipped out first, knife held low against her thigh where it would be less visible and motioned for the others to follow.

They moved with purpose rather than panic, maintaining a brisk but unsuspicious pace as they navigated the corridors toward the building's exit. Anna led them through a service passage she'd noted during their earlier transit—a narrow hallway used primarily by maintenance staff, less likely to be monitored or heavily trafficked.

The passage descended via a tight stairwell that smelled of industrial cleaners and cigarette smoke—the hidden domain of those who kept the base functioning. They encountered no one, the service staff evidently occupied elsewhere during the growing commotion.

They emerged near the kitchen's rear entrance, the same area where Anna had killed the man just hours earlier. She paused, listening intently for any sign that the body had been discovered, but the dumpster remained undisturbed, its grim secret still concealed beneath bags of kitchen waste.

What had caused the alert then? Her empty grave? Some unrelated attack or infiltration that was simply their trio’s bad luck?

"The motor pool is across the main courtyard," Simon whispered, gesturing toward a large open area visible through a service door. "Two hundred meters of exposed ground."

Anna assessed the situation. The courtyard was illuminated by harsh security lights, eliminating any possibility of using shadows for concealment. Several soldiers moved across the space, their postures tense, weapons at the ready. This was no longer routine patrol behavior—the base was transitioning to heightened alert status.

"We need a distraction," she murmured, her gaze sweeping the kitchen area for possibilities.

Her eyes landed on the industrial gas range against the far wall, its pilots glowing blue in the dim light. Next to it stood several large canisters of cooking fuel, secured by chains to prevent theft or accidental displacement.

"How far is the motor pool from this building?" she asked, already moving toward the range.

"Fifty meters, give or take," Simon replied, watching her with growing comprehension. "Far enough that structural damage here wouldn't reach it."

"Good." Anna knelt beside the gas canisters, examining the connections with practiced efficiency. "When I give the signal, you two head directly for the vehicle. Don't run unless I tell you to. Act like you belong, like this is a scheduled departure."

"What about you?" Leyla asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll be right behind you." Anna's hands moved swiftly, loosening fittings, adjusting valves. The soft hiss of escaping gas whispered in the quiet kitchen. "Simon, the passes?"

He produced them from his pocket—two laminated cards with official military seals and photographs. "These will get us through the checkpoint, but if they've initiated a lockdown—"

"One problem at a time." Anna straightened, satisfied with her work. The gas was flowing, accumulating in the enclosed space. She moved to a drawer near the range, extracting a box of matches. "How long will it take to start the vehicle and reach the main gate?"

"Three minutes. Maybe four."

Anna nodded, calculating. "When you hear the explosion, count to thirty, then…”

She was cut off by a sudden burst of gunfire.

A voice shouted.

She turned, staring at a figure who’d opened fire. It was the interrogator who’d punched her. His bullets had gone wide—perhaps out of sheer shock at seeing a ghost.

But if he fired again… worse if he hit the gas…

She didn’t hesitate—her mind instinctively reading the distance between them—twenty meters—and feeding that information into her muscle-memory as her fingers pinched and her elbow snapped.

She flung her knife before he could fire again. But now, shouts were reacting to the gunfire even as her knife arced through the air. The silver flash terminated in the interrogator's throat. His second salvo went wild as he staggered backward, hands rising instinctively to the blade embedded in his windpipe. Blood fountained between his fingers, his eyes wide with shock and the terrible recognition that he was dying.

As if it were all some elaborate choreography, the interrogator collapsed with a wet gurgle, weapon clattering to the floor beside him on cue.

"Go! Now!" Anna barked, abandoning subtlety for speed. The gunshots would bring others within seconds. She struck a match and tossed it toward the leaking gas canisters then sprinted for the service door, shoving Simon and Leyla ahead of her.

They burst into the courtyard just as the kitchen erupted behind them, the explosion sending a concussive wave that propelled them forward. Orange flame bloomed against the night sky, glass shattering outward in a deadly spray. Alarms began to wail across the base, their urgent screech competing with shouts of confusion and pain.

"Move!" Anna commanded, pushing the young couple toward the motor pool. All around them, soldiers scrambled to respond to the explosion, their attention momentarily diverted from three figures moving purposefully across the courtyard.

Leyla was crying, hyperventilating.

Simon was trying to comfort her, but he also looked pale and sick.

Shit, Anna thought in frustrated recollection. She was babysitting two kids. She tried to remember her training in hostage situations—but usually she was the one taking the hostages.

Thankfully, the chaos worked in their favor. In the confusion, they were just three more people responding to an emergency, their determined pace matching that of the soldiers rushing toward the burning building. The accompanying couple served as good cover.

Anna kept them moving at a brisk walk rather than a run, knowing that panicked flight would immediately mark them as targets.

They reached the motor pool without challenge, the guard station temporarily abandoned as its occupants responded to the explosion. Simon led them directly to a matte-black Range Rover parked in a reserved space near the entrance. His hands shook slightly as he unlocked the vehicle, but his movements remained efficient and direct.

"Get in," he instructed, sliding behind the wheel. Leyla took the passenger seat while Anna climbed into the back, positioning herself to observe both their rear and flanks as they moved.

The engine roared to life, its sound lost amid the cacophony of alarms and shouting. Simon navigated through the motor pool with practiced ease, guiding the vehicle toward the main gate that separated the base from the outside world.

Anna watched as they approached the checkpoint, assessing their odds. These two guards remained at their posts despite the chaos, their weapons raised as the Range Rover approached. Behind them, the gate remained closed—heavy steel barriers designed to prevent exactly the kind of escape they were attempting.

"Slow down," Anna instructed from the back seat. "Show them the passes. Act normal."

Simon nodded, decelerating smoothly as they reached the checkpoint. He lowered his window, passes already in hand. "Emergency evacuation," he said in English, his voice carrying the practiced authority of someone accustomed to command. "Colonel Aydin's orders."

The guards hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and the chaos unfolding behind them. One reached for the passes while the other kept his weapon trained on the vehicle, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Colonel's daughter," the first guard said in heavily accented English, recognition dawning as he studied Leyla's face through the passenger window. He glanced at the passes, then at the burning building behind them, smoke now billowing into the night sky. His expression hardened. "No departures. Base lockdown protocol."

Simon's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "This is a direct order from Colonel Aydin. His daughter's safety is the priority."

The guard shook his head, hand moving to the radio at his shoulder. "Must confirm with command. Please step out of vehicle."

Anna saw the shift in his stance, the subtle tightening of his finger near the trigger guard. The second guard was already moving to a position of tactical advantage, circling to the rear of the Range Rover where he'd have a clear shot at the occupants if necessary.

It made Anna’s decision for her.

Anna's movement was a blur of lethal efficiency. Her hand shot through the open driver's window, fingers closing around the first guard's wrist in a grip that immobilized the weapon. In the same fluid motion, she yanked him forward, his face connecting with the door frame with bone-crushing force. As he staggered backward, she relieved him of his sidearm—a standard-issue Beretta—and pivoted toward the second guard.

The man was good—already reacting, already bringing his weapon to bear. But Anna was better.

Two shots rang out in rapid succession, the sound sharp and final in the night air. The first bullet caught him in the throat. The second entered his right eye, the kinetic energy of the round causing a catastrophic exit wound as it blew through the back of his skull. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Anna turned back to the first guard, who was attempting to rise despite the blood streaming from his shattered nose. His hand fumbled for the backup weapon at his ankle.

Too slow.

The third shot caught him directly beneath the chin, the bullet traveling upward through the soft tissue to lodge in his brain stem. Death was instantaneous, his body collapsing in a boneless heap beside his colleague's.

"Open the gate," Anna instructed, her voice unnaturally calm in the aftermath of violence.

Simon stared at her through the rearview mirror, his face drained of color. "I—"

"The gate controls. Now. Before reinforcements arrive."

He nodded jerkily, fumbling with the door handle. Anna exited first, providing cover as he moved to the guard station. His hands trembled visibly as he accessed the control panel, entering a series of commands that sent the heavy steel barrier grinding upward. The mechanism was agonizingly slow, each centimeter of clearance purchased with precious time they could ill afford to spend.

Anna scanned their surroundings, Beretta held at the ready. The explosion had drawn most of the base's personnel toward the burning kitchen building, but it wouldn't be long before someone noticed the unmanned checkpoint or the bodies sprawled on the concrete.

"Hurry," she urged, eyes never ceasing their methodical sweep of the perimeter.

Simon completed the sequence, the gate now raised high enough for the Range Rover to pass beneath. He sprinted back to the vehicle, sliding behind the wheel as Anna took a final look at the base behind them.

In the distance, she could see figures breaking away from the main group, turning toward the checkpoint. Someone had noticed. Their window for escape was closing.

Anna slipped into the back seat, shutting the door with controlled force. "Drive. Now. Don't stop for anything."

Simon gunned the engine, the powerful vehicle surging forward beneath the half-raised gate. Metal scraped against the roof with a spine-chilling shriek, but the reinforced chassis held. They burst through onto the access road beyond, acceleration pressing them back against their seats as Simon pushed the Range Rover to its limits.

Behind them, shouts of alarm rose above the continuing wail of sirens. A burst of gunfire peppered the rear of the vehicle, bullets pinging harmlessly off the bulletproof glass. Anna twisted in her seat, watching through the back window as soldiers poured through the gate, some already climbing into pursuit vehicles.

"They're coming after us," she said, her voice clinical rather than alarmed. "How fast can this thing go?"

"Fast enough," Simon replied, his earlier fear hardening into something closer to his father's determination. His hands were steady on the wheel now, guiding the Range Rover along the winding mountain road with practiced skill. "The question is where we're going. My father's extraction team will be looking for us at pre-determined coordinates twenty kilometers north of here."

"We're not meeting them," Anna stated flatly. "Head east. I have contacts who can extract us to a secure location. Then I’ll head alone to the extraction point.”

Simon nodded, not bothering to argue. "There's a junction five kilometers ahead. We can lose our pursuers in the mountain passes if we time it right."

A quick glance in the side mirror confirmed Anna's assessment: two military vehicles had cleared the gate and were now in pursuit, their headlights cutting through the darkness behind them. More would follow.

"Leyla," Anna said, turning her attention to the young woman who sat rigid with shock in the passenger seat. "In the glove compartment. Is there a phone? Satellite communication?"

Leyla blinked, the question seeming to penetrate her stupor. She fumbled with the compartment, extracting a sleek satellite phone. "Yes. Here."

"Give it to me," Anna instructed, already planning their next move. Time to call in the cavalry.

She could only hope they were close enough to help.

Chapter 10

Kovac reclined lazily in the chair, humming his favorite classical piece under his breath. He could feel Casper's eyes on him, judging, angry.

Casper didn't trust Kovac, and Kovac didn't blame him.

The two men stood at standby in the small, cramped, unfurnished safe room in Izmir's old quarter. The space was little more than a concrete box—twenty feet by fifteen, with water stains mapping constellations across the ceiling and a single window overlooking a narrow alley where feral cats fought over scraps. A bare bulb dangled from exposed wiring, casting harsh shadows that seemed to crawl across the walls with each subtle movement.

Kovac continued humming Vivaldi's Winter concerto, his pale eyes fixed on the switchblade dancing between his fingers. The knife moved with hypnotic precision, weaving between his knuckles in a blur of polished steel that caught the light with each revolution. His lean body appeared relaxed in the metal folding chair, but Casper knew better. Kovac's apparent languor was that of a coiled serpent—still only until the moment it strikes.

"Could you stop that humming?" Casper finally snapped, his patience exhausted after three hours of enforced proximity. His gleaming, shaved head caught the light as he paced the perimeter of the room for the hundredth time. "It's driving me insane."

Kovac's humming paused mid-phrase. His colorless eyes shifted to Casper, a smile spreading across his face that never reached those empty orbs. "Vivaldi bothers you? I would have taken you for a man of culture, Casper."

"It's not Vivaldi that bothers me," Casper retorted, adjusting the sunglasses he wore despite the room's dim lighting. "It's the sound coming out of your mouth."

Kovac's smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be natural. "Ah, I see. It's personal then." He resumed humming, now deliberately louder, the knife continuing its dance between his fingers.

Casper's jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath the skin of his weathered face. He stopped pacing to stare directly at Kovac. "You enjoy this, don't you? Pushing buttons. Finding the edge of tolerance."

"Everyone needs hobbies," Kovac replied with exaggerated innocence. He caught the knife between two fingers, then flipped it, catching the handle with practiced ease. "Some people collect stamps. Some people build ships in bottles. I..." He trailed off, shrugging eloquently.

"You're sick," Casper said, the words flat and matter-of-fact rather than accusatory.

"We're all sick, Casper," Kovac replied, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow filled the room more completely than his humming had. "Some of us just wear our sickness on the outside where everyone can see it. Others..." He gestured vaguely toward Casper with the knife. "Others hide it behind sunglasses and righteousness."

The air between them thickened with mutual distrust. Casper's hands flexed at his sides, the scarred knuckles whitening momentarily before he forced them to relax. The room seemed to contract around them, the stained walls pressing inward as if responding to the building pressure.

"You don't know anything about me," Casper said finally, each word measured and controlled. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple despite the room's chill.

Kovac's laugh was soft and utterly devoid of humor. "Oh, but I do. I know exactly what kind of man you are, Casper. The kind who needs rules and boundaries to keep the darkness contained. The kind who builds walls of morality and procedure because without them..." He let the thought hang unfinished, the implication clear.

Casper took a single step forward, his massive frame casting Kovac's corner of the room into deeper shadow. The movement was deliberate, a physical reminder of the size difference between them. Kovac might be quick with his blade, but Casper's hands could crush a man's windpipe before the knife found its mark.

"We're not the same," Casper growled, voice rough as stone against metal.

"No," Kovac agreed, surprising him. "We're not. You still believe redemption is possible. That's what makes you dangerous." The knife disappeared into his sleeve with a practiced flick of his wrist. "And weak."

The air in the room seemed to vibrate with potential violence, each man poised at the edge of action. Kovac's apparent relaxation was belied by the coiled tension visible in his forearms, the subtle shift in his weight that would allow him to spring from the chair in an instant. Casper's breathing had slowed, deepened—the controlled respiration of a fighter preparing to engage.

The satellite phone on the rickety table between them erupted into shrill, electronic life, shattering the moment with its insistent demand for attention. Both men froze, gazes locked for a heartbeat longer before Casper broke away, moving to answer.

"Checkpoint," he answered, the code word rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. His free hand reached for the laptop beside the phone, fingers flying across the keyboard to initiate the encryption protocols.

The voice that came through the speaker was unmistakable—Anna Gabriel, her words clipped and precise despite the audible sounds of a vehicle moving at high speed. Kovac rose from his chair in a single fluid motion, all traces of his earlier languor vanished as he moved to stand beside Casper, his head tilted to better hear Anna's transmission.

"Extraction required. Three packages. Coordinates to follow." Anna's voice crackled with static, the connection wavering as the vehicle apparently navigated mountainous terrain. "Heavy pursuit. ETA your position nineteen minutes."

Casper's fingers continued their dance across the keyboard, triangulating the signal, mapping potential intercept points. His earlier animosity toward Kovac seemed forgotten, professionalism overriding personal feelings as they shifted seamlessly into operational mode.

"Copy that," Casper responded, voice steady. "Receiving coordinates now. Preparing for hot extraction." He glanced at the laptop screen, where a map displayed the rapidly moving signal of Anna's phone. "They've got company—looks like at least three pursuit vehicles based on the satellite feed." A low whistle. “Waldo’s fast. Gotta give him that.”

Kovac was already moving, gathering equipment from the duffel bags stacked against the far wall. His movements were precise, economical—no wasted motion as he assembled an impressive arsenal with practiced efficiency.

"Package status?" Casper asked into the phone, eyes never leaving the screen where red dots representing pursuit vehicles were gaining on Anna's position.

"One primary, two secondary. All mobile, one shaken." Anna's voice remained steady despite the circumstances. "Primary is Simon Argon. Secondary is Leyla Aydin, daughter of base commander. Injured party is Leyla—shock, not physical trauma."

Casper and Kovac exchanged a glance of genuine surprise. This was an unexpected development—Anna had not only located Simon Argon but had somehow convinced him to leave the base voluntarily, bringing the colonel's daughter along for the ride.

"Understood," Casper replied, already calculating how this changed their extraction plan. "We'll meet you at intercept point Delta. Seven minutes."

"Copy. Be advised—military response will escalate. Potential air support." The connection crackled again, Anna's voice fading before returning. "And Casper—tell Kovac this isn't an art exhibition."

Casper's mouth twitched in what might have been a suppressed smile as he ended the call. He turned to find Kovac already fully equipped—tactical vest secured over his lean frame, an assortment of knives sheathed at various points on his body, and a compact submachine gun slung across his chest.

"You heard the lady," Casper said, reaching for his own gear. "This is extraction only. Clean and quick."

Kovac's pale eyes gleamed with an emotion that might have been disappointment. "She takes all the fun out of life," he complained, though his hands continued their efficient preparation, checking weapons with the reverence of a priest handling sacred relics.

"That's why she's still alive," Casper countered, pulling on a bulletproof vest and securing additional magazines in the pouches. "And why so many of her targets aren't."

Chapter 11

Anna willed their vehicle to move faster. The chatter of guns and bright flashes of muzzle fire illuminated the windshields of the pursuers behind her.

The Range Rover hurtled through the darkness, headlights carving a narrow path along the winding mountain road. Simon handled the vehicle with impressive skill, navigating hairpin turns at speeds that left the tires screaming in protest. Each curve brought them perilously close to the sheer drop that yawned beside the road—a black void promising certain death to anyone who misjudged their trajectory.

"Junction coming up," Simon announced, his voice tight with concentration. "Two kilometers."

Anna braced herself against the door as they took another turn, the centrifugal force pressing her hard against the leather upholstery. Through the rear window, she could see their pursuers—three military vehicles maintaining formation despite the treacherous terrain. The lead vehicle had closed the gap to less than two hundred meters, its headlights flooding the Range Rover's interior with harsh light.

A burst of gunfire shattered the night, bullets pinging harmlessly against the reinforced rear window. The sound made Leyla flinch, a small whimper escaping her lips as she pressed herself lower in her seat.

"They can't penetrate the armor," Simon reassured her, though his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "My father insisted on the highest grade available."

"Your father's paranoia is finally doing something for us," Anna remarked dryly. She checked the Beretta she'd taken from the guard, confirming the magazine was full before tucking it into her waistband. "When we reach the junction, take the eastern fork. Hard right, then immediately hard left. There's a maintenance access road that doesn't appear on most maps."

Simon shot her a quick, surprised glance through the rearview mirror. "How do you know that?"

"I make it my business to know escape routes," Anna replied simply. Her gaze returned to the pursuers, calculating distances, evaluating options. "The road narrows about five hundred meters past the junction. Single lane, blind corner. Perfect place for an ambush."

"Whose ambush?" Simon asked, comprehension dawning in his eyes. "Theirs or ours?"

"Depends who gets there first." Anna's lips curved in the ghost of a smile. "Think you can widen the gap?"

In answer, Simon's foot pressed harder on the accelerator, the Range Rover's powerful engine roaring as it surged forward. The speedometer climbed past 120 kilometers per hour, a dangerous velocity on the narrow, winding road. The vehicle shuddered as they hit a rough patch, momentarily airborne before crashing back to the asphalt with bone-jarring force.

"There!" Leyla cried, pointing ahead where the road forked. The junction was marked only by a weathered sign, barely visible in the headlights.

Simon took the turn at full speed, the Range Rover's tires losing traction for a heart-stopping moment before finding purchase on the eastern fork. The maneuver bought them precious seconds as their Range Rover skidded through the turn, tires fighting for traction as Simon wrenched the wheel. For one heart-stopping moment, the vehicle tilted precariously—two wheels briefly lifting from the asphalt before crashing back down with a bone-jarring impact that rattled Anna's teeth.

Their pursuers, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden maneuver, overshot the junction. The lead vehicle braked hard, tires screaming in protest as it slewed sideways across the road, forcing the others to take evasive action. One collided with the guardrail in a shower of sparks and twisted metal, its momentum arrested in an instant.

"Hard left," Anna instructed, bracing herself against the seat. "Now!"

Simon responded instantly, hauling the wheel around. The Range Rover lurched onto what barely qualified as a road—a narrow track carved into the mountainside, originally intended for maintenance vehicles servicing the communications equipment that dotted these remote peaks.

"They won't be able to follow us here," Simon said, his voice tight with concentration as he navigated the treacherous path. "The military trucks are too wide for this track."

"They don't need to follow," Anna replied grimly. "They just need to parallel us on the main road until we're forced to rejoin it." She checked her watch, calculating. "Five minutes to the intercept point. We need to maintain this pace."

The Range Rover bounced violently as it hit a section of broken ground, the suspension groaning in protest. Leyla clutched the dashboard, her knuckles white, eyes wide with terror as she stared at the sheer drop mere inches from her window.

"I can't maintain this speed on this terrain," Simon warned, fighting the wheel as the vehicle threatened to slide toward the edge. "The track's deteriorating."

He was right. What had begun as a rough but navigable path was rapidly devolving into little more than a goat track, strewn with loose rocks and crisscrossed by erosion channels. The Range Rover, for all its engineering excellence, wasn't designed for this level of off-road punishment.

Simon’s jaw set with determination as he coaxed every ounce of performance from the straining vehicle. Sweat beaded on his forehead, glinting in the dim glow of the dashboard lights as he fought to keep them on the increasingly treacherous path.

The satellite phone vibrated in Anna's hand—a text message from Casper: POSITION ACQUIRED. READY.

"Almost there," she announced, returning the phone to her pocket. "When we reach the ravine, pull off to the right. There's a small plateau overlooking the main road. Stop there."

Simon didn't waste breath questioning her instructions. The military vehicles raced along the larger, parallel road. But as the rover slowed, so did their pursuers.

Now, multiple men emerged from windows, aiming automatic weapons. They were sitting ducks.

“We need to speed up!” Leyla shouted.

“We can’t!” Simon yelled back. “I can’t control it.”

“Keep going!” Anna replied, checking the cliffs behind them. “Almost there… Almost…”

The first burst of automatic fire tore through the night with mechanical fury, a staccato roar that seemed to shred the very air around them. Tracer rounds cut luminous paths through the darkness, their phosphorescent trails briefly illuminating the stark mountain terrain in flashes of unnatural green-white light.

"Down!" Anna commanded, already flattening herself across the back seat as the first rounds struck the Range Rover.

The impact was deafening—a cacophony of metal striking metal as bullets hammered against the vehicle's armored exterior. The reinforced windows held, but spider-web fractures began to spread across the glass like frost on a winter pond. Each impact sent reverberations through the chassis, the sound like massive hailstones battering a tin roof.

Simon hunched lower behind the wheel, his face a mask of concentration as he fought to maintain control. Leyla had curled into a protective ball in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around her head, shoulders heaving with silent sobs.

"Keep going!" Anna urged, raising her head just enough to track their progress. The plateau was visible now—a small, relatively flat area carved into the mountainside where the maintenance track briefly widened before continuing its treacherous path.

The gunfire intensified, the military vehicles now positioned on the parallel road with clear lines of sight to their target. Multiple gunners leaned from windows and roof hatches, their weapons spitting death in coordinated bursts. The Range Rover's armor, impressive as it was, had limitations—and those limitations were being rapidly approached as concentrated fire focused on vulnerable points.

A round punched through where the rear door met the frame, the armor finally yielding to the relentless assault. The bullet ricocheted inside the vehicle, whining as it bounced from surface to surface before embedding itself in the headrest inches from Simon's ear.

"They're breaking through!" he shouted, voice barely audible above the metallic storm surrounding them.

Anna saw it happening in terrible slow motion—the progressive failure of their protection as military-grade ammunition found and exploited weaknesses in the armor. A small hole appeared in the roof, then another in the rear quarter panel. Moonlight was visible through the trunk where rounds had penetrated from multiple angles.

The vehicle shuddered violently as several bullets found the right front tire, the reinforced rubber finally surrendering to the onslaught. The Range Rover lurched sideways, suddenly unbalanced as the wheel rim scraped against rock with a shower of sparks.

"I can't hold it!" Simon cried, wrestling with the wheel as the vehicle began to skid. The left front tire blew next, shredded by a precise burst that could only have come from a trained marksman. With both front tires destroyed, the Range Rover became uncontrollable, momentum carrying it forward even as Simon desperately pumped the brakes.

They hit the plateau at an angle, the vehicle's weight shifting catastrophically as inertia and gravity combined in a perfect storm of physical forces. The Range Rover slid sideways, its momentum carrying it toward the precipice with inexorable purpose. Simon wrenched the wheel against the skid, fighting physics with desperate strength, but the laws of motion were implacable.

Time stretched, seconds expanding into eternities as the front wheels found empty air. The vehicle teetered on the edge, its nose dipping toward the abyss that yawned beneath them—a sheer drop of at least two hundred meters to the jagged rocks below. The engine screamed as Simon floored the accelerator in reverse, trying to use the rear wheels' traction to pull them back from the brink.

For one heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. The Range Rover hung suspended between salvation and destruction, perfectly balanced on the fulcrum of fate. Anna felt herself sliding forward, gravity pulling her toward the windshield as the vehicle's front end continued its downward tilt. She braced against the back of Simon's seat, adding her weight to the rear of the vehicle in a desperate bid to shift the balance.

Leyla's scream pierced the momentary silence, a primal sound of pure terror as she stared through the cracked windshield at the moonlit chasm below. Her hands clawed at the dashboard, searching for purchase as her body began to slide forward against the restraint of her seatbelt.

"Hold on!" Simon shouted, his voice cracking with strain as he continued to gun the engine. The rear wheels spun frantically, kicking up clouds of dirt and gravel but failing to gain the traction needed to pull them back.

The Range Rover slipped another few centimeters toward oblivion, the front bumper now completely unsupported. Metal groaned in protest as structural components were stressed beyond their design parameters. The dashboard lights flickered, then died, plunging the interior into darkness broken only by the cold gleam of moonlight on fractured glass.

Anna calculated their odds with the clinical detachment that had kept her alive through countless impossible situations. The vehicle was balanced at approximately forty-five degrees, its center of gravity still barely on the right side of survivable. If they moved carefully—if they distributed their weight—there was a chance.

"Don't move," she instructed, her voice cutting through the terror like a blade of ice. "Simon, ease off the accelerator. Slow and steady. Leyla, lean back in your seat. As far as you can go."

They obeyed without question, the authority in her voice compelling compliance despite their fear. Simon's foot eased off the pedal, the engine's roar subsiding to a tense rumble. Leyla pressed herself back against her seat, tears streaming silently down her face as she stared at the roof, deliberately avoiding the view through the windshield.

But Anna couldn’t afford to look away.

The military pursuers were now lining up on the parallel road, leaning over the guard rail. Eight of them. All aiming towards the lame duck vehicle.

They raised their machine guns.

How long would the windshield last? Seconds?

Anna grimaced, waiting for the inevitable sound of gunfire.

Chapter 12

The first shot echoed in the night. Not from one of the military men though, but from one of the cliffs far behind them.

This was why Anna had wanted to reach the plateau—it gave the two world-class snipers a clear line of fire. The first bullet from Casper, or perhaps Kovac, struck one of the military men in the head.

One moment, he’d been shouting orders. The next, his cranium exploded in a spray of arterial red.

The Turkish soldiers froze in momentary confusion, their weapons still trained on the teetering Range Rover but their attention suddenly divided by the unexpected threat. That moment of hesitation proved fatal.

A second shot followed the first so quickly it seemed almost simultaneous—a different caliber, a different signature. Where the first bullet had announced itself with a deep, resonant crack that echoed across the ravine, this one whispered death with barely a sound, the report suppressed to little more than an exhalation of compressed air.

A soldier at the far end of the formation crumpled, his chest obliterated by the hollow-point round that expanded upon impact, creating a wound channel the size of a man's fist through his thoracic cavity. He was dead before his knees buckled, eyes already empty as his body collapsed against the guardrail.

Two shots. Two kills. Zero hesitation.

The remaining soldiers reacted with the composure of combat veterans, diving for cover and sweeping their weapons toward the unseen threat. But they were scanning the wrong areas, looking for muzzle flashes that wouldn't appear, searching for enemies who had already shifted position after firing.

A third shot came from a completely different angle, forty degrees offset from the previous firing position. This round found the exposed neck of a soldier who had taken cover behind a vehicle's engine block—protection that would have been adequate against a lesser marksman. The bullet severed his spine at the third cervical vertebra, the hydrostatic shock causing immediate paralysis and respiratory failure. He died silently, his finger frozen on a trigger that would never fire.

The fourth and fifth shots came in such rapid succession they sounded like a single, sustained note—the lethal harmony of synchronized snipers who had elevated killing to an art form. Two more soldiers fell, one clutching his throat as blood fountained between his fingers, the other simply dropping as if his skeleton had been instantaneously removed, a marionette with cut strings.

Inside the precariously balanced Range Rover, Anna watched the systematic elimination with professional appreciation. These weren't just skilled marksmen—they were surgical instruments of death, operating with a precision that bordered on the supernatural. Every shot found its mark. Every target dropped with the finality of judgment.

"What's happening?" Simon whispered, unable to turn his head for fear of shifting the vehicle's delicate equilibrium.

"My friends arrived," Anna replied simply.

Outside, the killing continued with methodical efficiency.

The remaining soldiers had now realized their fatal error—caught in the open against unseen snipers with superior position and skill. Two attempted to retreat to their vehicles while the third provided covering fire, his weapon set to full automatic as he sprayed bullets in the general direction of the hidden threats.

It was the last mistake he would ever make.

A sixth shot, this one from the steepest cliff—a position that should have been impossible to reach without climbing equipment—caught him at the base of the skull, the bullet traveling downward through his brain stem and exiting through his jaw in a spray of bone fragments and tissue. His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger as he died, his weapon discharging wildly into the ground as his body convulsed.

The final two soldiers had almost reached their vehicle when simultaneous shots found them—one through the left eye socket, the other through the heart. They collapsed like twins, mirroring each other in death as they had in their final desperate dash for safety.

Eight soldiers. Eight shots. Eight bodies cooling on the mountain road.

Inside the Range Rover, Anna's focus had already shifted from the eliminated threat to their immediate survival. The vehicle remained balanced on the precipice, but the margin was deteriorating with each passing second as small rocks and soil crumbled beneath the rear tires, gradually eroding their tenuous grip.

"We need to move," she announced, her voice calm despite the urgency of their situation. "Very carefully. Very precisely."

"Move where?" Leyla whispered, her voice trembling with barely contained hysteria. "We're about to fall!"

"We're getting out," Anna replied, her tone brooking no argument. "Simon, I need you to release your seatbelt, but don't move afterward. Not until I tell you."

Simon swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, but he nodded. With excruciating care, he reached for the seatbelt release, pressing it with a gentle touch that betrayed his terror. The belt retracted with a soft hiss, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

"Good," Anna approved. "Now, Leyla, you're next. Same instruction—release the belt but don't change position."

Leyla's hand shook so violently she missed the release button on her first attempt. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself with visible effort before trying again. This time she succeeded, the belt sliding away from her body with the same whispered threat of motion.

"Now listen carefully," Anna continued, her own seatbelt already released, her body perfectly balanced to maintain the vehicle's precarious equilibrium. "I'm going to open the rear door. When I do, I'll exit first, then help stabilize the vehicle from outside. Simon, you'll go next, moving slowly toward the rear. Leyla follows last. Understood?"

Both nodded, their faces pale in the moonlight that filtered through the fractured windshield.

Anna reached for the door handle, her movements measured and precise. The latch released with a muted click that seemed to echo in the confined space. She eased the door open, feeling the vehicle shift subtly as the weight distribution changed. A few pebbles dislodged beneath the rear tires, clattering down the sheer face of the cliff with ominous finality.

"Easy," she murmured, more to herself than to her companions. With practiced grace, she slid backward through the opening, maintaining contact with the seat until the last possible moment to avoid sudden weight transfer.

The night air hit her like a physical force after the claustrophobic tension inside the vehicle. Wind whipped across the plateau, carrying the metallic scent of spent ammunition and the more primal odor of recent death from the road below. In the distance, she could hear the distinctive sound of a helicopter approaching—military reinforcements, no doubt, responding to the sudden silence of their ground forces.

Time was running out.

Anna positioned herself at the rear of the Range Rover, gauging its balance, calculating angles and weight distribution.

"Simon," she called, voice pitched to carry without shouting. "Your turn. Move slowly toward me. Keep your weight centered over the rear axle as you come."

Simon's face appeared at the gap between the front and rear seats, his features taut with concentration. He began to edge backward, using his hands to control his movement rather than pushing with his legs, which would have shifted his weight forward at a critical moment.

The Range Rover groaned, metal stressed beyond its design parameters as the front end dipped another few centimeters toward the abyss. Simon froze, his breathing shallow and rapid.

"Keep coming," Anna instructed, her voice steady despite the vehicle's precarious motion. "Smooth and continuous. Don't stop."

Simon resumed his backward progress, sweat gleaming on his forehead despite the cool mountain air. He reached the rear door, where Anna grasped his arm, helping to control his exit. His weight transferred from vehicle to solid ground with barely a tremor, his training—or perhaps his father's genetics—evident in the precise control he maintained throughout the movement.

"Leyla," Anna called next, her attention already shifted to the final occupant. "Your turn. Same process."

Through the gap between the seats, she could see Leyla's face—white with terror, eyes wide and unfocused. The young woman hadn't moved, her body rigid with a fear so profound it had transcended into paralysis.

"Leyla," Anna repeated, her voice taking on a harder edge. "Move. Now."

No response. Leyla's breathing had accelerated to the point of hyperventilation, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow movements that threatened to tip her into unconsciousness.

The helicopter sound grew louder, now accompanied by the sweep of a searchlight probing the mountain slopes from above. They had minutes at most before they were spotted.

"She's frozen," Simon said, his voice tight with anxiety. "She can't move."

Anna made an instant calculation. "Hold my position," she instructed Simon, guiding his hands to the spot where she'd been bracing against the vehicle's rear bumper. "Maintain steady pressure. Don't let it shift forward."

Simon nodded, taking her place as Anna moved swiftly to the side door. The Range Rover creaked ominously, the front wheels dipping another fraction of an inch over the edge as the weight distribution changed.

"Leyla," Anna said, her voice dropping to a register that cut through panic with primal authority. "Look at me."

The young woman's terrified eyes found Anna's, pupils dilated with fear.

"I'm coming to get you," Anna stated, not a question but a simple declaration of fact. "When I reach you, you will take my hand. You will do exactly as I say. You will live. Understand?"

A tiny nod, barely perceptible.

Anna eased herself back into the vehicle, distributing her weight as she moved through the rear door and into the back seat. The Range Rover protested with a metallic groan, the chassis flexing as gravity pulled at its precariously balanced mass.

"Give me your hand," Anna commanded, extending her arm toward Leyla. "Now."

Leyla's arm rose shakily, reaching back between the seats. Their fingers connected, Anna's grip firm and uncompromising as she began to guide the younger woman backward.

"That's it," she encouraged as Leyla started to move. "Slow and steady. Keep your weight low."

The searchlight swept closer, its harsh beam briefly illuminating the plateau before continuing its methodical scan of the terrain. The helicopter's rotor beat pulsed through the air, growing louder with each passing second.

Leyla edged backward with agonizing slowness, her movements jerky with fear but controlled by Anna's unwavering grip. As she cleared the gap between the seats, Anna wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight as they moved together toward the open door.

The Range Rover suddenly shifted, its nose dipping several inches as a section of the ledge crumbled beneath the rear tires. Metal screamed as structural components began to fail, the vehicle's frame twisting under forces it was never designed to withstand.

"Move!" Anna barked, abandoning caution for speed. She half-dragged, half-carried Leyla the remaining distance, practically throwing her through the open door into Simon's waiting arms as the Range Rover's catastrophic failure accelerated.

Anna launched herself after them, her body clearing the vehicle's interior just as the rear axle broke free from its mounting points. The Range Rover tipped forward with surprising grace, almost balletic in its final surrender to gravity. For a suspended moment, it hung balanced on the very edge—a monument to engineering excellence making its last stand against implacable natural forces. Then, with a sound like distant thunder, the remaining section of ledge gave way.

The Range Rover tumbled into the void, its headlights briefly illuminating the sheer rock face as it fell. Metal crumpled against stone with each impact, the vehicle disintegrating as it bounced down the cliff face. The fuel tank ruptured halfway down, igniting with a whoosh that sent a fireball rolling into the night sky. The burning wreckage continued its descent, finally coming to rest at the bottom of the ravine in a twisted heap of flame and metal.

Anna rolled to her feet in one fluid motion, already assessing their situation. Simon had pulled Leyla back from the edge, the two of them huddled together several meters from where the Range Rover had gone over. The helicopter was now clearly visible, its searchlight sweeping methodically across the mountainside as it approached their position.

"Move," Anna ordered, gesturing toward a cluster of boulders that offered minimal cover. "Stay low."

They scrambled for the meager protection, Leyla stumbling in exhaustion and shock before Simon caught her arm, half-carrying her the remaining distance. Anna followed, her movements efficient and purposeful as she scanned the terrain for threats and opportunities.

The satellite phone vibrated in her pocket. She extracted it, glancing at the message from Casper: EYES ON PACKAGE. HOLDING POSITION.

Anna replied. Take the kids. I’m heading north. Access to Starr possible.

A pause. NEGATIVE. EXTRACTION REQUIRED.

Anna ignored this. Casper would want to protect her, would want to debrief. But Gregor was coming.

Starr's personal security chief would be arriving within minutes, expecting to find Simon at the extraction point. This was an opportunity Anna couldn't afford to miss—a direct line to Anthony Starr himself.

"Listen to me," she said to Simon and Leyla, her voice low but carrying clearly over the helicopter's approaching rotor wash. "My team is here. They'll get you both to safety."

Simon's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And you? Where will you be?"

"I'm continuing the mission," Anna replied, her expression unyielding. "My sister's children are still with your father. That hasn't changed."

"You can't go alone," Simon protested, genuine concern breaking through his exhaustion. "Olympus is impenetrable. Even with my access codes, you'd never make it past the outer perimeter."

"I'm not going to try breaking in," Anna said. "I'm going to be invited."

The helicopter was now circling overhead, its searchlight illuminating sections of the plateau in harsh white light that cast knife-edge shadows behind every rock and crevice. Soon, it would find them.

"How will you even reach the extraction point?" Leyla asked, her voice steadier now that immediate death no longer loomed quite so close. "It's kilometers from here, and we have no vehicle."

Anna just pointed at the stalled military vehicles next to the impromptu, mountain graveyard.

“Now go. Hurry.”

She gave the two of them a little push.

She watched as they held hands, retreating. For a moment, as they ran, hastening off into the darkness, hand in hand, she felt that same echo of loneliness that only seemed to be getting louder the longer she spent time among civilians.

She’d seen the lengths Beth had gone to, to try and get her family back. What would it feel like for her to care that much? To be driven by something other than the cold calculus of her mission parameters.

What would it be like to have something like that of her own… what these two young lovers had? What Beth had for her children, and had once had for her now deceased husband?

Anna frowned. She shook her head.

“Get it together,” she chided herself, irritated by this brief show of weakness.

Naturally, such questions were a distraction, and her mind shut them down like turning off a radio tuned into some station too disruptive for the job at hand. She turned, sprinting back towards one of the idling military vehicles.

And Anna focused on the mission

Chapter 13

Anna crouched in the dark, watching the only clearing that could possibly serve as a helicopter’s landing pad.

Five minutes. Ten. Twelve…

Gregor was running late.

Had he been spooked by reports of a firefight on the coast?

Possibly. But if Anthony Starr was as paranoid as Anna supposed, this should only serve to draw his lieutenant closer to extract his only son.

And so she waited in the dark, inhaling the scent of mud, motionless and watchful.

Anna's breath curled like ghostly tendrils in the cold mountain air as she maintained her vigilant crouch among the shadows. Her muscles, trained through thousands of hours of similar waits, held the position without trembling despite the chill seeping through her tactical clothing. Patience was as much a weapon in her arsenal as any knife or gun—perhaps more valuable, for it had preserved her life when other skills failed.

The clearing before her remained stubbornly empty, illuminated only by the distant silver light of stars and a crescent moon that hung like a curved blade in the night sky. Occasional clouds drifted across that celestial knife, plunging the mountainside into deeper darkness before passing to reveal the stark landscape once more.

Eighteen minutes now. Gregor was definitely running late.

Anna allowed herself the smallest adjustment of position—a millimetric shift of weight from one foot to the other, nothing that would register to even the most observant watcher. The military vehicle she'd appropriated sat a hundred meters back, concealed beneath a natural overhang where its outline would blend with the surrounding rock formations.

In the absolute stillness of the mountain night, her thoughts grew louder than any external sound.

The image of Simon and Leyla holding hands as they retreated into the darkness returned unbidden, playing across her mind with unexpected clarity. Their fingers intertwined, shoulders brushing as they moved in unconscious synchronicity—a physical manifestation of connection so natural it seemed they shared a single nervous system.

Anna frowned, irritated by the persistence of the memory.

These distractions were dangerous. Irrelevant. Civilian sentimentality that had no place in operational thinking.

Yet the image remained, accompanied now by others: Beth's face contorted with grief as she begged Anna to find her children; the photograph of her niece and nephew that Anna carried—not for emotional reasons, she had told herself, but for identification purposes; Leyla's hand finding Simon's in the Range Rover, an instinctive reaching for comfort that Anna had observed with clinical detachment.

A deep, throbbing ache bloomed beneath her sternum—an old, familiar sensation that she had successfully ignored for so long it felt almost like encountering a former acquaintance after years of separation.

Loneliness.

The word formed in her mind. She tried to dismiss it, to focus instead on the tactical situation—escape routes, weapon readiness, the estimated time of Gregor's arrival based on known flight patterns and security protocols. But the feeling persisted, a hollow expansion in her chest that seemed to grow with each breath.

What was wrong with her? She'd been alone for years—had preferred it that way. Solitude was safety. Isolation was control. These were fundamental principles she'd lived by since leaving the military, since watching her unit disintegrate in a cascade of betrayal and blood.

Anna exhaled slowly, deliberately, as if she could expel the unwanted emotion with carbon dioxide.

The mission. Focus on the—

Something caught her attention. Perhaps a mercy, given the way her mind was moving.

A shadow fell over the mountain. It came so quickly, so quietly, she'd nearly missed it. Anna froze mid-step, her hand instinctively reaching for the combat knife at the small of her back. Her eyes darted upward, tracking the source of the darkness that had suddenly enveloped the rocky terrain.

A vehicle was hovering there.

Anna stared, momentarily frozen at the spectral, eerily quiet frame.

Like a hummingbird, suspended mid-air as if by some steady current of breeze. Her mind failed to compute but then, her thoughts caught up with what she was seeing... some next generation helicopter. Tech she'd never seen before. The vehicle was just hovering there... barely even looked like a helicopter. Its outline was all wrong—too angular, with what appeared to be retractable rotors that spun into sleek recesses along its fuselage. The matte black exterior absorbed rather than reflected light, making it difficult to distinguish its exact dimensions against the darkening sky. No identifying markers, no tail numbers—just a void hanging against the backdrop of the stars.

Anna dropped to a crouch behind a jagged outcropping, alone. Now, this was a strength.

No one to watch over. No one to protect.

Just her against the machine.

This was her element, the lone wolf with nothing to stop her from facing death with everything she had.

The aircraft descended, disturbing the air with barely more than a whisper compared to conventional helicopters. The sound it did emit was a low, resonant hum that vibrated in Anna's chest cavity rather than assaulting her ears—the product of advanced acoustic suppression technology that shouldn't exist outside of theoretical research papers.

Anna recognized military black project engineering when she saw it. This wasn't standard private security equipment, not even for someone with Anthony Starr's resources. This was government-level technology, the kind developed with black budgets and tested in facilities that appeared on no official maps.

The implications were disturbing. Either Starr had connections deep within military research divisions, or he was being actively supported by state-level actors. Neither possibility boded well for Anna's mission parameters.

The aircraft settled onto the clearing, its landing gear extending from previously invisible compartments in the fuselage. As it touched down, panels along its side retracted to reveal a doorway from which a ramp extended, touching the rocky ground with a soft mechanical whir.

Two figures emerged immediately, moving with the coordinated efficiency of trained operators. They took up flanking positions at the base of the ramp, their weapons—what appeared to be heavily modified M4 carbines with integrated suppression systems—held at low ready. Both wore tactical gear that matched the aircraft's matte black finish, their faces obscured by full-coverage masks with integrated night vision.

A third figure appeared in the doorway, taller than the others and moving with the confident posture of command. Unlike his security detail, this man wore no mask—his face was clearly visible even in the limited light. Sharp features, close-cropped gray hair, and the kind of weathered countenance that spoke of decades spent in harsh conditions. A scar bisected his left eyebrow, continuing down his cheek like a pale lightning bolt frozen in flesh.

Gregor Antoni. Former Spetsnaz commander turned private security chief. The man responsible for building Anthony Starr's personal protection force.

Anna studied him with professional interest. She had never encountered Antoni in person, but his reputation preceded him—ruthlessly efficient, pathologically loyal to Starr, and possessed of a tactical mind that had earned respect even from those who considered him an enemy. His presence here, personally leading what should have been a routine extraction, confirmed the importance Starr placed on his son's safety.

Antoni stepped down the ramp, his gaze sweeping the clearing with the practiced efficiency of a predator assessing potential threats. He raised a hand to his ear—activating a communication device—and spoke in a voice too low for Anna to hear at this distance.

The two security operators began a methodical sweep of the perimeter, moving in opposite directions with weapons now raised to eye level. Their movements were precise, coordinated—these weren't hired mercenaries but highly trained professionals working with the synchronized efficiency that came only from years of operating as a unit.

Anna remained motionless, evaluating her options. The plan had been to ambush the extraction team and leverage Simon's safety to gain access to Olympus. But the sophistication of this operation changed the calculus. These weren't standard security contractors she could overwhelm with superior training and experience. These were elite operators with advanced equipment and the tactical advantage of numbers.

Antoni spoke again into his communication device, his posture stiffening slightly as he received a response. His expression hardened, mouth tightening into a thin line as he gestured sharply to his security team. They immediately altered their search pattern, focusing on a specific section of the perimeter—the exact opposite direction from Anna's position.

A diversion? Or had they detected something she couldn't perceive?

Antoni stepped further from the aircraft, his hand moving to the holstered sidearm at his thigh—a casual, almost unconscious gesture that nonetheless spoke volumes about his mental state. He was expecting trouble.

"Simon!" he called, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing despite its measured volume. "This is no time for games. Your father is concerned."

The security operators continued their sweep, now moving with greater urgency. One activated what appeared to be a thermal imaging device, scanning the rocky terrain.

Time was running out. Once they completed their perimeter check and found no sign of Simon, they would expand their search. The military-grade thermal imaging would eventually find her, regardless of how well she concealed herself.

Decision time.

Anna calculated distances, angles, response times. The nearest operator was twenty meters away, moving tangentially to her position. Antoni stood thirty-five meters distant, partially exposed but with a clear line of retreat to the aircraft. The second operator had disappeared around an outcropping but would likely reappear within sixty seconds.

Not ideal odds. But then, her entire career had been built on overcoming unfavorable probabilities.

With fluid grace, Anna drew the Beretta from her waistband and checked its magazine one final time. Fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. Her combat knife rested in its sheath at the small of her back, a reassuring pressure against her spine.

She inhaled deeply, centering herself in the calm detachment that preceded action. In this state, fear was merely data—a biochemical response to be acknowledged and channeled rather than suppressed.

The security operator nearest to her position paused, his head tilting slightly as he received instructions through his communication device. He turned, beginning to move back toward the aircraft.

Now or never.

Anna rose from her concealment in one fluid motion, the Beretta extended before her in a two-handed grip.

That’s when Gregor spoke. “We see your heat signature, Guardian. If you pull that trigger, the drone will annihilate you.”

He spoke matter-of-factly, with a cultured accent. He had a no-nonsense expression as he spoke.

And Anna realized now, he was staring right at her, his hands at his sides, his knuckles brushing the pockets of his suit.

She went still, finger tense on the trigger.

The two operators who’d moved away from her, now she realized had her in a crossfire. Their guns were pointed directly at her, positioned so she’d have to take them both out before being clear to shoot at Gregor.

No one could move that fast.

It had been a trap. From the second they’d landed, all of their searching and choreography had been a farce to lure her forward. They could see her… Had they been watching her this entire time?

A slow chill crawled up her back.

The drone. Anna's eyes flicked upward, searching the darkness above. Nothing visible against the star-strewn sky, but that meant nothing with stealth technology. The skin between her shoulder blades prickled—the ancient, animal awareness of being in a predator's sights.

"Guardian," Gregor repeated, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. "An impressive call sign. Though I believe your actual designation was Sierra-Seven during your time with the unit."

Anna's grip on the Beretta didn't waver, but her mind raced. How much did he know?

"Your perimeter security needs work," she replied, voice pitched to carry without shouting. "I've been watching this clearing for twenty minutes."

A thin smile curved Gregor's lips. "Who says we didn't know you were here for nineteen of those minutes?" He gestured casually toward the sky. "Drone surveillance has been active since we detected the firefight at the Turkish base. We've been tracking your heat signature since you arrived."

The two security operators had repositioned themselves, flanking Gregor but maintaining enough distance to establish overlapping fields of fire. Their weapons remained trained on Anna.

"Where's Simon?" Gregor asked, his tone conversational despite the tension vibrating in the air between them.

He didn’t know everything. At least there was that.

"Safe," Anna replied. “For now…”

A bluff, but right now, a bluff was all she had left.

Instead of slinking back, instead of engaging in the firefight that would undoubtedly end with her dead, Anna stepped forward.

Six lasers suddenly appeared on her chest, confirming what she’d suspected.

More soldiers were in the trees. They’d been watching her the same as she’d watched them.

How?

Anna knew that drones were constantly evolving, that security corporations and militaries were finding ways to make them cheaper, smarter, more effective every year. She didn’t know of surveillance equipment that would’ve detected her—but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

She mentally reviewed every counter-surveillance protocol she'd employed upon arriving at the extraction point—techniques that had kept her invisible to military-grade detection systems in seventeen countries across four continents. She'd avoided thermal exposure by cooling her body temperature with controlled breathing. She'd maintained perfect stillness, eliminating the micro-movements that even the most advanced motion sensors were calibrated to detect. She'd even found a useful coating in the Turkish vehicle and had applied the specialized spray to her tactical gear. It absorbed and dispersed electromagnetic radiation, rendering her effectively invisible to standard radar.

Which meant only one thing: Starr's security apparatus possessed technology beyond even her considerable knowledge—something cutting-edge.

Anna kept her expression neutral despite the implications. Neural monitoring at this distance, through solid rock, without direct contact sensors—it should be impossible. Yet here she stood, outmaneuvered by technology that rewrote the rules of the game she'd mastered.

But now wasn’t the time to worry about her wounded pride.

Even as she thought it, she felt the loneliness vanish, the ache in her chest melt.

A small, shark-like smile creased her lips.

Sharks always had to keep swimming. If they stopped moving, they would sink. This was a feature of the shark that made it an apex predator—just like Anna.

And now, she moved, casually, indifferent to the six lasers on her chest. Toward the lethal gunmen she could see, and the ones she couldn’t.

She came to a halt in the clearing, entirely exposed, completely indifferent to this fact.

At least, that’s what she wanted Gregor to believe.

He watched her, every inch of his expression that of a businessman speculating an asset.

The two of them faced each other, Gregor slightly elevated on the ramp leading out from the advanced-tech heli.

Anna tossed her firearm to the side, watching it clatter in the mud, then she jammed her hands into her pocket.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

They just watched each other, and the red lights pirouetted in the night, sweeping over her face and torso.

A minute. Two.

Still, neither spoke.

Three minutes now.

One of the security men cleared his throat.

"Feels like a Mexican standoff," Anna finally broke the silence, her voice carrying across the clearing with controlled nonchalance. "Except you have all the guns, and I have all the leverage."

Gregor's expression remained impassive, but something flickered behind his eyes—a momentary calculation. "Leverage is a subjective evaluation."

"Is it?" Anna cocked her head slightly. "Simon Argon. Only son and heir to Anthony Starr's empire. Currently sharing accommodations with my associates in a location your drones can't penetrate." The bluff rolled off her tongue with practiced conviction, each word measured for maximum impact. "I wonder what your employer would say if he knew his extraction team arrived to find the package already gone?"

A muscle twitched in Gregor's jaw—barely perceptible in the dim light, but to Anna's trained eye, it might as well have been a full confession of vulnerability.

"Simon contacted us directly," Gregor countered, his accent becoming more pronounced as he spoke. "He activated the emergency protocol himself."

"Yes," Anna agreed pleasantly. "And then we had a stimulating conversation about his father's business practices.”

The security operators maintained their professional composure, but Anna could sense the subtle shift in the atmosphere—confusion rippling through the team as they processed information they hadn't been briefed on.

Gregor's eyes narrowed fractionally.

Anna took another casual step forward. The laser sights tracked her movement.

"You seem remarkably unconcerned about your tactical situation," Gregor observed, his voice clinically detached. "Six snipers, two ground operators, and a drone with capabilities you clearly underestimate. Yet you stand there as if we're having a pleasant conversation over coffee."

"I've been in worse situations," Anna replied with a casual shrug.

"Mr. Starr has files on everyone who might one day become relevant to his interests." Gregor descended another step, reducing the distance between them by a calculated measure. "Though I must admit, yours required significant resources to compile. Most of your operations remain heavily classified."

"Let's stop dancing," she said, dispensing with pretense. "Simon isn't coming. He's beyond your reach now. But I'm willing to make a trade."

Gregor raised an eyebrow, the gesture somehow more threatening than any overt display of aggression.

It didn’t feel right to bluff with Simon’s life. But it was the only card she had left.

She shrugged. “They’re going to torture him. First for information about his father. Then all his father’s practices. They already extracted some. We know about Olympus. Simon withstood a decent amount of pain.” She winced. “But when they took his fingers…” She trailed off.

Gregor’s lips pursed. He still kept an impressive mask but something in his eyes seemed to darken.

Anna didn’t blame him. She didn’t enjoy the words coming from her lips. But she needed them. There was no other play.

She was exposed, surrounded, outgunned and outmaneuvered. And while she had no intention of harming Simon, they didn’t need to know that. And if they had a file on her, they knew what she was actually capable of when she was… motivated.

She needed a meeting with Starr, so if she couldn’t go the circuitous route, she’d take a more direct approach.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Gregor asked, his voice betraying nothing of the calculation Anna could see working behind his eyes.

"Simple," Anna replied. "Take me to Anthony Starr. In exchange, I provide the exact coordinates where Simon is being held. Once I've concluded my business with Starr, Simon goes free." She paused, then added with deliberate casualness, "And before you consider eliminating me now and tracking the satellite phone—it's been disabled. The location dies with me."

Gregor studied her for a long moment, his weathered face illuminated by the aircraft's subtle exterior lighting. Anna met his gaze without flinching, though she was acutely aware of the six laser sights still dancing across her chest and the armed operators whose fingers rested just outside their trigger guards.

"You expect me to believe," Gregor finally said, "that you would willingly walk into Olympus—a facility you couldn't possibly have intelligence on—surrounded by the most sophisticated security systems on the planet and Anthony Starr's personal protection detail?"

Anna smiled thinly. "I've made a career of walking into places I'm not supposed to leave alive."

"And your business with Mr. Starr?"

"Is between him and me."

Gregor's hand moved to his ear, activating his communication device. He spoke in a voice too low for Anna to hear, his eyes never leaving hers as he received a response. The exchange lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, but in that brief span, Anna watched the subtle shift in his posture—the almost imperceptible straightening of his spine that told her a decision had been made.

He turned away from her, whispering quietly.

Then Gregor turned back to her and shrugged. He pulled a knife from his suit, holding it daintily, so the moonlight could catch the bare steel. “You may come. But your eyes stay here.”

Two thick hands grabbed her from behind. Anna started, trying to buck the men holding her. But they twisted her arms behind her back, hard. She stomped on one of the men’s feet, but he didn’t react, as if he couldn’t even feel the pain. She twisted her wrist, snatching the pinkie finger of another. She cracked it and could feel it snap in her grip like crisp celery.

But he didn’t react either.

It was as if they were zombies. More likely, they were so drugged out on combat stimulants that pain simply didn't register in their nervous systems.

"Hold her still," Gregor instructed, his voice clinically detached as he approached with the knife. The blade caught the moonlight, its edge gleaming with lethal promise.

He approached her with slow intent, “No one sees Olympus. And you’re no exception.”

Anna went still, not out of surrender but tactical assessment. These weren't ordinary security operators. Their lack of pain response, the unnatural strength in their grip—she'd encountered similar symptoms in experimental military programs. Pharmacological enhancement paired with neural dampening. Turning humans into something closer to machines.

"This isn't necessary," she said evenly, meeting Gregor's gaze as he stepped closer. "I'll wear a blindfold."

"A blindfold can be removed," Gregor replied, raising the knife to eye level. "And someone with your training can gather significant intelligence even while blindfolded. Sound. Air pressure. Gravitational shifts during transport." He shook his head. "No, Ms. Gabriel. We'll be taking more permanent precautions."

Anna's muscles coiled, preparing for a desperate counter-move despite the overwhelming odds. If he intended to blind her, she'd rather die fighting.

"Relax," Gregor said, noting her tension. "We're not barbarians." He reached into his pocket with his free hand and extracted what appeared to be a small metal case. “We’ll let you keep your eyeballs as mementos. Now… don’t move…”

The knife drew closer, its razor edge reflecting moonlight in a thin silver line that hypnotized with its deadly promise. Anna could feel the heat of Gregor's breath on her face as he leaned in, his expression a mask of professional detachment—a man performing an unpleasant but necessary task. The blade hovered inches from her left eye, close enough that the air displaced by its movement brushed against her eyelashes like a phantom caress.

"Hold her," Gregor instructed again, his voice taking on a clinical precision. "The orbital cavity has thirty-five nerve endings. The pain will be... significant."

Anna's breath quickened despite her iron self-control. She had endured torture before—waterboarding in Kazakhstan, electrical shocks in a forgotten basement in Chechnya, sleep deprivation in a CIA black site whose location she never learned. But the eyes... there was something primal about that violation. Something that reached past training and discipline to touch the animal brain that lived beneath layers of tactical calculation.

The enhanced guards tightened their grip, fingers digging into the pressure points along her arms. One of them forced her head back, thumb and forefinger clamping her left eye open with inexorable pressure. She couldn't move, couldn't blink, couldn't look away from the blade that now descended with meticulous control.

"For what it's worth," Gregor murmured, "It’s a pity to damage a valuable product like yourself.”

The knife's point was now so close that Anna's vision blurred trying to focus on it—a silver blur that consumed her field of view like an approaching storm front. She could feel a cold bead of sweat tracing a path down her temple, tickling like an insect as it followed the contour of her face.

Something caught her attention—a peripheral awareness so subtle it might have been imagination. One of the red laser dots that had decorated her chest like a constellation of pending death had vanished. As she focused on this absence, another winked out, then a third, the deadly lights disappearing one by one like stars at dawn.

Gregor hadn't noticed, his attention fixed on the delicate procedure he was about to perform. The guards, their senses dulled by whatever chemical cocktail flowed through their systems, remained oblivious to the changing tactical situation.

Anna needed seconds. Just a few precious moments for whatever was happening to unfold.

"Before you do this," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the knife hovering millimeters from her cornea, "you should know something about Simon."

Gregor's hand paused, the knife freezing in its descent. "Yes?"

"He told us everything," Anna continued, each word carefully measured to draw out the moment. "About the children. About the facilities in Eastern Europe. About the clients who pay to hunt human beings for sport." She watched Gregor's eyes, noting the fractional widening—not surprise at the information, but at her knowledge of it. "The files he provided are already being transmitted to multiple agencies. Interpol. FBI. MI6. If I don't check in every six hours, the full data package releases automatically." A blatant lie. It wouldn’t convince him—just stall him, if she was lucky.

Something flickered in Gregor's eyes—the first genuine emotion Anna had seen from him. Not fear, precisely, but the cold calculation of a man reassessing risk parameters.

"You're bluffing," he said, but the knife had withdrawn a fraction of an inch.

The last red laser dot disappeared from her chest.

Gregor opened his mouth to respond when the night exploded into sound and fury.

The crack of a high-powered rifle echoed across the clearing, the sound bouncing between mountain faces in a disorienting cacophony. Gregor's head snapped sideways, a fine mist of blood and brain matter erupting from the exit wound as the bullet completed its journey through his skull. His body remained upright for an impossible moment, as if his nervous system hadn't yet registered the catastrophic damage. Then his knees buckled, the knife falling from suddenly lifeless fingers as he collapsed onto the rocky ground.

Anna moved before his body settled, her muscles uncoiling with the stored energy of a compressed spring. Her right hand shot up, fingers closing around the wrist of the guard who had been holding her eye open. She twisted sharply, applying pressure at precisely the correct angle to dislocate the joint. The sound of tearing ligaments was lost beneath the man's first and only cry of pain as bone separated from socket.

Her left elbow drove backward with pile-driver force, connecting with the solar plexus of the second guard. As he doubled over, Anna rotated, her right hand now free to deliver a strike to his exposed throat. The edge of her hand connected with his trachea, cartilage collapsing beneath the focused impact. He staggered backward, hands clutching at his ruined windpipe as he fought for air that would never come.

The first guard was already recovering, the pain of his dislocated wrist seemingly forgotten as whatever chemical enhancements in his system overrode normal physiological responses.

He lunged for Anna, movements slightly uncoordinated but driven by unnatural strength. She sidestepped, using his momentum against him as she delivered a vicious knee strike to his femoral nerve bundle. His leg buckled momentarily—enough time for her to position herself behind him, arms encircling his neck in a textbook blood choke.

He struggled with inhuman vigor, but Anna had positioned herself perfectly, cutting off blood flow to his brain. No amount of chemical enhancement could overcome basic biology—without oxygenated blood, the brain shut down.

The guard's movements grew increasingly erratic, then ceased altogether as unconsciousness claimed him. Anna maintained the hold for an additional ten seconds, ensuring complete neural shutdown before releasing her grip and allowing his body to crumple alongside his colleague.

The clearing had transformed into a tableau of sudden death—Gregor's body sprawled with grotesque finality on the ramp, the two guards motionless on the rocky ground, their enhanced physiologies now as irrelevant as the tactical gear that had failed to protect them.

The night air carried the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of discharged weapons, mingling with the crisp mountain atmosphere in a discordant sensory collision.

Anna rose to her feet, her breathing controlled despite the exertion. Blood spattered her face and tactical clothing—most of it Gregor's, though some belonged to the guard whose throat she had crushed. She wiped a hand across her cheek, smearing rather than removing the crimson stain that marked her like war paint.

The advanced aircraft remained on the plateau, its engines still humming with that peculiar resonance that vibrated below the threshold of normal hearing.

Its ramp remained extended, the interior illuminated by subtle blue lighting that cast eerie shadows across the clearing. No one else emerged—either the pilot had been killed by the same unseen sniper who had eliminated Gregor, or they were wisely remaining concealed within the armored confines of the vehicle.

Movement caught her peripheral vision—a shadow detaching itself from the deeper darkness of the tree line at the clearing's edge. Anna's hand moved instinctively to where her Beretta should have been, finding only empty air.

The shadow resolved itself into a familiar silhouette—broad-shouldered and moving with the controlled grace of a predator comfortable in its territory. The moonlight caught the gleam of a bald head as the figure emerged fully from the concealing foliage, a high-powered rifle cradled in arms that bulged with the kind of muscle that came from function rather than vanity.

Casper the friendly ghost-operative, reminded her again why he deserved the name.

Chapter 14

Casper approached with measured steps, his gaze sweeping the clearing in a continuous tactical assessment even as he closed the distance between them. The rifle—a custom-modified Remington M2010 with an advanced suppression system—was now held at the ready position, his finger resting alongside the trigger guard rather than on the trigger itself—professional discipline, even in the aftermath of violence.

"I told you to take the kids," Anna said, her voice rough-edged from the exertion of combat.

Casper's mouth quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "You've never been good at following orders. Why should I start?"

He came to a halt several meters from her, his eyes moving from the bodies to the aircraft and back to Anna's blood-spattered face. His expression revealed nothing, but Anna had known him long enough to read the subtle tells—the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his nostrils as he cataloged the violence that had unfolded here. Casper had always been the one who maintained emotional distance—the counterbalance to her calculated ferocity.

"You're bleeding," he observed, nodding toward a laceration on her forearm she hadn't even noticed in the adrenaline surge of combat.

Anna glanced down, noting with clinical detachment the six-inch gash that had laid open her tactical sleeve and the flesh beneath. Blood welled from the wound, black in the moonlight as it traced rivulets down to her fingertips where it gathered and fell in rhythmic drops to the rocky ground.

"Superficial," she replied automatically, though now that her attention had been drawn to it, the burning pain registered through her combat focus.

Casper unslung a compact medical kit from his tactical harness, extracting a pressure bandage with practiced efficiency. He approached her slowly, his movements deliberately telegraphed as if approaching a wounded wild animal.

Anna recognized the caution and something in her chest tightened at the realization that he still knew her well enough to understand her post-combat state—the hypervigilance, the hair-trigger reflexes that made her as dangerous to allies as enemies in the moments after violence.

"May I?" he asked, holding up the bandage.

Anna nodded once, extending her arm. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he applied the bandage, his massive hands moving delicately despite their size. The warmth of his fingers against her chilled skin sent an involuntary shiver through her frame—a purely physiological response to temperature differential, she told herself.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, though the words lacked conviction even to her own ears.

Casper's eyes flicked up to meet hers, then returned to his work. "You were walking into a trap."

"I knew it was a trap."

"There's knowing, and then there's knowing," he replied, securing the bandage with a precise twist that applied optimal pressure without restricting circulation. His fingers lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary, a touch so brief it might have been imagined.

The silence between them expanded, filled with unspoken history—missions shared, blood spilled together, the complex web of trust and betrayal that had defined their relationship both within the unit and after its dissolution. Anna became acutely aware of his proximity, of the familiar scent that clung to him beneath the gunpowder and mountain air—something woody and essential that triggered memories she'd thought safely buried.

"Simon and Leyla?" she asked, breaking the silence that threatened to become something dangerous.

"Safe," Casper replied, stepping back to a more professional distance. "Kovac has them. They're already moving toward the extraction point."

Anna nodded, relieved despite herself. Kovac was many things—most of them disturbing—but his competence was never in question. If he had responsibility for the young couple, they would reach safety regardless of what obstacles arose. His methods might give them nightmares, but they would survive.

"We need to move," Casper continued, his attention shifting to the advanced aircraft that continued its eerie humming at the clearing's edge. "More security will be inbound once they realize the extraction team has gone dark."

Anna followed his gaze, studying the vehicle with newfound interest now that the immediate threat had been neutralized. Its design was unlike anything in current military or civilian use—a hybrid between helicopter and fixed-wing aircraft, with what appeared to be vectored thrust capabilities and a composite hull that practically devoured light rather than reflecting it. The technology was generations beyond what should be available to a private security force, regardless of their financial backing.

"We should destroy it," Casper suggested, already reaching for the compact demolition charges in his tactical vest. "Deny them the asset."

Anna caught his wrist, stopping the movement. "No. We're taking it."

Casper's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Taking it where, exactly?"

"To Olympus." Anna was already moving toward the aircraft, her decision made with the instantaneous clarity that had kept her alive time and again. "The pilot is still inside. He's the only remaining link to Anthony Starr."

Casper fell into step beside her, his longer stride easily matching her purposeful pace. "You're assuming he can be persuaded to cooperate."

"Everyone can be persuaded," Anna replied, her voice taking on the cold edge that emerged when necessity overrode mercy. "It's just a question of methodology."

They approached the ramp, positioning themselves on either side of the opening to minimize exposure. The interior remained illuminated by that strange blue light, casting everything in an otherworldly glow that made shadows seem deeper and edges sharper.

From their position, they could see into what appeared to be a passenger compartment designed for six occupants—luxuriously appointed with what looked like genuine leather seating and matte black control panels studded with softly glowing displays.

No movement. No sound beyond the persistent hum of engines maintaining standby power.

Anna caught Casper's eye, a lifetime of shared combat experience allowing them to communicate without words. He nodded once, understanding her intent without the need for verbal clarification. Three fingers raised, then two, then one...

They moved in perfect synchronization, sweeping into the aircraft with weapons at the ready—Casper with his sidearm drawn, Anna with the combat knife she'd retrieved from the sheath at her back. They cleared the passenger compartment with practiced efficiency, confirming it was empty before advancing toward the cockpit.

A reinforced door separated the two sections, its surface unmarked by handles or obvious locking mechanisms. A biometric scanner glowed softly beside the frame—palm print recognition, possibly with additional security layers.

"Sealed," Casper observed unnecessarily.

Anna studied the door, mind racing through possibilities. Then she shrugged, walked right back out of the helicopter, and circled around to the front.

The vehicle was starting to move. A faint whooshing sound suggested the pilot realized his predicament.

Anna didn’t wait. She climbed on top of the front of the vehicle, clambering up the nose, until she was on the windshield. A gun from one of the dead men now pointing towards the pilot.

“Hands off the controls,” she shouted.

The pilot pretended he couldn’t hear.

So she shot through the glass. It took three bullets. But the third impacted the seat cushion next to the pilot’s head.

The man in question wore a helmet and earpiece, his face obscured behind a tinted visor that reflected Anna's blood-spattered visage back at her. He froze, hands hovering above the bewildering array of controls that lined the cockpit. The bullet hole in his seat was smoking slightly, the synthetic material melted around the edges where the round had passed through.

"Open the cockpit or the next one goes through your knee," Anna said, her voice carrying the absolute certainty of someone who had made similar promises before and always kept them.

The pilot remained motionless for several seconds, perhaps weighing his options or waiting for instructions through his communication system. Anna's finger tightened fractionally on the trigger, the barrel of her weapon shifting to align with his left patella.

A soft click echoed through the aircraft as the cockpit door unlocked, hydraulics engaging with a subtle hiss as it slid open to reveal the pilot's compartment. Casper was through the opening in an instant, his massive frame filling the narrow space as he secured the pilot with clinical efficiency—removing weapons, disabling communications, and verifying the absence of suicide devices or deadman switches that might be standard protocol for Starr's security forces.

Anna climbed back down, entering through the main cabin and joining Casper in the cockpit. The pilot remained seated, his hands now zip-tied to the armrests of his chair, his helmet removed to reveal a surprisingly young face—mid-thirties at most, with the kind of nondescript features that would blend seamlessly into any crowd. His eyes, however, held the hardened calculation of someone accustomed to violence.

"What's your name?" Anna asked, positioning herself directly in his line of sight.

The pilot's jaw tightened, his only response a flat stare that communicated his intention to remain silent more effectively than words could have.

"Let me rephrase," Anna continued, her voice conversational despite the blood still drying on her face. "I need two things from you. First, your biometric access to this aircraft's systems. Second, the coordinates and approach vectors for Olympus." She leaned closer, invading his personal space with deliberate intent. "You can provide these willingly, or I can extract them from you. One way preserves your dignity and most of your body parts. The other doesn't."

The pilot's expression remained impassive, but a subtle shift in his breathing betrayed the first flicker of uncertainty. He glanced at Casper, who stood like a statue beside the door, his presence a silent reminder of overwhelming physical force held temporarily in check.

The pilot swallowed. “You’ll never survive. He has a hundred men. They’re all ex-special-forces. You have no chance.”

Anna shrugged. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Now… take us to him.”

“The ‘or else’ is implied,” Casper growled.

The pilot released a slow breath… then he shrugged and nodded a single time. “Well?” he asked, sounding irritated. “You have to untie me first.”

Casper shrugged. He pulled out a knife nearly as large as the pilot’s forearm. The pilot tensed but Casper cut the bonds.

“Now," Casper said. “You and I are going to have a chat. You’re going to tell me everything I need to know about Starr’s base of operations.”

A pause hung in the air, and Anna added, “The ‘or else’ is definitely implied.”

Chapter 15

Anthony Starr stood in his penthouse office, peering out the enormous floor-to-ceiling window. The view from Olympus was breathtaking. The sprawling compound stretched below him, carved into the wild Turkish mountainside like a declaration of man's dominion over nature.

Lights illuminated the various facilities—training grounds, research buildings, living quarters—all arranged in concentric circles of decreasing security clearance with his tower at the epicenter. Beyond the perimeter, the rugged landscape extended into darkness, the Mediterranean a distant shimmer on the horizon.

Starr's reflection stared back at him from the bulletproof glass—a ghost superimposed over his kingdom. At fifty-eight, his body remained a testament to iron discipline. Veins snaked across his forearms like rivers on a topographical map, feeding muscles that had been sculpted through decades of rigorous training.

His gray hair was cropped military-short, emphasizing the angular planes of his face and the penetrating intensity of his pale eyes.

Without turning from the view, he lowered himself into a perfect push-up position, his form immaculate as he began the first of what would be five hundred repetitions. His breathing remained controlled, measured—four seconds down, one-second hold, four seconds up. The rhythm was meditative, allowing his mind to process information while his body performed the familiar ritual.

Sweat began to bead on his brow around repetition seventy-five, but his pace never faltered. By two hundred, a dark patch had formed on the back of his tailored shirt, the expensive fabric clinging to the rippling musculature beneath. The veins in his neck and temples became more pronounced as he pushed through the burning sensation in his chest and shoulders, embracing the pain as an old friend.

This was his nightly routine—physical exertion while contemplating the day's developments, analyzing threats, and formulating responses. The symmetry pleased him—mind and body working in tandem, each strengthening the other through disciplined application of will.

Tonight, however, his thoughts kept returning to Simon. His son should have arrived hours ago. The extraction team had gone dark shortly after making contact, their last transmission indicating they had located the target but encountered unexpected resistance. Gregor's absence was particularly troubling—his security chief was not a man who disappeared without good reason.

Starr completed his five-hundredth push-up with the same perfect form as the first, then rose to his feet in a single fluid motion that belied his age. He moved to the steel-and-glass desk that dominated one side of the office, activating the embedded display with a touch. Satellite imagery appeared—the last known coordinates of Gregor's team, now marked with a pulsing red indicator signifying loss of contact.

He studied the terrain, his mind calculating possibilities with the cold precision that had built his empire. If someone had intercepted the extraction team, they would have needed significant resources and intelligence.

The radio beside Starr's desk crackled to life, interrupting his analysis.

"Sir, we have an anomaly on perimeter sensors," reported a tense voice—Jensen, the night watch commander. "Unknown aircraft approaching from vector two-niner-zero."

Starr straightened, his sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his torso as he moved to the tactical display embedded in his desk. A single finger activated the holographic projection, transforming the airspace around Olympus into a three-dimensional grid of glowing blue lines. A red icon pulsed at the edge of the security perimeter, its trajectory aimed directly at the heart of the compound.

"Identification?" Starr demanded, his voice a controlled rumble that betrayed none of the concern tightening his chest.

"That's the anomaly, sir," Jensen replied, hesitation evident even through the encrypted channel. "It's transmitting Gregor's transponder codes, but there's no response to authentication challenges."

Starr's pale eyes narrowed as he studied the incoming aircraft's flight pattern. The approach vector was textbook—precisely matching the classified procedure Gregor would use when returning with high-value assets. Yet the lack of verbal confirmation violated every security protocol they'd established.

"Thermal signatures?" he asked, fingers already manipulating the holographic display to access additional sensor data.

"It’s a stealth craft, sir," Jensen reported. "Could be passengers, could be noise. Unable to verify through current sensor range."

Starr activated the external camera array with a sharp gesture, focusing multiple high-definition lenses on the approaching aircraft. The image clarified on his display—his own prototype stealth transport, the XV-92, its matte black surface almost invisible against the night sky save for the faint blue glow of its propulsion system.

"Weapons systems online," came another voice through the radio—Carver, the defense systems specialist. "Target locked. Awaiting authorization to engage."

"Belay that," Starr snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. "You trigger-happy idiot. My son could be on that aircraft."

"Sir, all protocols indicate—"

"I don't give a damn what protocols indicate," Starr interrupted, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple. "If you fire on that aircraft without my explicit order, I'll personally use your entrails as climbing rope. Is that understood?"

Silence filled the channel for a beat. "Understood, sir. Weapons systems standing by."

Starr moved to the window, his reflection ghostly against the darkness beyond as he searched the night sky. At first, nothing was visible save stars and the distant glow of coastal settlements. Then, a deeper shadow appeared against the darkness—a void moving with purpose, its outline only discernible because it obscured the stars behind it.

The XV-92. His finest technological achievement, designed to his exact specifications by engineers whose names appeared on no official payrolls.

The XV-92 approached with unnatural silence, the advanced acoustic suppression system rendering its approach nearly imperceptible even as it grew closer. Through the magnified view on his tactical display, Starr could now make out details of the cockpit—the subtle blue glow of instrumentation illuminating the interior, the silhouette of what appeared to be the pilot's head and shoulders visible through the reinforced glass.

"Establish radio contact," Starr ordered, his voice tight with controlled tension. "Authentication protocol Sierra-Echo-Nine-Four."

Jensen's voice returned almost immediately. "Transmitting now, sir. No response."

Starr's jaw tightened, muscles bunching beneath the skin as he calculated probabilities and threat assessments. The aircraft maintained its approach vector, now less than two kilometers from the compound's outer defensive perimeter. Its speed had increased marginally—not enough to trigger automated countermeasures, but sufficient to reduce the window for decision-making.

"Final warning," Starr instructed. "Transmit emergency override Alpha-Zero-Zero. If Gregor is aboard and conscious, he'll respond."

The silence that followed seemed to stretch into eternity, though Starr's chronometer indicated only twelve seconds passed before Jensen returned.

"No response, sir. Target has increased speed and is now penetrating outer sensor perimeter. Defensive grid is tracking."

Starr moved to the communications panel embedded in his desk, overriding the chain of command to speak directly to the approaching aircraft.

"This is Anthony Starr," he announced, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a man accustomed to unquestioning obedience. "XV-92, identify yourself immediately or you will be treated as hostile."

Nothing but static answered him. The holographic display showed the aircraft continuing its approach, now moving faster, its trajectory a perfect line toward the central tower—toward his penthouse office.

Something was wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.

The realization crystallized in Starr's mind with sudden clarity—this was not Gregor returning with Simon. This was something else entirely. His security chief would never violate communication protocols, not even under extreme duress. The aircraft's approach vector, initially appearing to follow standard procedure, now revealed itself as the perfect attack trajectory—maximizing speed while minimizing exposure to defensive systems.

"Weapons free," Starr commanded, his voice like ice. "Take it down."

A commander had to make hard calls. He didn’t think of Simon in that moment. He couldn’t.

"Sir," Jensen responded immediately, "Target lock established. Firing solution—"

The rest of his report dissolved into static as the XV-92 suddenly accelerated to maximum velocity, its advanced engines screaming as they pushed beyond safety parameters. The aircraft shot forward like a bullet, covering the remaining distance to the compound in seconds rather than minutes.

Starr watched through the window, his body tensing involuntarily as the aircraft's trajectory became unmistakable. It wasn't aiming for the landing pad. It wasn't aiming for the compound.

It was aiming directly for his office.

The aircraft hurtled toward the tower with impossible speed, its sleek form transforming from technological marvel to guided missile in the space of heartbeats. Starr's tactical display erupted with warning indicators as defensive systems finally engaged—surface-to-air missiles launching from concealed emplacements across the compound, tracer fire from automated turrets arcing through the night sky in luminous streams.

Too late. The XV-92's advanced countermeasure systems deployed automatically, releasing a cascade of thermal decoys and electronic warfare pulses that confused the incoming ordinance. Missiles detonated prematurely, their explosions illuminating the night in brief, apocalyptic flashes that cast the approaching aircraft in stark relief against the darkness.

Through the window, Starr could now see the XV-92 clearly—its sleek form silhouetted against the explosion-lit sky, its trajectory unwavering despite the defensive barrage. The distance closed with nightmarish rapidity—five hundred meters, three hundred, one hundred—the aircraft's outline growing larger with each passing second, its details resolving with terrible clarity.

Time seemed to slow, perception expanding as Starr's brain flooded with adrenaline. He could see individual rivets in the aircraft's hull, the subtle blue glow of its propulsion system.

Starr's body moved before his conscious mind fully processed the threat, decades of combat training and survival instinct overriding even his iron self-control. He lunged sideways with explosive force, throwing himself toward the reinforced doorway that led to his private elevator.

The world exploded.

The XV-92 detonated fifty meters from impact, its self-destruct sequence triggered by final defensive measures or perhaps by design. The blast wave hit the tower like the fist of an angry god, shattering the supposedly indestructible windows into millions of glittering shards that transformed instantly into lethal projectiles.

Superheated air rushed into the office with hurricane force, carrying with it a maelstrom of glass, metal, and burning debris. The pressure differential created by the sudden breach sucked furnishings toward the gaping hole where the window had been—the steel desk tearing free of its moorings, chairs becoming airborne shrapnel, papers igniting in mid-flight from the intense heat.

Starr felt rather than heard the explosion—a crushing pressure that slammed into his body.

Then darkness swarmed in.

Chapter 16

"Now!” Anna exclaimed.

She and Casper darted forward, using the explosion as their temporary decoy.

The only chink in the system—if Starr failed to intercept the helicopter before it was over the compound.

The radio surveillance would lock onto the undeclared military object. And it had.

Casper had rigged the self-guided vehicle with enough C4 to blow up a building. By the looks of things, the heli hadn’t quite reached the office.

The pilot had been kind enough to give them the information and know-how they’d needed… in exchange for his life.

They’d also taken his helmet, attaching it to the headrest in the front seat in case anyone’s scope looked too close.

Now, Anna’s heart thundered as she and Casper made a mad dash to the sole entry point. Not one of the gates. Not one of the towers. No… The only weakness was in the guardhouse itself.

They were trained to prioritize incoming. The helicopter was a breach in training. Starr had reacted late out of concern for his son. Which meant the guards would be monitoring comms and radar. Which meant the likelihood of anyone expecting two figures to sprint at a dead run towards the guardhouse was low.

It didn’t hurt that Anna and Casper were wearing the spare pilot outfits from the helicopter.

The two of them bolted as the helicopter exploded overhead, sprinting towards the guardhouse. If someone spotted them, they’d engage in the firefight then trigger the second explosion. But for now, they remained unnoticed, still sprinting as the wreckage of the heli descended from the sky.

Only then, as they neared the guardhouse did Casper trigger the second C4 charge.

The explosion painted the night sky in hues of orange and red, illuminating the compound with the harsh light of destruction. For a crucial moment, every eye, every camera, every sensor was fixed on the blazing inferno descending from Starr's tower.

Anna felt the heat of the explosion on her face even at this distance, the shock wave rippling through the air seconds later. The pilot's uniform felt foreign against her skin, the material designed for someone with a different build. But it would pass casual inspection in the chaos that was about to engulf the compound.

"Thirty seconds," Casper muttered beside her, his massive frame somehow fluid as they approached the guardhouse. The structure was a reinforced concrete bunker disguised as a modest checkpoint—a deception that might fool satellite imagery but not someone with Anna's training. She could identify the concealed weapons emplacements, the redundant communication arrays, the subtle indicators of a facility designed to withstand significant assault.

But not designed to defend against what appeared to be friendly forces running for shelter during an attack.

As they neared the entrance, Anna could see two guards emerging from the bunker, their attention divided between the burning wreckage plummeting toward the central tower and the perimeter they were tasked with defending. Their weapons were raised but pointed outward—searching for external threats rather than the danger already inside their defensive line.

"Follow my lead," Anna murmured, barely loud enough for Casper to hear. She adjusted her stride, introducing a subtle limp, her body language transforming from predatory efficiency to panicked survivor. Casper matched her performance with the adaptability that had kept him alive through decades of operations, his posture shifting to communicate urgency rather than threat.

"Help!" Anna called out, her voice pitched higher than normal, laden with calculated fear. "The aircraft—we were thrown clear during the initial impact!"

The guards hesitated, weapons still trained outward but their attention now split between their perimeter responsibility and the approaching figures in pilot uniforms. One raised a hand to his communication device.

The closest guard lowered his weapon slightly, taking a step toward them. "Identification!" he demanded, professional training reasserting itself even amid the chaos.

The guardhouse door remained open behind them, but was already sliding shut. Three seconds to enter. Three seconds to exit.

They had to move.

Anna's hand emerged from behind her back, silenced pistol raised—same as Casper.

The two of them moved in synchronization as if they'd done this a thousand times before—a lethal dance choreographed through years of shared combat experience. Two muffled coughs from their suppressed weapons, and the guards crumpled with precision head shots, neither having time to trigger an alarm or return fire.

"Clear," Casper murmured, already moving toward the bodies. His massive hands dragged the first guard into the shadow of the guardhouse while Anna secured the second, both operating with the mechanical efficiency of professionals to whom violence was simply a task to be completed rather than an emotional event.

Three cameras had spotted them.

But all the cameras would monitor what happened. They weren’t worried about someone watching the footage later. It only mattered if someone had seen them now.

The guardhouse door was indeed closing—an automated security protocol triggered by the explosion. Anna slid through the narrowing gap with serpentine grace, Casper following with surprising agility for his size, squeezing through the final inches before the reinforced barrier sealed with a pneumatic hiss.

Inside, they found themselves in what appeared to be a standard security checkpoint—a desk with monitoring equipment, weapon racks, and a pair of guards who had just enough time to register surprise before Anna and Casper eliminated them with the same ruthless efficiency as their colleagues outside. The silenced weapons made little more noise than someone clearing their throat, the guards' bodies slumping across their consoles with minimal disruption to the equipment.

"Command post," Casper observed, gesturing toward a reinforced door at the rear of the checkpoint. "Likely two to four personnel."

Anna nodded, already moving to position herself beside the door. She extracted a compact mirror from a pouch on her tactical vest, angling it to peer through the narrow gap beneath the doorframe. The reflection revealed movement—at least three pairs of boots visible, their owners moving with the urgent purpose of security personnel responding to a crisis.

She caught Casper's eye, holding up three fingers. He nodded, understanding immediately, and moved to the opposite side of the door. From his vest, he produced a small cylindrical device—a breaching charge designed to disable rather than destroy. He affixed it to the door's electronic lock, ensuring the shaped charge would direct its force inward rather than outward.

Anna raised her hand, counting down with her fingers. Three. Two. One.

The breaching charge detonated with a sharp crack, followed by a blinding flash as the door swung inward. Anna and Casper were through the opening before the smoke cleared, their movements a blur of lethal intent as they engaged the security personnel inside.

The command post was larger than Anna had anticipated—a circular room dominated by multiple display screens showing various sectors of the compound. Five personnel rather than three occupied the space, all now reacting to the unexpected breach with professional speed that spoke to their training.

But training was no match for the synchronized lethality that Anna and Casper brought to the confined space.

Anna took the left side of the room, her silenced pistol barking twice as she eliminated the two operators reaching for their sidearms. Her third shot caught a technician lunging for what appeared to be an emergency alarm, the bullet entering just below his sternum and angling upward through vital organs. He collapsed across his console, fingers still extended toward the button that might have alerted the entire compound.

Casper swept the right side with equal efficiency, his massive frame belying the fluid precision of his movements. Two shots, two kills—security personnel dropping. Blood sprayed across monitor screens in abstract patterns, the crimson droplets illuminated by the tactical displays showing the compound in disarray as emergency protocols activated in response to the explosion.

Five seconds. Five bodies. Zero alarms triggered.

Anna moved immediately to the central console, her eyes scanning the security displays with practiced efficiency. The compound was in chaos—personnel rushing to defensive positions, fire suppression systems activating around the central tower where the XV-92 had impacted. Smoke billowed from the upper floors, obscuring much of the detail, but it was clear the explosion had caused significant structural damage.

"Found it," Casper announced, his fingers moving across a secondary terminal with surprising dexterity for their size. "Internal schematics and security protocols. Downloading now." He inserted a specialized data spike into the console's port, the device bypassing standard security measures to extract information directly from the system's architecture.

Anna's attention remained on the tactical displays, mentally mapping guard movements and security responses. "They're implementing Protocol Sigma-Three," she observed, recognizing the pattern of deployment from the information their reluctant pilot had provided. "All security forces converging on Starr's position."

"Which means minimal coverage at the secondary facilities," Casper concluded, his eyes never leaving the download progress indicator on his device. "Including the children's holding area."

The data spike beeped softly, signaling completion of its task. Casper extracted it, sliding the device into a secure pocket on his tactical vest. "We have building schematics, security rotations, and access codes for all facilities below Level Four clearance."

"Starr's private quarters?" Anna asked, already knowing the answer.

"Level Five. We'll need direct biometric access or an override from central security."

Anna's gaze shifted to one of the monitors showing the damaged tower. Through the smoke and debris, she could make out emergency teams converging on what appeared to be the penthouse level. "Starr survived," she stated, noting the urgency with which the teams moved. "They wouldn't deploy that level of medical response for a corpse."

Casper nodded, already moving to secure the command post's entrance. "We have minutes at most before someone notices this position has gone dark."

Anna accessed the internal communication system, her fingers flying across the console as she implemented the contingency plan they'd developed during the flight in. With precise keystrokes, she activated the emergency evacuation protocol for the western quadrant of the compound—far from both their current position and their intended target.

Alarms immediately blared through that section, red warning lights flashing as automated systems announced a containment breach in what appeared to be a research facility. On the security monitors, personnel began rushing toward the false emergency, drawing resources away from their actual path.

"That won't fool them for long," Casper observed, securing the door they had breached with a makeshift barricade.

"It doesn't need to," Anna replied, already moving to the next phase. Her fingers accessed a secondary system, initiating a cascading power failure that would affect non-critical systems throughout the compound. "We just need enough confusion to reach the children."

On the monitors, sections of the compound began going dark as power was rerouted to critical systems and emergency generators. Security doors would default to lockdown status, communications would become fragmented, and the carefully orchestrated defensive protocols would begin to degrade as systems fought to maintain integrity.

"Chaos favors the prepared," Casper murmured, the ghost of a smile touching his lips as he watched the compound's organized response dissolve into something fractured.

Anna extracted a tablet from her tactical vest, transferring the downloaded schematics from Casper's data spike. The building plans illuminated the screen, highlighting their position relative to their target—a secluded structure designated as "Juvenile Containment" in the northern quadrant of the compound.

"Three hundred meters," she noted, tracing the most direct route with her finger. "Two security checkpoints, likely understaffed now that Sigma-Three is active."

Casper checked his weapon, methodically verifying the suppressor's integrity and the remaining ammunition. "And a compound full of highly trained killers between us and the exit."

"One problem at a time," Anna replied, her voice dropping to that emotionless register that signaled her transition into full operational mode.

She moved to one of the fallen security officers, quickly stripping him of his access badge and communication device. "We move now. Stay in character until engaged."

They exited the command post through a secondary door that led directly into the compound's internal corridor system. The hallway beyond was bathed in the dim blue glow of emergency lighting, the main illumination having failed during Anna's manufactured power disruption. Distant alarms created a cacophony of urgent sound, drawing attention away from their position as security forces responded to multiple simultaneous threats.

The problem with compounds built to withstand an assault—they were rarely built to withstand two approaching figures.

Anna moved with purposeful urgency rather than stealth—the deliberate stride of security personnel responding to an emergency rather than infiltrators navigating hostile territory. Casper matched her pace, his massive frame somehow less conspicuous in the emergency-lit corridors where all personnel moved with similar purpose.

They encountered a three-person security team at the first junction, the men rushing toward the false alarm Anna had triggered. She nodded curtly as they passed, holding up the stolen security badge as if to indicate their authorization. In the chaos of multiple emergencies, with communications degraded and standard protocols disrupted, the team barely glanced at them before continuing on their way.

Anna consulted the schematic on her tablet, confirming their route through the labyrinthine corridor system. The compound's design revealed itself as both strength and weakness—the compartmentalized security systems that made external penetration nearly impossible now worked against the defenders as those same systems failed in unpredictable patterns.

"First checkpoint, twenty meters ahead," she murmured to Casper, her voice barely audible above the distant alarms. "Two guards standard, possibly only one with current deployment."

The checkpoint appeared around the next corner—a reinforced security station with a single guard manning the control panel. As Anna had predicted, his colleague had likely been reassigned to the Sigma-Three protocol, leaving him alone to monitor a transition point between security zones.

The guard looked up as they approached, his expression tightening with the wariness of a professional noting irregularities. Anna and Casper weren't in standard security uniforms, and despite the pilot outfits, something in their bearing must have triggered the guard's instincts.

"Identification," he demanded, his hand moving toward the sidearm holstered at his hip.

Anna didn't break stride, her expression conveying urgent purpose rather than threat. "Emergency override Tango-Seven-Three," she stated, using one of the codes they'd extracted from the command post systems. "We're securing high-value assets for evacuation."

The guard hesitated, his training conflicting with the apparent authorization. That moment of indecision was fatal.

Casper closed the distance with two long strides, his massive hand clamping around the guard's throat before he could draw his weapon. With brutal efficiency, he lifted the man bodily from the ground, cutting off both oxygen and blood flow to the brain. The guard's legs kicked uselessly as consciousness fled, his eyes rolling back before Casper lowered him silently to the floor behind the security station.

"Unconscious, not dead," Casper confirmed, already moving to the control panel. "Badge?"

Anna handed him the stolen security credential, which he swiped through the reader. The system beeped once, and the doors swung open.

Chapter 17

At the end of the hall, the door to the Juvenile Containment facility loomed before them—a reinforced barrier of matte gray composite material that absorbed the emergency lighting rather than reflected it.

Unlike the other security doors they'd encountered, this one featured additional protective measures: a retinal scanner, a palm print reader, and what appeared to be a voice recognition system.

"Three-factor authentication," Casper murmured, studying the security array with professional appreciation. "They're serious about keeping people out."

"Or keeping someone in," Anna replied, her voice hardening as she thought of her niece and nephew trapped behind these walls.

She extracted the data spike from her tactical vest, connecting it to the auxiliary maintenance port beside the door. The device hummed softly as it interfaced with the security system, its display cycling through encryption algorithms at dizzying speed. After seventeen seconds—an eternity in tactical terms—the spike emitted a soft tone of success.

The retinal scanner glowed green without requiring an actual eye to scan. The palm reader similarly bypassed its biological requirement, accepting the digital forgery provided by the spike. Only the voice recognition system remained active, a small speaker beside it awaiting the appropriate authentication phrase.

Anna consulted the tablet, scrolling through the security protocols they'd downloaded. "Passphrase is 'Icarus ascending, authorization delta-nine-epsilon.'"

Casper nodded, positioning himself to enter the facility the moment the door opened. His weapon was at the ready, suppressor still attached despite the increasingly remote possibility of maintaining stealth given the compound-wide alert status.

Anna spoke the passphrase clearly, her voice steady despite the tension coiling through her frame. For a moment, nothing happened—the security system processing the authentication with machine deliberation. Then, with a pneumatic hiss, the locks disengaged and the massive door began to slide open.

The Juvenile Containment facility revealed itself gradually as the barrier retracted, the interior illuminated by the same emergency lighting as the corridor. Anna and Casper moved through the opening with practiced caution, weapons sweeping the space beyond in search of threats or guards.

What they found instead was emptiness.

The facility stretched before them—a sterile, clinical space that resembled a cross between a high-security prison and an advanced research laboratory. White walls, seamless flooring that would leave no place to hide contraband, recessed lighting that would normally illuminate every corner with unforgiving clarity. Surveillance cameras occupied every junction, their lenses staring blindly now that power had been redirected to critical systems.

But no children. No guards. No personnel of any kind.

"Clear left," Casper announced, completing his sweep of the immediate area.

"Clear right," Anna confirmed, her voice tight with a tension that had nothing to do with immediate tactical concerns and everything to do with the emptiness confronting them.

They advanced deeper into the facility, moving through what appeared to be a processing area—a desk with integrated computer systems, biometric scanning equipment, and restraint devices adapted for smaller frames—child-sized frames. Storage cabinets lined the walls, their contents hidden behind locked doors bearing the same three-factor authentication as the entrance.

Anna moved to the central computer terminal, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she attempted to access the system with the codes they'd acquired. The screen remained dark for several seconds before flickering to life, the emergency power providing just enough current to activate the basic interface.

"Searching for containment logs," she muttered, navigating through security protocols with practiced efficiency. The system was heavily compartmentalized, each layer of information protected by increasingly sophisticated encryption. "There's a record of twenty-three juvenile subjects as of yesterday's update."

Casper continued his methodical sweep of the processing area, his attention drawn to a reinforced door at the far end of the room. Unlike the entrance, this barrier featured no external security measures—no scanners, no keypads, nothing that would allow operation from the outside.

"One-way access," he observed, studying the frame with narrowed eyes. "Designed to be opened only from this side."

A cold certainty settled in Anna's stomach as she interpreted the facility's layout. The processing area wasn't just an administrative checkpoint—it was a control center, designed to monitor and manage whatever lay beyond that interior door.

"I've got something," she announced, her voice tight as information scrolled across the screen. "Containment protocols, subject classifications, behavioral modification procedures..." Her voice faltered as she processed what she was reading. "God, Casper. They're experimenting on them."

Casper moved to her side, his massive frame casting a shadow across the illuminated screen as he read over her shoulder. His expression remained impassive, but a muscle twitched in his jaw—the only outward sign of the rage building beneath his professional exterior.

"Neurological conditioning," he read, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the sterile air. "Chemical compliance induction. Pain response calibration." His hand tightened on his weapon. "They're turning them into weapons."

Anna's fingers continued their dance across the keyboard, navigating deeper into the system. "There's a residential section beyond the testing areas. That's where they'd be kept during non-procedure hours."

"Here," she said, pointing to a section labeled 'Residential Containment Alpha.' "This is where the primary subjects would be housed."

Casper was already moving toward the interior door, his focus entirely on the task ahead. "Can you override the security from here?"

Anna nodded, fingers implementing the commands that would disengage the locks. "Opening all residential containment sectors simultaneously. If Tony and Sarah are here, that's where we'll find them."

The system processed her commands, status indicators changing from red to green as security protocols were systematically disabled. A mechanical hum filled the processing area as previously hidden mechanisms activated, powering emergency systems despite the compound-wide power redistribution.

"Security override accepted," Anna confirmed, her voice tight with controlled urgency. "Containment doors releasing in three... two... one..."

A series of metallic clicks echoed through the facility as electromagnetic locks disengaged. The reinforced door before them slid open, revealing a long corridor beyond—clinically white, eerily silent, and stretching into shadow where the emergency lighting failed to penetrate.

As they approached the end of the corridor, the lighting changed—transitioning from the harsh white of the testing areas to a softer, more ambient illumination that cast the space in gentler shadows. The walls similarly transformed, the sterile white giving way to pale blues and greens in what appeared to be a calculated attempt at creating a more comforting environment.

Ahead, the corridor opened into a circular hub from which several shorter passages radiated like spokes from a wheel. Each spoke terminated in what appeared to be a sealed doorway—heavy, reinforced barriers with observation windows set at adult eye level.

"Residential containment," Casper confirmed, his voice barely above a whisper despite the apparent emptiness of the facility.

Anna approached the nearest door, rising on her toes to peer through the observation window. Beyond lay what appeared to be a small, spartan bedroom—and a small, shivering form laying on the bed.

“Casper…” she whispered breathlessly. But her partner had already hit a button on the wall, as if it were the release switch for a max security prison.

The doors whooshed open. Sixteen in total.

The doors whooshed open, the sound echoing through the circular hub like a mechanical exhalation. Anna and Casper stood motionless, weapons at the ready, as silence descended once more.

For several heartbeats, nothing moved. The open doorways revealed identical small chambers beyond—each containing a narrow bed, a basic desk, and what appeared to be a sanitized version of a child's living space. No personal items adorned the walls. No toys cluttered the floors. Just sixteen identical cells designed to mimic bedrooms without providing any genuine comfort or individuality.

Then, movement.

A small figure appeared in the leftmost doorway—a boy no older than six, his thin frame silhouetted against the dim interior lighting of his cell. He blinked rapidly in the comparatively bright illumination of the hub, his movements hesitant and wary as he peered first one way, then the other. His dark hair was cropped close to his scalp in a military-style cut that emphasized the delicate bones of his face and the shadows beneath his eyes.

Around his neck, a band of crimson material gleamed dully in the emergency lighting—not fabric as Anna had initially thought, but some kind of composite polymer molded precisely to the child's throat. A small LED glowed steadily at the front of the device, its green light a sinister promise of active monitoring.

The boy took a single step forward, then froze as another child emerged from a different doorway—a girl perhaps seven years old, her blonde hair hanging limply around a face too thin for her age. She too wore the same red collar, the device appearing even more grotesque against her pale skin and fragile frame.

One by one, children began appearing in the doorways of their cells—some stepping cautiously into the hub, others remaining within the perceived safety of their familiar confines.

Their ages ranged from perhaps three to ten years old, boys and girls of various ethnicities unified by the identical red collars encircling their throats and the same wary, thousand-yard stares that no child should possess.

"Jesus Christ," Casper breathed. It wasn’t a curse but rather a prayer of rage. His normally impassive features tightened with barely suppressed anger as he took in the scene before them.

Anna scanned the emerging children with desperate intensity, her eyes darting from face to face in search of the two she had come to find. Most of the children maintained their distance, regarding the armed adults with the caution of wild animals accustomed to mistreatment. A few of the younger ones huddled together, seeking comfort in proximity if not actual touch—their bodies angled toward each other but not quite making contact, as if physical affection had been systematically trained out of them.

"The collars," Casper said grimly, his voice pitched low enough that only Anna could hear. "Incendiary devices. I've seen similar tech in black site detention facilities." His jaw tightened, the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. "Remote-activated. Probably tied to their vital signs. Likely incendiary.”

“Bombs? He put bombs around their necks?”

“Looks like it.”

She cursed softly, still desperately scanning the group—her training trying to enforce the cold, calculating thought processes that would let her act most efficiently… trying to see the situation in risk factors, threats, and data points.

Then Anna saw them.

In the farthest cell, partially obscured by shadows, two small figures huddled together on a single narrow bed—a protective arm wrapped around the smaller one in a gesture so instinctively familial it stood out amid the clinical detachment of this terrible place. The boy—perhaps five years old—had positioned himself between the door and the tiny girl beside him, his body a shield despite his obvious fear.

Tony and Sarah.

The recognition hit Anna with physical force, a surge of emotion so powerful it momentarily disrupted the icy calm of her operational mindset. They were alive. Frightened, imprisoned, bearing the same monstrous collars as the other children, but alive.

"There," she whispered, her voice catching on the single syllable. She gestured toward the distant cell, already moving forward with a purposeful stride that carefully measured its speed to avoid frightening the children who watched her approach with wary, traumatized eyes.

Casper remained at the hub's entrance, his massive frame blocking the only exit—not to prevent escape, but to ensure no one else could enter. His weapon was now held discreetly at his side, his posture deliberately relaxed despite the tension radiating from him in almost palpable waves.

As Anna approached the far cell, the other children parted before her, pressing themselves against the circular wall with the instinctive caution of creatures who had learned harsh lessons about adult proximity. None spoke. None cried. Their silence was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the scene—these children had been taught that their voices held no value, that their fears deserved no expression.

Tony saw her first, his body stiffening as he registered the approaching figure. His arm tightened around his sister, pulling her further into the shadows of their shared cell. His eyes—so like Beth's that Anna felt a physical ache in her chest—narrowed with suspicious recognition, as if he couldn't quite trust what he was seeing.

"Tony," Anna called softly, slowing her approach as she neared their doorway. "Tony, it's Aunt Anna."

The boy's expression flickered—recognition battling with ingrained caution. He swallowed visibly, the movement causing the hideous collar to shift against his delicate throat.

"They said you wouldn't come," he finally whispered, his voice rough from disuse or emotion—perhaps both. "They said no one was looking for us."

Anna crouched to his eye level, maintaining enough distance that he wouldn't feel threatened. "They lied," she replied simply. "Your mom never stopped looking. And neither did I."

At the mention of their mother, Sarah stirred behind her brother's protective arm. Her tiny face peered around Tony's shoulder, eyes wide and luminous in the dim light. She couldn't be more than four—too young to fully comprehend their situation, yet old enough to have absorbed its horrors into her developing psyche.

"We're going to take you home," Anna continued, her voice steady despite the tempest of emotions roaring beneath her composed exterior. "Right now."

For a suspended moment, neither child moved. Tony's eyes—dark as midnight and far too old for his young face—searched Anna's with desperate intensity, as if trying to detect deception in her promise. Sarah remained half-hidden behind her brother, only the gleam of her eyes and the pale oval of her face visible in the shadows of their cell.

Then something broke in Tony's careful facade—a hairline fracture in the wall he'd built to protect himself and his sister. His lower lip trembled once, a brief surrender to hope that he quickly mastered, pressing his mouth into a determined line. But that momentary glimpse of the child beneath the survivor was enough.

"It's really me," Anna whispered, extending her hand palm-up in invitation rather than command. "I've come to take you back to your mom."

At the word ‘mom,’ Sarah made a small, wounded sound—a whimper so fragile it seemed made of glass. Her tiny fingers clutched at Tony's shirt, creasing the fabric as she pulled herself forward to peer more fully at the woman crouching before them.

"Aunt Anna?" The question emerged as barely more than a breath, her voice high and tremulous with disbelief.

Anna nodded, maintaining her position and her open palm—allowing them to choose, to move at their own pace. To reclaim some small measure of the agency that had been systematically stripped from them in this sterile hell.

Sarah's gaze darted from Anna's face to her outstretched hand then back again. Something shifted in her expression—recognition blooming like a flower opening toward sunlight. Her eyes widened, filling with tears that spilled over to trace silvery paths down her hollow cheeks.

"Aunt Anna!" The name erupted from her this time—a desperate, joyful cry that seemed to release something coiled tight within her tiny frame.

Before Tony could react, Sarah had slipped from behind his protective arm and launched herself forward with the reckless abandon of a drowning person sighting land. Her small body moved with desperate velocity, crossing the space between them in a blur of motion that ended as she collided with Anna's crouched form.

Tiny arms wrapped around Anna's leg with crushing force, the strength in that desperate grip belying Sarah's fragile appearance. Her whole body trembled violently, like a leaf caught in a gale, the shivers traveling through her frame in visible waves that shook her from head to toe. She pressed her face against Anna's tactical pants, hot tears immediately soaking through the fabric to the skin beneath.

"Aunt Anna, Aunt Anna, Aunt Anna," Sarah repeated, the words muffled against Anna's leg but unmistakable in their relieved desperation. Her fingers clutched at the fabric with white-knuckled intensity, as if Anna might evaporate if she loosened her grip even a fraction.

Anna combed her niece’s hair, feeling her throat tighten. She didn’t cry. She didn’t allow a tear.

And she wondered if that was a mistake.

As if in penance to this error, she leaned in, smoothing her niece’s hair again and again, trying to comfort her.

Sarah didn’t look up, relieved—it seemed—to find someone, something in which to bury her face, to hide.

Anna met Tony’s gaze.

She pointed at the collar and in a whisper, that caused her nephew to lean in, she whispered, “What is that?”

As she asked it, Casper’s assessment echoed in her mind, and she found a bone deep fear at what her nephew’s answer would be.

Chapter 18

Tony swallowed, scratching uncomfortably at his neck, his fingers digging under the light blinking on the metal collar. “If… if we run. If we leave,” he said. “The big man with the muscles will blow us up.”

Anna frowned. “The big man?”

A nod. “He has a TV controller.”

“A remote?”

“He says it blows us up if we leave. He showed on a puppy.” Tony went quiet now, staring at the ground.

The implication hung in the air like a physical presence, an unseen horror that needed no further elaboration. Anna's mind quickly processed the tactical reality—sixteen children wearing remotely-controlled explosive devices, a facility in crisis mode, and a primary target who had survived their initial strike. The mission parameters had just expanded exponentially.

"Tony," she said, her voice gentle but urgent, "is the big man here now? In this building?"

The boy shook his head, his eyes darting nervously toward the corridor where Casper maintained his vigilant watch. "He comes in the morning. With the doctors." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And sometimes at night. When they take someone away."

Anna fought to maintain her composure, to keep the murderous rage from showing on her face. "Did they ever take you or Sarah away at night?"

Another head shake, quicker this time. "Not yet. But Ellie didn't come back." His eyes flicked toward one of the empty cells, then away again—unable to linger on the absence.

"Casper," Anna called, her voice carrying across the hub without rising to a shout. "We need to assess these devices. Now."

The big man moved with surprising grace for his size, crossing the circular space in long, measured strides that somehow managed to appear non-threatening despite his imposing physique.

The other children shrank back as he approached, pressing themselves against walls or retreating into their cells—all except Tony, who straightened his spine and placed himself more firmly between Sarah and this new potential threat.

"It's okay," Anna assured him, shifting slightly so that Sarah remained securely against her side while she extended her free hand to Tony. "He's with me. He's going to help us get these things off your necks."

Casper crouched beside Anna, his massive frame folding with deliberate care to minimize his intimidating presence. He studied the collar around Sarah's neck without touching it, his eyes narrowing as he examined the construction and components visible through the translucent sections of the device.

"Manufactured by Nordyne Systems," he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only Anna could hear. "Advanced biometric integration. If I had to guess, they're monitoring vital signs and location. Probably proximity triggers if they move beyond designated areas."

"Can you disarm them?" Anna asked, her hand still extended toward Tony, who watched their exchange with the wary calculation of a child who had learned to read adults as a survival mechanism.

Casper's expression remained impassive, but something in his eyes hardened. "Not all sixteen. Not quickly. These are military-grade—specialized equipment I've only seen in theoretical briefings. We'd need a deactivation code or the control device itself."

"The big man with the muscles has it," Tony volunteered unexpectedly, his voice small but clear. "The controller. He keeps it in his pocket."

Both adults turned toward him, careful to keep their movements slow and non-threatening.

"Can you tell us more about this man?" Casper asked, his voice gentler than Anna had ever heard it. "What does he look like?"

Tony's eyes darted between them, gauging whether this question was safe to answer. His fingers unconsciously traced the edge of his collar, where the composite material met the delicate skin of his throat.

"He's old," the boy finally said. "But strong. His arms have lines." He traced veiny patterns on his own thin forearm to demonstrate. "Hair like silver. And his eyes..." Tony paused, a visible shiver running through his small frame. "When he looks at you, it feels cold inside."

Anna's breath caught in her throat, a chill spreading through her body that had nothing to do with the facility's temperature. The description was unmistakable.

"Anthony Starr," she whispered, the name like ash on her tongue.

Tony flinched at the sound, his shoulders hunching protectively around his ears. "We're not supposed to say his name," he whispered. "He doesn't like it when we talk about him."

Sarah pressed her face harder against Anna's side, a small whimper escaping her lips at the mention of their captor. Her tiny fingers dug into Anna's tactical gear with surprising strength, as if trying to burrow inside the protection it offered.

Casper had moved to examine the collars on several other children, his massive hands impossibly gentle as he coaxed them to allow his inspection. His expression remained professionally neutral, but Anna could read the controlled fury in the set of his shoulders, the precise deliberation of each movement.

"Same configuration on all of them," he reported, returning to Anna's side. "Central detonation control would be the most efficient design. One device controlling all sixteen collars."

"The remote," Anna confirmed, the tactical situation crystallizing in her mind with terrible clarity. "We need Starr's controller."

"He always has it," Tony said, his eyes wide with remembered terror. "Always in his pocket. Sometimes he takes it out and puts his thumb on it when we're not good enough. Just to remind us."

Anna's eyes narrowed, a cold, focused rage settling into her bones—the kind of anger that transformed fear into fuel, doubt into deadly purpose. The terror in Tony's voice, the way Sarah trembled against her—these weren't just mission parameters anymore. This was personal in ways that transcended professional obligation or even family duty.

"Tony," Anna said softly, gently taking his small hand in hers, "I need you to be brave for just a little longer. Can you do that for me?"

The boy straightened almost imperceptibly, his chin lifting with a determination that broke Anna's heart even as it filled her with fierce pride. He nodded once, the movement causing the hideous collar to shift against his skin.

"We're going to get these off all of you," she promised, her voice carrying to the other children who had gathered at the edges of the hub, their eyes fixed on this unexpected interaction with wary hope. "But first, we need to get you somewhere safe."

Anna turned to Casper, a silent communication passing between them—the wordless understanding forged through years of shared combat and impossible situations. She saw the recognition in his eyes, the immediate comprehension of what had to happen next.

"You need to take them," she said, her voice low but carrying the unmistakable weight of command. "All of them. Get them out through the east service tunnel. The schematics showed minimal security coverage, and with the compound in disarray, you should be able to reach the perimeter."

Casper's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or the shadow of an argument he knew better than to voice. "And you?"

Anna's gaze drifted to the corridor beyond, toward the heart of the compound where Anthony Starr would be recovering from the explosion—surrounded by security, wounded perhaps, but still in possession of the device that could end sixteen young lives with the press of a button.

"I'm going after Starr," she replied, the words falling into the space between them like stones into still water. "I'll get the controller."

"That's suicide," Casper observed, his tone flat but his eyes betraying his concern. "The central tower will be locked down. Every available security asset will be concentrated there."

"Which means they won't be looking for children escaping through service tunnels," Anna countered, already retrieving additional magazines from her tactical vest and checking her weapons. "The diversion works both ways."

Sarah clung more tightly to Anna's side, sensing the shift in energy, the implication of separation. "Don't go," she whispered, her voice so small it was barely audible. "Please, Aunt Anna."

The plea cut through Anna's tactical focus like a blade, opening a wound she couldn't afford to acknowledge. She gently disengaged Sarah's grip, crouching to look directly into her niece's tear-filled eyes.

"I have to go get the thing that will make you safe," she explained, brushing a strand of hair from Sarah's face with uncharacteristic tenderness.

She was going off alone again.

The realization felt cold but certain like a penny clutched in her palm. Not the sort of understanding that could be spent, but one that provided a type of value all the same.

She was going off alone… so the rest of them could stay together. If she didn’t, they wouldn’t make it. She wasn’t sure if she found peace in this realization, or a bone-deep certainty of pain. Either way, she gave Sarah a little kiss on the head.

Casper tried to grab Anna’s arm as she stood—he wanted to talk. She knew that look: the talking look.

There was no time for it. There almost never was, but particularly now, there was simply no time.

She began to move once again, ignoring the sounds of tears, ignoring the pained calls as the children began to crack under the weight of their relief, whimpering for their mothers or fathers.

She refused to listen.

If she listened, she might stop. And if she stopped, they might die.

There was a power in the shark. It never stopped swimming. Others thought it cold and cruel.

Perhaps she was.

And perhaps there was a use to it.

All Anna knew was that if she stopped now, it wasn’t just her that would pay for it, and she broke into a dead sprint.

Chapter 19

Anna surveyed the chaos in the compound below from the guard tower. Two men lay dead at her feet. And one SAT phone was clutched in her hand as she placed the call for the second time, waiting for it to connect.

The guard tower offered a panoramic view of Olympus, the compound sprawling beneath her like a wounded beast in its death throes. Flames licked at the central tower where the XV-92 had impacted, orange fingers clawing at the night sky as secondary explosions continued to ripple through the structure's upper levels. The fire suppression systems battled the conflagration with industrial foam and chemical retardants, creating billowing clouds of toxic-looking vapor that drifted across the neatly arrayed buildings like malevolent spirits.

Sirens wailed in discordant chorus, their urgent screams overlapping into a cacophony that seemed to physically vibrate the air. Emergency vehicles—specialized fire response units and armored medical transports—converged on the central plaza, their strobing lights painting the chaos in alternating flashes of red and blue. Security personnel swarmed like ants whose hill had been kicked.

The two guards who had previously occupied this vantage point lay crumpled at Anna's feet, their deaths as efficient and silent as she could manage. She'd left no witnesses, no alarm, just the cooling bodies of men who had chosen the wrong profession and the wrong employer.

Their blood pooled beneath them, black in the dim emergency lighting of the tower, occasionally reflecting the distant flames like oil on water.

Anna's eyes remained fixed on the penthouse level of the central tower, partially obscured by smoke but still visibly intact despite the devastation below.

The security response confirmed her suspicions: Anthony Starr had survived. The pattern of movement below told the story as clearly as written words—concentric layers of protection being established around the penthouse, medical teams being escorted through security cordons, communication hubs being established at strategic distances from the damaged sections. This wasn't the chaotic aftermath of a leader's death; this was the methodical implementation of protective protocols around a surviving asset.

The SAT phone in her hand remained silent, its secure connection attempting to establish a link through layers of electronic countermeasures and signal jamming. Anna had already tried once, only to have the call drop as interference patterns shifted across the compound's communication grid. Now she tried again, the device working through algorithmic adaptations to find clean frequencies amid the electronic warfare being waged below.

Finally, the distinctive double-tone indicated a successful connection. Anna pressed the device to her ear, her eyes never leaving the penthouse as she waited for a response.

"Who is this?" The voice that answered was youthful but wary, the words clipped with the precise diction of expensive education and inherited privilege.

"Simon," Anna replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her system. "It's Anna Gabriel."

A sharp intake of breath carried clearly through the secure connection. "Anna? How did you—where are you?"

She cut right to it. This part was crucial. "Casper has the children. All sixteen of them."

"Sixteen?" Simon's voice cracked with surprise. "There were only supposed to be two—your niece and nephew."

Anna's grip tightened on the phone, her knuckles whitening. "Your father's operation was more extensive than you realized. They all have explosive collars. Remote-controlled."

Silence stretched across the connection, filled only by Simon's uneven breathing as he processed this information. “I…” Another longer pause.

She just waited, allowing the weight of her words to settle.

When Simon spoke again, his voice was smaller, strained as he whispered. “How… how can I help?”

“I need to reach your father. He’s in his penthouse. Surrounded. Guards everywhere.”

A swallow. “I… I don’t know…”

"Simon," Anna said, her voice softening fractionally despite the urgency of their situation. "Sixteen children. The youngest is barely three years old. Your father put explosive collars around their necks. He demonstrated how they work by killing a puppy in front of them."

The silence that followed was different—heavier, charged with a tension that transcended the digital connection between them. When Simon spoke again, his voice had lost its uncertainty, replaced by something colder and more focused.

"You can’t reach him.”

She tensed.

“Not there,” he continued. “Not if he’s surrounded. But…” The boy’s voice trembled, a final hesitancy pushed aside. “I can get him to come out.”

“How?”

“I’m calling him.”

“Don’t compromise your position.”

“I won’t… I… I won’t. There’s a cave. I used to go there as a kid. My dad knows it. I’ll tell him that’s where they’re holding me. That he needs to come alone.”

Anna tensed. “He won’t buy it.”

“If he hears my voice… it won’t matter.”

Anna considered it. “Okay. Give me the coordinates…” A pause. “And where’s the armory?”

“At Olympus?”

“Yes. I’m going to pick up some things on the way. Simon… those children’s lives are counting on you.”

“I… I understand.”

Anna waited as Simon relayed the location of the armory to her. She made him repeat the coordinates, committing them to memory.

Simon bid farewell, his voice tense like a man about to move towards the gallows. “He’ll be there,” Simon whispered. “I promise.”

Then he hung up.

Anna was already moving.

Chapter 20

Anthony Starr flexed his substantial muscles, rolling them under his suit sleeves and scowling through the military vehicle’s reinforced windshield as the convoy sped towards the cave.

Six helicopters above.

A tank behind them.

A jet overhead and three drones providing cover, each armed with a hellfire missile.

Whoever had dared to put hands on his child would pay painfully.

He knew they were drawing him into a trap. Whoever they were. But his son… his son was in danger, his only son. They’d almost made him shoot the boy out of the sky. The helicopter had been a threat… He’d regretted it the moment he’d made the call.

This time…

Fifty soldiers packed into the row of troop transports: ten men per vehicle, five vehicles in total.

“Faster,” he snarled at the driver in the front seat. His massive hand reached across the console, slapping the shoulder of the smaller man piloting the vehicle.

The driver flinched, foot pressing deeper on the accelerator as the armored vehicle lurched forward, tires spitting gravel and earth behind them as they began their ascent up the winding mountain road. The vehicle's engine roared in protest, straining against the steep grade while Starr's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the armrest, each tap like a hammer blow in the confined space.

"Sir, the terrain requires—" the driver began, his voice faltering as Starr's pale eyes fixed on him through the rearview mirror.

"Did I ask for your assessment?" Starr's voice emerged as a controlled growl, the sound reverberating in the confined space of the vehicle's cabin. A vein pulsed visibly at his temple, throbbing beneath the skin like a creature trying to escape. "My son is in that cave. Every second wasted is another second they have their hands on him."

The driver swallowed audibly, pressing the accelerator to the floor despite the treacherous switchbacks that hugged the mountainside. The vehicle fishtailed slightly on the loose gravel, the back end threatening to slide toward the precipitous drop that yawned just a scant few feet from the road's edge.

Starr barely noticed the danger, his attention fixed on the approaching ridgeline where the cave's entrance would be visible. His massive hands flexed and unflexed rhythmically, the tendons standing out like steel cables beneath the skin. The suit jacket that had been impeccably tailored to his frame now strained across his shoulders and biceps, the expensive fabric creaking in protest as muscles bunched and coiled with barely contained violence.

“But, sir. If we don’t adjust for—"

Starr's hand shot out with cobra-like speed, massive fingers closing around the man's throat with enough pressure to immediately cut off any further words. "Did I ask for your report?" he snarled, his face inches from the security chief's rapidly reddening features. "When I want information, I'll extract it from you."

He released his grip with a contemptuous flick, the security chief gasping for air as he collapsed back against the seat. A thin line of spittle had collected at the corner of Starr's mouth, glistening in the filtered sunlight that slanted through the reinforced windows. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a smear across his otherwise immaculate jawline.

The convoy rounded another switchback, the vehicles behind them struggling to maintain formation on the narrow mountain road. Through the side window, Starr could see the valley stretching below—the compound of Olympus partially visible through breaks in the forest canopy, smoke still rising from the damaged central tower. The sight sent a fresh surge of rage through his system, his body temperature seemingly rising several degrees as blood rushed to his face.

"Faster," he repeated.

The cave entrance appeared ahead, a dark maw carved into the mountainside. Starr's breathing quickened, memories flooding his mind unbidden.

Simon at six years old, small hand clutched in his own as they explored the limestone formations. His boy's eyes wide with wonder at the stalactites hanging like stone teeth from the ceiling.

Simon at twelve, sullen and rebellious, refusing to join the spelunking expedition until Starr had dragged him bodily from the transport.

Simon at sixteen, discovering the hidden chamber with its underground spring, the pride in Starr's chest almost painful as his son had mapped the previously unknown passage.

Now his boy was a hostage in the same cave where Starr had taught him survival skills. The irony wasn't lost on him.

The convoy lurched to a halt fifty meters from the cave entrance. Dust billowed around the vehicles, momentarily obscuring the view through the reinforced windshield.

"Deploy perimeter security," Starr barked into his tactical radio. "Drones establish surveillance grid pattern Delta. Helicopters maintain holding pattern at five hundred meters. No one approaches without my direct order."

Acknowledgments crackled through the radio as his orders rippled through the assembled forces. Starr's eyes never left the cave entrance, scanning for movement, for any sign of his son.

There—a flicker of shadow against deeper darkness, a figure standing just inside the tunnel entrance. It was too tall to be Simon, but too slight to be one of his own men.

"I have visual on a hostile at the cave entrance," Starr announced, his voice deadly calm now that the moment of action had arrived.

The radio erupted with chatter as team leaders acknowledged and requested permission to engage.

"Hold your fire," Starr commanded. "This is a trap. They want us to rush in."

"Satellite thermal imaging shows no heat signature," his intelligence officer reported. "No sign of other hostiles within scan range."

"Deploy ground units in flanking formation," Starr ordered. "Drones maintain overwatch for emerging hostiles. Helicopter teams prepare for rapid insertion on my mark."

The well-oiled machine of his security force began to move, special operators sliding from vehicles to take up positions among the rocks and scrub brush surrounding the cave entrance.

Starr's hand moved to his pocket, fingers brushing against the remote control nestled there: his insurance policy, his leverage.

If this woman—and he now recognized her silhouette from intelligence briefings as Anna Gabriel—thought she could use his son against him, she would soon discover the true meaning of miscalculation.

"Sir, ground teams in position," came the report through his earpiece.

"Drones report no additional heat signatures within one kilometer radius."

He frowned. A figure in the mouth of the cave… but no heat signature?

A slow dread curdled his gut.

Was his son dead?

Was that her? Was she masking her body heat somehow?

He let out a slow growl.

“Approach,” he barked into his receiver. “Careful. Expect a trap. Go!”

He approached cautiously, flanked by ten of his most elite operators. Each step measured, deliberate, their weapons sweeping in practiced arcs that covered every potential angle of attack. The cave mouth yawned before them, a dark void against the mountainside that seemed to swallow light rather than merely block it.

Starr's hand rested on his sidearm, the custom-built .45 a reassuring weight against his palm.

"Advance pattern Sigma," he murmured, the command transmitted through subvocal microphones to his team. They responded by breaking into two five-man elements that approached the cave entrance from opposing angles, using natural cover to minimize exposure to potential ambush.

The figure he'd spotted earlier remained motionless just inside the threshold, a shadow against deeper darkness. As they drew closer, its outline resolved into something that triggered immediate suspicion—too static, proportions slightly wrong for a human form.

"Hold," Starr commanded, raising a closed fist. His team froze instantly, a testament to their training and the fear he inspired. He studied the shadowy figure, his eyes narrowing as he processed what he was seeing.

Not a person at all.

A tactical vest suspended from a natural limestone formation, draped over what appeared to be a standard-issue ballistic dummy. The kind used in his own training facilities. Someone had positioned it precisely where it would be visible from outside.

"Decoy," he announced, already calculating the implications. "Advance with extreme caution. Full spectrum scan of the interior."

One of his operators produced a compact thermal imaging device, sweeping it across the cave entrance. The display confirmed what the satellite had reported—no heat signatures within range. Another produced a heartbeat sensor, its sensitive microphones capable of detecting the telltale rhythm of a human cardiovascular system through solid rock.

Again, nothing.

Starr's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as he processed this information. The cave appeared empty. No son. No hostiles. Just a dummy positioned to be seen from outside.

"Move in," he ordered, his voice carrying the deadly calm that his men recognized as the precursor to explosive violence. "Full tactical sweep. If this is a trap, I want to know its nature before it springs."

They advanced into the cave, weapons at the ready, tactical lights cutting through the darkness to reveal the familiar limestone formations.

The main tunnel extended approximately thirty meters before opening into a larger chamber with multiple offshoots. The dummy had been positioned just inside the entrance, clearly visible to anyone approaching but not deep enough to require full commitment to the cave system.

Where was she?

Where was Simon?

He looked around, frowning. His skin felt cold all of a sudden. He turned, glancing back towards the mouth of the cave… Ten feet behind him.

He looked once more down the long tunnel.

Sudden movement caught his eye. There… in the center of the far basin… still, cold water: a ripple.

His mind raced… The water’s chill might disguise a body’s heat signature. Might prevent the scanners if she’d remained submerged long enough.

Anthony Starr stared. His mind speeding to complete the puzzle in front of him.

“Careful—” he began.

And then the ripples spread. He’d anticipated. He’d been right.

But it didn’t matter.

She emerged like some river monster, rising up. And in her hand… a device—not a gun—something far more effective.

The men noticed her, voices calling loud. Guns raised… but a second too late.

A click split through the cave as she pushed a button.

Starr was already turning, he spotted the C4 over the tunnel entrance.

Snared. Cornered. She wasn’t trying to hunker down, wasn’t trying to protect the cave.

She was trying to trap them in it.

Trap him.

The realization came first. The explosion came next.

The cave entrance disintegrated in a thunderous roar as the C4 detonated, unleashing a cataclysmic wave of destruction that transformed the serene mountain hollow into a vision of hell. Massive limestone boulders, some weighing hundreds of pounds, tore free from the ceiling in a horrifying cascade of geological violence. They plummeted downward with the inexorable force of gravity, smashing against the cave floor with impacts that sent bone-rattling vibrations through the stone beneath their feet.

The air itself seemed to compress and expand in rapid succession, a pressure wave that slammed into Starr's chest like a battering ram, driving the oxygen from his lungs in a painful whoosh. Dust erupted everywhere—a choking, blinding cloud that filled the cave in seconds, microscopic particles of pulverized stone suspended in the air like a suffocating fog. It coated his skin, infiltrated his nostrils, scraped against his eyes like fine-grit sandpaper.

"Cave-in!" someone shouted, the voice barely audible above the ongoing collapse. Tactical lights swept frantically through the billowing dust, their beams reduced to ghostly, ineffectual glows that illuminated nothing but the suspended particles directly in front of them.

"Fire!" Starr bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos with the practiced authority of command. His men reacted instantly, muscle memory and training overriding the momentary shock of the explosion.

Gunshots erupted in the confined space, the muzzle flashes creating stroboscopic bursts of illumination that transformed the dust-filled cave into a nightmarish tableau of frozen moments—faces contorted in concentration, stone fragments still falling from the destabilized ceiling, the water's surface rippling from impacts as bullets sought their target.

Then came the flashbangs.

She launched them from where she’d hidden behind a stalagmite.

Three in rapid succession—a sequence designed to maximize disorientation rather than a simultaneous detonation that might allow adaptation. The first exploded at the far end of the chamber, its magnesium-based core igniting with the intensity of a miniature sun.

Before retinas could begin to recover, the second flashbang detonated closer to the center of the formation.

The third device—positioned near the collapsed entrance—completed the sensory devastation.

Starr alone remained standing, his massive frame swaying but upright through sheer force of will. Blood trickled from his ears, warm and wet against his skin as ruptured capillaries surrendered to the concussive force. His eyes streamed involuntary tears, protective mechanisms attempting to flush out irritants and recover from the searing brightness. His equilibrium was shot, the world tilting and spinning around him like a carnival ride designed by sadists.

Through this sensory maelstrom, a figure moved with purpose—a shadow against afterimages, navigating the chaos as if immune to its effects. Anna Gabriel, emerging from the water like some primordial hunter—knives in hand.

He only glimpsed her for a moment before darkness fell—the sporadic flash of muzzle fire in the dark, illuminating her once, twice… in the third flash Starr lost track of her.

Then the screaming began.

Chapter 21

Through the strobing chaos of muzzle flashes, Anna became death incarnate.

Her first victim never saw her approach—one moment standing disoriented from the flashbangs, the next feeling the whisper-sharp kiss of Damascus steel as her blade opened his carotid artery.

She caught his weapon before it clattered to the ground, using his falling body as momentary cover while she identified her next target.

The confined space worked to her advantage, transforming what should have been overwhelming numerical superiority into a claustrophobic nightmare for Starr's men. They couldn't establish firing positions without risking friendly fire, couldn't track her movements in the dust-choked darkness, couldn't coordinate their response as the flashbangs had destroyed their communication devices and ruptured eardrums.

Anna moved like water—flowing around obstacles, finding paths of least resistance, her body a weapon honed through decades of the most brutal training humanity had devised. She slid beneath a wild burst of gunfire, the bullets passing harmlessly overhead as she closed the distance to her second target. Her knife found the femoral artery with unerring accuracy, the blade slicing through tactical pants and flesh with equal ease. She was already moving before he registered the mortal wound.

In the dark, three operators attempted to form a defensive triangle, their backs to each other as they swept their weapons in overlapping arcs. She glimpsed them in the flash of a gunshot a split-second before they disappeared in the dark again. But it was enough. She’d mapped the room before they’d entered. This was her domain now. Blind or not.

Anna circled them like a shark, patient, calculating, waiting for the perfect moment. It came when one man's tactical light flickered—a momentary electrical failure that created a half-second window of vulnerability.

She struck with explosive violence, driving upward between two of the men with both knives extended. The blades found the soft tissue beneath their jaws simultaneously, punching through with enough force that the tips emerged through the tops of their skulls. She twisted, using their dying momentum to swing their bodies into the third man, tangling his weapon as all three collapsed in a grotesque heap of twitching limbs.

Half of Starr's elite force eliminated in less than fifteen seconds.

The remaining operators realized their peril too late, attempting to retreat toward their commander who had staggered backward, deeper into the cave system. Anna anticipated this, flinging one of her blood-slick knives with lethal precision. It rotated once in flight before burying itself to the hilt in an operator's eye socket, the man's finger convulsing on his trigger as he died.

The resultant burst of automatic fire caught one of his colleagues across the chest, the bullets punching through body armor compromised by earlier debris impacts. The friendly fire victim collapsed with a wet gurgle, his tactical light spinning across the rocky floor as it fell from lifeless fingers.

Three operators remained, now in full retreat alongside their commander. Anna retrieved her thrown knife with a savage yank, the wet sound lost beneath renewed gunfire as the survivors attempted to create a suppression zone. Bullets ricocheted off limestone formations, fragments of stone.

She picked up a sidearm; aimed with one hand.

And it all went dark again.

But she could hear them.

This was enough.

Three gunshots.

Two grunts.

A fourth gunshot.

A third.

All the operators down.

Only Starr remained now.

Anna broke into a jog of her own, racing after him. He had the remote control. He was the key. None of this mattered if she did not capture him and disarm the bands around her niece and nephew’s necks.

Sprinting through the tunnel, each footfall measured precisely despite the near-total darkness, Anna cut through the limestone passage as it narrowed and descended deeper into the mountain, the air growing noticeably cooler and heavy with mineral scents.

Starr's ragged breathing guided her forward, the sound bouncing off the tunnel walls like sonar pings. He was moving fast despite his injuries, his military training evident in how he maintained distance while navigating unfamiliar terrain. But Anna could hear the subtle hitch in his respiration—evidence of damaged ribs or perhaps a punctured lung from the concussive force of the explosions.

He had slipped death twice now. He would not escape a third time.

The tunnel curved sharply to the right, then descended at a steeper angle. Loose stones skittered beneath her boots, threatening to betray her position.

Suddenly, the darkness ahead fractured—a beam of intense light swinging wildly as Starr whirled to face her, his massive silhouette momentarily backlit by the tactical flashlight's beam. The light blinded her temporarily, searing through retinas already sensitized by darkness. But Anna's body reacted before her conscious mind could process the threat, muscle memory and combat instinct carrying her forward in a fluid combat roll.

She came up inside his defensive perimeter, her right hand striking outward with snake-like speed. The edge of her palm connected with Starr's wrist, targeting the radial nerve cluster with devastating effect. The flashlight flew from his suddenly nerveless fingers, smashing against the limestone wall with enough force to shatter its reinforced housing.

The impact didn't destroy the light completely. Instead, it damaged the electrical components in a way that transformed the steady beam into a strobing nightmare—flashes of brilliant illumination separated by intervals of impenetrable darkness.

In those strobing flashes, Anna truly saw Anthony Starr for the first time up close. The tactical briefings and intelligence photographs hadn't done justice to his physical presence. He towered over her by at least eight inches, his frame so broad it seemed to fill the tunnel. Each flash revealed muscles that strained against his tactical gear—not the cosmetic bulk of a bodybuilder but the functional power of someone who had spent decades honing his body into a weapon.

Flash—his shoulders, impossibly wide, the deltoids bunching beneath torn fabric as he pivoted toward her.

Darkness.

Flash—his arms, veins snaking across biceps that looked capable of crushing stone.

In the next moment of darkness, Anna struck. Her fist connected with Starr's solar plexus with precisely calculated force—enough to disrupt his breathing but not enough to fold him completely. She needed him conscious, needed him functional enough to surrender the remote control.

The blow should have dropped a normal man to his knees. Starr merely grunted, his massive hand shooting out with surprising speed to close around her throat.

Flash—his fingers tightening, compressing her carotid arteries, the technique of someone who had strangled life from human bodies before.

Darkness.

Anna's vision began to tunnel, her brain screaming for oxygen as Starr's grip threatened to crush her trachea. She abandoned finesse for raw survival, driving her knee upward with every ounce of strength her compact frame could generate. The impact connected with Starr's groin, the one target that even the most conditioned physique couldn't fully armor against.

Flash—Starr's face contorting in pain, his grip loosening fractionally as involuntary muscle responses overrode conscious control.

Anna tore free of his grasp, oxygen flooding back into her system in a painful rush that felt like swallowing fire. She spun away from his reaching hands, using the confined space of the tunnel to her advantage. Where Starr's size gave him overwhelming power, it also limited his mobility in the narrow passage. Anna could maneuver where he could only lumber.

Flash—Starr charging forward like a wounded bull, his massive shoulder lowered to ram her against the unforgiving stone wall.

Darkness.

She sidestepped at the last possible moment, her hand finding purchase on his tactical vest as she used his momentum to accelerate his collision with the tunnel wall. The impact resonated through the limestone like a thunderclap, chips of stone breaking free to patter against the ground like deadly hail.

Flash—Starr shaking his head, dazed but not incapacitated, blood now flowing freely from a new wound where his forehead had connected with stone.

"The remote," Anna demanded, her voice a hoarse rasp from her damaged throat. "Give me the controller."

Flash—Starr's hand moved to his pocket, reaching for something that might be the remote... or a weapon.

"WHERE IS MY SON?" The roar erupted from Starr's chest like a physical force, the words reverberating through the tunnel with enough power to dislodge more dust and pebbles from the ceiling. "WHERE IS SIMON?"

Darkness.

Anna circled, maintaining distance, calculating angles and approaches. Her breath came in controlled measures despite the burning in her throat where his fingers had crushed delicate tissues. The strobing light transformed their deadly dance into a series of frozen tableaux—predator and prey, though the roles seemed to shift with each flash of illumination.

"HOW DARE YOU?" Starr bellowed, his massive frame vibrating with fury as he lunged forward, massive hands grasping at empty air as Anna evaded once more. "USING MY SON AS BAIT!"

"You put bombs around children's necks," Anna replied, her voice a stark contrast to his emotional eruption—flat, cold, devoid of inflection.

"Necessary precautions," he growled, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath their feet. "For their protection. For their future."

Flash—his hand moving toward his pocket, fingers seeking the outline of something.

Anna struck with brutal efficiency, her body a blur of motion as she closed the distance between them. Her elbow connected with his descending arm, deflecting it away from his pocket with enough force that the impact resonated through both their bodies. Simultaneously, her other hand drove upward, palm flat.

The blow snapped Starr's head backward, teeth clacking together with an audible crack that suggested dental damage. Yet he absorbed the impact with inhuman resilience, his massive arm swinging in a horizontal arc that would have decapitated a lesser opponent.

Darkness.

"Where is he?"

Anna ducked beneath Starr's swinging arm, feeling the displacement of air as his massive fist passed inches above her head. The strobing light transformed their battle into a fragmented nightmare.

Flash—Starr roared, the sound primal and deafening in the confined space. His hand finally reached his pocket, extracting a small black device—rectangular, matte finish, with a single red button protected by a clear safety cover.

The remote.

The controller clutched in his massive hand, his thumb hovered above the safety cover.

"One more step and I detonate all sixteen collars," he snarled.

Anna froze. Her muscles coiled with lethal potential, but she remained motionless—calculating, assessing.

"Simon is safe," she said, her voice cutting through the darkness like a blade. "He was never here."

Confusion flickered across Starr's blood-streaked face. His thumb remained poised above the remote, the pressure of his digit visible in the whitened flesh around his nail.

Darkness.

"You're lying." His voice had lost some of its certainty.

"He called you from a secure location." Anna took one careful step forward. "He knew you'd come for him. Just like you always have."

Flash—doubt creeping into Starr's eyes, the first crack in his armor of rage.

Darkness.

"Simon knows what you've done to those children." Another step. "He knows about the collars."

Starr's breathing changed. It became ragged, uncertain.

"Necessary precautions," he repeated, but the conviction had leached from his voice. "They're weapons. Assets. The future of—"

"They're children." Anna's interruption sliced through his justification. "The youngest is three years old."

Flash—Starr's face, suddenly looking older, haggard.

"You'd kill sixteen children to protect your operation?" Anna asked. "Simon is watching. He knows what is happening here. Is that the father you want him to see?"

The remote trembled almost imperceptibly in Starr's massive hand. A tremor. A hesitation.

It was all Anna needed.

She moved with explosive speed, her body a blur even in the strobing light. Her hand closed around his wrist, fingers digging into pressure points. Her other palm struck upward, the heel connecting with his elbow joint.

Bone snapped.

Starr howled, a sound more animal than human. The remote tumbled from his spasming fingers. Anna's hand tracked its descent through the air, catching it before it could strike the ground.

Starr lunged at her with his full weight, his uninjured arm swinging like a wrecking ball. The blow caught Anna on the shoulder, sending her sprawling against the tunnel wall. Pain exploded through her body as stone edges bit into her back, but her fingers remained locked around the remote—knuckles white with the intensity of her grip.

"Give it to me!" Starr bellowed, advancing despite his broken arm hanging uselessly at his side. Blood matted his silver hair to his scalp, turning it a dirty rust color in the strobing light. "You have no idea what you're interfering with!"

Anna tucked the remote into a secure pocket on her tactical vest, freeing both hands for the fight she knew was coming. Starr was wounded, yes, but far from finished—like a bull that had taken the picador's lance but found renewed strength in pain and rage.

Flash—his massive form charging forward, using the confined space to his advantage now, leaving her nowhere to dodge.

Darkness.

Anna met his charge directly, dropping to a crouch at the last possible moment. As his body passed over her, she drove upward with both hands, fingers rigid, targeting nerve clusters in his abdomen. The strike was perfect—anatomically precise, delivered with the full force of her compact frame.

She shrugged up, using his own momentum against him. Starr arched over her, splashing in the water of the small cavern pond.

Anna stared at the churning liquid, breathing heavily, watching closely in the flickering darkness.

The massive, muscular man scrambled desperately, weighed down by his body armor. By his own musculature. He tried to clamber out, tried to grab her shoe.

Anna’s heel snapped forward, kicking him in the face.

He gasped, panicked, surging up. She shoved him back in the water. He was growing slower, more tired. Anna stared dispassionately down at the floundering musclebound man.

“You never should’ve touched them,” she said quietly.

And then she kicked him sharp in the forehead.

His eyes rolled back.

Anna watched as Starr slipped beneath the water's surface, his massive body slowly sinking into the dark pool. Bubbles escaped his mouth, silvery orbs that caught the strobing light in their brief journey to the surface.

She waited, watching, unmoving. She wouldn’t go. Not yet.

Her escape route through the tunnels wouldn’t last forever. Reinforcements would be coming.

But she could wait.

For this she would wait.

He would never hurt Tony or Sarah again. None of them would.

The bubbles slowed, then stopped. Anna waited, counting slowly, not moving until three full minutes had passed, restarting once as a singular bubble broke the surface.

Slowly, she relaxed. Lifting the remote, Anna stared down at it, releasing a slow breath. Waldo would know how to remove the collars.

And it would be over.

Over and done with, at long last.

Chapter 22

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and freedom across the deck of the weathered fishing trawler. Anna stood at the stern, her hands gripping the rusted railing as she watched the reunion unfolding before her. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the boat's scarred wooden planks, painting everything in hues of amber and gold that softened even the harshest edges of the past forty-eight hours.

Beth knelt on the deck twenty feet away, her body curled protectively around Tony and Sarah like a human fortress against the world that had tried to claim them. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs as she pressed her face into her children's hair, breathing them in as if trying to replace the memory of their absence with the reality of their presence. Her fingers trembled as they traced the faint red marks that encircled their necks—the only remaining evidence of the collars that had been removed just hours earlier.

Tony stood rigid in his mother's embrace, his small body vibrating with the effort of maintaining control. His eyes—those eyes so like Beth's—remained dry, his jaw set in a determination that no six-year-old should possess. But as Beth whispered something against his ear, something only for him, the careful facade cracked. His face crumpled like tissue paper in rain, emotions too complex and overwhelming for his young psyche to contain breaking through in a keening wail that seemed to carry every moment of fear and loneliness he had endured.

Sarah had no such restraints. Her tiny arms wrapped around her mother's neck with desperate strength, her face buried against Beth's shoulder as she sobbed with the abandoned grief of the very young. Her tears soaked through the fabric of Beth's shirt, creating a darkened map of their reunion. Between sobs, she repeated ‘Mommy’ over and over, each iteration slightly different—questioning, confirming, celebrating the return of the most fundamental relationship in her world.

Anna watched from her solitary position, maintaining the distance that had defined her relationship with her sister for so many years. The same distance that had once been a wall now felt like a necessary space—room for Beth and her children to rediscover each other without the shadow of the violence that had made their reunion possible.

Casper stood to Anna's right, his massive frame somehow diminished by the weight of what they had witnessed. The rescue of sixteen children should have felt triumphant, but the psychological and physical damage inflicted upon them had left a somber pall over their success. His hands, capable of such devastating violence, now hung loose at his sides, fingers occasionally flexing as if trying to rid themselves of memories too visceral to dismiss.

"They'll recover," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. It wasn't quite a question, but the faint uplift at the end betrayed his need for reassurance.

"Children are resilient," Anna replied, her eyes never leaving the tableau of her sister and her children. "But they'll need help. Where are the others?”

"Left them with Simon and the support team," Casper replied, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the coastline had long since disappeared. "Medical evaluation first, then placement with vetted families. Simon's using his father's resources to ensure they'll be taken care of."

Anna nodded, a small vertical movement that contained volumes of unspoken complexity. Simon Argon—Anthony Starr's son and reluctant heir—had proven to be more than just an asset in their operation. His horror at discovering the true nature of his father's work had transformed him from privileged scion to determined ally.

Across the deck, Beth finally looked up, her tear-streaked face turning toward where Anna stood. Their eyes met across the distance—physical and emotional—that had separated them for so long. Beth's hand lifted in a small gesture that might have been a wave or a beckoning.

Anna hesitated, her body tensing almost imperceptibly. The distance between them had been her creation, her protection—for them as much as for herself. To cross it now meant acknowledging connections she had spent years denying.

"Go," Casper said softly, the single syllable carrying the weight of understanding from one damaged warrior to another.

Anna pushed away from the railing, her movements fluid despite the injuries hidden beneath her civilian clothes. Each step across the weathered deck felt like crossing a boundary more significant than mere physical space. The children noticed her approach first, Tony's body stiffening slightly while Sarah's tear-stained face emerged from her mother's shoulder, eyes widening with recognition.

"Aunt Anna!" Sarah called, her voice still thick with tears but brightened by a sudden joy that seemed incongruous amid so much trauma. She scrambled from Beth's embrace with surprising agility, racing across the deck with outstretched arms.

Anna crouched instinctively, her body folding to meet the child at her level. Sarah collided with her in a tangle of thin limbs and desperate affection, small arms wrapping around Anna's neck with a strength that belied the girl's tiny frame. The impact nearly knocked Anna off balance, forcing her to brace one hand against the deck to maintain her position.

"You saved us," Sarah whispered against Anna's ear, her breath warm and impossibly alive. "You came and got us like you promised."

Something shifted in Anna's chest—a tectonic movement in terrain she had believed solidified years ago. Her arms encircled Sarah's small body with a gentleness few had ever witnessed, one hand rising to cradle the back of the child's head. The soft hair beneath her palm felt impossibly delicate, a reminder of the fragility she had fought to protect.

Tony approached more cautiously, his steps measured and deliberate as he moved to stand beside them. His eyes—so like Beth's—studied Anna's face with an intensity beyond his years, searching for something only he could define.

"You killed the bad man," he stated. It wasn’t a question. His voice carried neither judgment nor gratitude—just the flat certainty of a child stating an observed fact.

Anna met his gaze directly, refusing to shield him from truths he had already been forced to confront. "Yes."

Tony nodded once, a gesture unnervingly adult in its economy of movement. "Good."

Beth rose from her knees, approaching the small group with hesitant steps. Her face remained tear-streaked, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, but something had straightened in her posture—a newfound steel beneath the softness that had always defined her in Anna's mind.

"Anna," she said, her voice breaking on the name. "I don't know how to—"

"Don't," Anna interrupted, rising to her feet with Sarah still clinging to her neck like a small, determined monkey. "You don't have to say anything."

Beth shook her head, a familiar stubbornness settling into her features. "No. I do." She stepped closer, close enough that Anna could see the faint constellation of freckles across her sister's nose—remnants of childhood summers spent together before life and choices had driven them apart. "Thank you for bringing them back to me."

The simplicity of the statement stripped away any possible deflection, any retreat into the emotional distance Anna had maintained for so long. She nodded once, acknowledging both the gratitude and the connection it represented.

Sarah's weight shifted against her, the child adjusting her position to see her mother's face. "Mommy, can Aunt Anna come home with us?" The question hung in the salt-laden air between them, innocent yet weighted with implications.

Beth's eyes never left Anna's. "That's up to her, sweetheart. Aunt Anna has her own life."

The words could have been dismissive, an easy return to the status quo of polite distance and holiday phone calls. But something in Beth's tone suggested an opening rather than a closure—a door left ajar rather than firmly shut.

Tony moved closer, his shoulder pressing against Anna's hip in a gesture that seemed both protective and seeking protection.

Anna stared at them.

She thought of the choice she’d made back in Olympus. She had left… so they could stay.

She had given up the hugs, the handholds, the comfort, so she could protect those who needed it most.

She knew her decision. But they didn’t have to.

She’d slip away at night, before the boat departed. She wouldn’t say anything before then, not now either. As she gave a forced smile, Anna rubbed at her nephew’s head affectionately.

Epilogue:

Anna eased the door shut, stepping out onto the quiet, night-time deck. The others were sleeping.

She'd left Beth and the kids curled together in the small cabin below—a tangle of limbs and steady breathing that spoke of exhaustion finally yielding to the sanctuary of sleep. Sarah had clutched Anna's shirt when she'd tried to extricate herself, tiny fingers grasping with surprising strength even in slumber. It had taken almost five minutes of gentle manipulation to free herself without waking the child.

The night air embraced her with its cool fingers, the salt-laden breeze tugging at her hair as she moved silently across the weathered planks. The moon hung low over the horizon, a waning crescent that provided just enough illumination to navigate without betraying her presence to any watching eyes. The fishing trawler creaked beneath her feet.

Her go-bag waited exactly where she'd stashed it earlier—tucked behind a coil of rope near the stern, its contents meticulously packed for rapid departure: new identity documents; emergency cash in three currencies; two untraceable handguns with suppressed ammunition; the bare essentials for disappearing once more into the shadows that had been her home for so long.

Anna slung the bag over her shoulder, its familiar weight settling against her back like an old friend. The dock lay fifty yards away, a weathered wooden structure extending into the protected cove where Kovac had moored his vessel for the night. By dawn, the trawler would be gone—carrying Beth and the children to safety while Anna vanished in another direction. Kovac had been paid by Simon.

That debt was settled now too.

It was better this way—cleaner. The violence that had saved them would eventually poison what it had protected if she remained. Tony's words echoed in her mind: "You killed the bad man." The simple statement of fact from a child who had seen too much, understood too much. She couldn't be the aunt who baked cookies and attended school plays while carrying that knowledge between them.

Anna moved toward the gangplank, each step precisely placed to avoid the boards that had revealed their tendency to creak during her earlier reconnaissance. The night wrapped around her like a cloak, the darkness a familiar ally in her escape.

"Running again?"

The voice emerged from the shadows near the bow, low enough that it wouldn't carry to the cabins below but clear enough that Anna couldn't pretend she hadn't heard. She froze, her body instinctively shifting into a defensive posture before her conscious mind recognized the speaker.

Casper stepped into a patch of moonlight, his massive silhouette unmistakable against the starlit sky. He wore the same clothes as earlier, but had removed his tactical gear, the absence of its bulk somehow making him seem more human yet no less imposing. His eyes caught the moonlight, reflecting it back with an intensity that suggested he'd been waiting for this moment.

"Not running," Anna replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Protecting them."

Casper moved forward with that surprising grace that always seemed incongruous with his size.

She sighed. “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

He shrugged. “Won’t.”

She blinked.

“I’m coming with you, though.”

She stared at him.

“Waldo will keep them safe. They’ll be fine.”

Anna frowned.

“Kovac was paid.”

She frowned deeper.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” he parroted.

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know where I’m going.” She continued down the gangplank.

Anna stared at him for a long moment, her face unreadable in the moonlight. The breeze rustled her hair, that distinctive streak of white catching the dim light like a silver thread woven among shadows.

"You have a life, Casper," she finally said, her voice low enough that it melded with the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.

Casper's weathered face creased into something that wasn't quite a smile but held the ghost of one. "Do I?"

He moved to the railing, his massive hands resting on the weathered wood with surprising gentleness. "Tried going back once. Got as far as buying a house. Furniture. Even a damn grill for the backyard." His voice carried no self-pity, just the matter-of-fact recitation of a failed experiment. "Couldn't sleep without checking the perimeter three times a night. Couldn't talk to neighbors about weather and lawn care when I'd seen what we've seen."

Anna remained motionless, her go-bag still slung over her shoulder, poised between staying and going. The moonlight carved deep shadows beneath her cheekbones.

"We're war dogs, Anna," Casper continued, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where water met sky in a seamless darkness. "They can bring us home, give us medals, tell us to be civilians again. But we still hear the gunfire when it's quiet. Still wake up reaching for weapons."

She felt a strange warmth spreading through her chest.

Anna's hand relaxed slightly on the strap of her go-bag, her knuckles no longer white with tension. A barely perceptible nod passed between them, a contract sealed without signatures or witnesses.

The gangplank creaked beneath their combined weight as they descended to the weathered dock. Their footsteps fell into synchronized rhythm, an unconscious coordination born from years of moving through hostile terrain as a single operational unit.

The wooden planks, silver-gray with salt and age, stretched before them like a narrow bridge between worlds—behind them the trawler with its sleeping family, ahead the shadowed coastline promising nothing but the warmth of anonymity.

The End.

Also by Georgia Wagner

A picture containing text, water sport, swimming, ocean floor Description automatically generatedOnce a rising star in the FBI, with the best case closure rate of any investigator, Ella Porter is now exiled to a small gold mining town bordering the wilderness of Alaska. The reason for her new assignment? She allowed a prolific serial killer to escape custody.

But what no one knows is that she did it on purpose.

The day she shows up in Nome, bags still unpacked, the wife of the richest gold miner in town goes missing. This is the second woman to vanish in as many days. And it's up to Ella to find out what happened.

Assigning Ella to Nome is no accident, either. Though she swore she'd never return, Ella grew up in the small, gold mining town, treated like royalty as a child due to her own family's wealth. But like all gold tycoons, the Porter family secrets are as dark as Ella's own.

Also by Georgia Wagner

A book cover of a cabin in the woods Description automatically generated with low confidenceThe skeletons in her closet are twitching...

Genius chess master and FBI consultant Artemis Blythe swore she'd never return to the misty Cascade Mountains.
Her father—a notorious serial killer, responsible for the deaths of seven women—is now imprisoned, in no small part due to a clue she provided nearly fifteen years ago.

And now her father wants his vengeance.

A new serial killer is hunting the wealthy and the elite in the town of Pinelake. Artemis' father claims he knows the identity of the killer, but he'll only tell daughter dearest. Against her will, she finds herself forced back to her old stomping grounds.
Once known as a child chess prodigy, now the locals only think of her as ‘The Ghostkiller's’ daughter.

In the face of a shamed family name and a brother involved with the Seattle mob, Artemis endeavours to use her tactical genius to solve the baffling case.

Hunting a murderer who strikes without a trace, if she fails, the next skeleton in her closet will be her own.

A picture containing text, book Description automatically generatedAlso by Georgia Wagner

A cold knife, a brutal laugh.

Then the odds-defying escape.

Once a hypnotist with her own TV show, now, Sophie Quinn works as a full-time consultant for the FBI. Everything changed six years ago. She can still remember that horrible night. Slated to be the River Killer's tenth victim, she managed to slip her bindings and barely escape where so many others failed. Her sister wasn't so lucky.

And now the killer is back.

Two PHDs later, she's now a rising star at the FBI. Her photographic memory helps solve crimes, but also helps her to never forget. She saw the River Killer's tattoo. She knows what he sounds like. And now, ten years later, he's active again.

Sophie Quinn heads back home to the swamps of Louisiana, along the Mississippi River, intent on evening the score and finding the man who killed her sister. It's been six years since she's been home, though. Broken relationships and shattered dreams exist among the bayous, the rivers, the waterways and swamps of Louisiana; can Sophie find her way home again? Or will she be the River Killer's next victim to float downstream?

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About the Author

Georgia Wagner worked as a ghost writer for many, many years before finally taking the plunge into self-publishing. Location and character are two big factors for Georgia, and getting those right allows the story to flow seamlessly onto the page. And flow it does, because Georgia is so prolific a new term is required to describe the rate at which nerve-tingling stories find their way into print.

When not found attached to a laptop, Georgia likes spending time in local arboretums, among the trees and ponds. An avid cultivator of orchids, begonias, and all things floral, Georgia also has a strong penchant for art, paintings, and sculptures.