Chapter 5
WILLA
The name on the screen means nothing to me, but the way every man in the room goes still tells me everything I need to know. Dominic Cray.
"Two hours," I repeat, forcing my voice steady. "What can one man do in two hours?"
Kane's expression is granite. "More than you want to know."
I watch their reactions. Stryker's humor evaporates.
His hands move to check weapons with automatic precision.
Mercer shifts position, putting his back to the wall, eyes scanning for threats that aren't there.
Rourke remains eerily still, but his jaw tightens.
Calculations run behind those cold eyes.
"Tommy, I want everything you have on Cray." Kane's command voice cuts through the silence. "Travel patterns, known associates, preferred tactics."
"On it." Tommy's fingers fly across keyboards.
I watch Kane's hand rest on his sidearm. The burns on his neck catch the harsh light, scars pulling tight with tension.
"Doc." He turns those damaged eyes on me. "You should get some rest."
"No." I snarl. "Stop trying to protect me by keeping me in the dark. If this Cray person is coming for me, I need to know what I'm facing."
Stryker makes that strangled laugh sound. "She's got a point, boss."
"She's also a civilian," Kane counters.
"Who just killed three trained operatives without hesitation," Rourke adds. "Stop treating her like she's fragile."
Kane gestures toward the screen. "Fine. Look."
The images make my stomach clench. Crime scene photos. Autopsy reports. Intelligence briefings. Dominic Cray isn't just a killer. He's an artist, and his medium is death.
"Sixty-seven confirmed kills," Tommy narrates. "Probable count is more than double that. Former British SAS, then freelance. Specializes in what the Committee calls 'complex problem resolution.'"
"Is that what I am?" I ask. "A complex problem?"
"You and Odin both." Mercer studies the screens. "Cray's signature is clean work. No forensic evidence. No witnesses."
Six years ago, I ran from Jack thinking he was the worst monster I'd ever face—I was wrong.
"So what do we do?" I ask.
"We wait." Kane's tone suggests this is the last thing he wants. "Cray works alone. He'll need time to gather intel. That gives us a window."
"How long?"
"A day. Maybe two if we're lucky."
"I need air," I say suddenly, the walls pressing in.
"Bad idea." Kane steps into my path. "You're safest here."
"I said I need air, not that I'm leaving." I meet his eyes. "Just show me somewhere I can breathe."
Something shifts in his expression—understanding. He knows about walls that close in.
"Follow me."
We walk in silence through tunnels that wind deeper into the mountain. Emergency lights cast everything in harsh shadows.
"How long have you been here?" I ask.
"About two years. The cabin below, longer." He navigates turns without hesitation. "After Kandahar, I needed distance."
"What happened in Kandahar?"
He's silent so long I think he won't answer.
Then: "We were running a black ops mission in Kandahar.
High value target, standard extraction. Except it wasn't standard.
Someone in our chain of command sold us out to the Committee.
They wanted the target eliminated along with everyone who knew about the operation—including us. "
"They sent people to kill their own team?"
"Not people. A kill squad. Professional, well-funded, and they had our exact position.
" His voice goes flat, emotionless in the way people get when they're describing something too painful to feel.
"We were ambushed in a safehouse. They came at us with everything—grenades, automatic weapons, the works.
Nine of us went in—only six made it out, but just barely.
Spent months going to ground, hiding, trying to figure out who we could trust."
His hand touches his neck scars. "There was another.
Morrison. He was one of ours. He thought he could make it on his own.
Thought he was too low down to be of any interest. By the time he realized his mistake and contacted us to get him out, the Committee had caught up with him in Kalispell.
Rourke and I got there too late. All we could do was make sure they paid for it. "
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He knew the risks." Kane stops at a metal door, punching in a code. "We all did."
The door opens onto something impossible—a natural cavern with a crystal clear lake reflecting emergency lights like stars.
"This is beautiful."
"It's private." Kane's voice echoes off stone. "No one comes here except me."
I move closer to the water's edge, trailing my fingers through it. Cold enough to shock. After the violence and blood, this place feels sacred.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For earlier. For not leaving me to die on that highway."
"You already thanked me."
"I know. But I meant it more then than you probably realized. No one's fought for me like that since my father died."
Something crosses Kane's face—pain or memory. "How’d he die?"
"Heart attack." I wrap my arms around myself. "He never met Jack. Part of me is grateful for that."
Kane moves closer. "Your father taught you to shoot?"
"To shoot, to fight, to survive." I smile despite everything.
"My mother died when I was eight. After that, it was just me and Dad.
Wherever the Marine Corps sent him, I went too.
Camp Lejeune, Twentynine Palms, Okinawa, Quantico.
Every new base, every new school, he made sure I could take care of myself.
He called it 'practical life skills.' Turned out he was just realistic about how dangerous the world is, especially for a girl growing up without a mother on military bases. "
"Smart man." Kane's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "You honor his memory."
I'm suddenly aware of how alone we are here.
"Kane." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Why did you really come for me?"
His jaw tightens. Then: "Because I spent twenty years following orders from people who treat human lives like acceptable collateral. Because Morrison died screaming. Because I'm done watching innocent people die while monsters walk free."
"That's a good answer." I step closer. "But it's not the whole truth, is it?"
His eyes lock on mine. "What do you want me to say, Doc? That something in me recognized something in you? That when Tommy told me the Committee was hunting a civilian who saved a dog, I saw someone worth protecting?"
"Is that true?"
"Every word." His hand lifts like he might touch my face, then drops. "Which is why you should walk away. Find someone safer."
"I'm done looking for safe." The truth tastes like freedom. "Safe got me involved with a man who put his hands around my throat and choked me until I passed out. I'm done being safe."
"Willa...”
"Dr. Hart," I correct, then catch myself. "Actually, no. Here, now, I'm just Willa."
Something in Kane's expression shifts. "Willa." My name on his lips sounds like a question and an answer. "This is a mistake."
"Probably." I close the remaining distance between us. "But I've been making safe choices for years. Where did that get me?"
His hand touches my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "You're not alone anymore."
"No." I lean into the contact. "I'm not."
The moment stretches, charged with possibility. Then Kane steps back.
"We should get back," he says, voice rough.
When we return, the others are scattered through the common area.
Stryker's cleaning weapons at a metal table, pieces laid out with obsessive precision.
His movements are practiced, almost meditative, but his eyes constantly scan the room.
The humor's back—probably easier than showing whatever he's really feeling.
Mercer's on a laptop in the corner, monitoring surveillance feeds.
He shifts position again, putting his back to a different wall.
I've seen that kind of constant vigilance before, in people who've learned the hard way that safety is an illusion.
Rourke sits near the stove, watching everything with those cold, analytical eyes.
He hasn't moved since we entered, but I get the sense he's already calculated three different ways to kill anyone who walks through that door.
They all look up when we enter.
"Status?" Kane's voice slides back into command mode.
"Cray's gone to ground." Tommy appears with Sarah limping beside him. "No activity since he landed."
"Then we plan ours." Kane moves to the map table. "We can't sit here waiting. We need to locate that Committee facility, verify what Odin detected, and gather evidence before Cray sanitizes the site."
"That's suicide," Mercer states flatly. "We'd be walking into whatever trap the Committee's preparing."
"We're already in their trap." Stryker gestures around the bunker. "They know we're here somewhere. It's only a matter of time."
"So we hit them first." Rourke's tone makes it sound simple. "Fast, hard, before they're ready."
I listen to them plan, these men who speak in tactical acronyms like it's their native language. But there's something missing.
"You're thinking about this wrong," I hear myself say.
Five pairs of eyes turn to me.
"Explain," Kane says.
"You're approaching this like a military operation.
But that's not what the Committee expects.
" I move to the map table. "Yes, they know I fought back earlier.
But I'm still a civilian veterinarian who saved a dog.
They'll assume I had help—which I did. As far as they know, I'm terrified and desperate, holed up somewhere waiting for them to find me. "
Understanding dawns in Kane's eyes. "You want to be bait."
"I want to be the thing they're not prepared for." I trace a route on the map. "If I return to my clinic—publicly, obviously—with the dog, what do they do?"
"They kill you," Stryker says bluntly.