Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The sound of the helicopter’s rotors still echoed in Ward’s ears as the door slammed shut behind him.
The cool, sterile air of the hangar hit like a slap to the face after the suffocating ash and tropical humidity of Saonae.
He didn’t bother to hide the stumble in his step—he was tired, dehydrated, and utterly alone now that Viper and the others had been led away.
The Navy MP beside him didn’t speak. He was young, sharp around the eyes, and the man kept a firm grip on the butt of his sidearm. He marched like he was escorting a high-value prisoner. Ward wasn’t sure if that was protocol or paranoia, but either way, it left a sour taste in his mouth.
At least they didn’t immediately put me in cuffs or chains.
They passed through two sets of blast-proof doors and a retinal scanner before descending in a security lift Ward could feel more than see. It felt like the concrete building had swallowed them whole, and every inch of the place reeked of secrets and containment.
The plain, utilitarian hallway they arrived in looked like a holding wing. None of the doors had names, and the hallway had no windows. The MP stopped in front of one of the doors, keyed in a code without meeting Ward’s eyes, and the door clicked open. “Inside.”
Ward stepped past him, slow and deliberate.
The room was… fine. Spartan, but not cruelly so. It had a twin bed, clean linens, a desk, a chair, and a water bottle on the table. There was even a small en-suite bathroom visible through an open door.
It doesn’t have bars or restraints, and I can live with the red blinking camera in the corner.
He turned just in time to see the door closing. “I’m not a criminal,” he called.
“You’re not cleared,” the MP replied before he shut the door completely and engaged the lock.
Asshole.
Ward stood in the silence for a long moment, letting the exhaustion settle over him. He didn’t sit down just yet because the shower was calling his name. He peeled out of the dirty, ash-stained field shirt they’d let him keep and ran a hand over his face. His fingers came away gray.
They were probably watching him already. Studying him, waiting to see if he’d do something suspicious like levitate the desk or recite incantations in Latin. He snorted and muttered to the camera, “I’m an archaeologist, not a Bond villain.”
The water bottle hissed when he cracked it open.
He downed half of it in one go, then sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head in his hands.
He’d known this would happen. They’d prepared for it, talked through every scenario.
Viper had promised it wouldn’t be long. But knowing something and living it?
Two very different things.
The knock on the door came six hours later—precise, clinical, and impossible to ignore.
Ward was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at the blank wall like it might eventually blink back.
The door opened before he could answer, and two men stepped in—neither in uniform.
Both wore suits. If the TV and the movies were anything to go by, those suits were government-issued and creased to perfection.
The taller one had a folder in his hand. The other didn’t bother with props.
“Dr. Sutherland,” the tall one said. “We’re here to debrief you.”
Ward didn’t move. “You’ve been watching me for six hours. What more do you want?”
“Your version of what happened on the record.”
He sighed and stood, rolling out the tension in his neck. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“If you’re lying? Yes.” The shorter one cracked a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “If you’re not, then this will be over quickly.”
Ward shrugged and motioned toward the desk. “You gonna sit or do we do this like an old mob movie—with the lightbulb and the threats?”
Neither laughed, but they didn’t object when he sat, leaned back, and folded his arms. The taller one opened the folder and began by asking for a timeline—when he arrived on the island, where he stayed, what he was doing there.
Ward answered clearly, sticking to the truth.
He gave them the permit number, his institution’s letter of intent, the French approval stamp, everything he knew they’d already seen.
They asked about the SEALs—how he found them, how long he was with them, if he knew them before the eruption. Ward told them exactly what Viper had: he didn’t. They’d stumbled across him, half-dead, and dragged his sorry ass out of a dying mountain.
“And you expect us to believe you weren’t planted there?” one of them asked.
“I expect you to look at my resume, my career, my lack of a criminal record, and realize that I’m a nerd who got really, really unlucky.”
They stared at him for a long moment. Then the taller one closed the folder. “You’re cleared.”
Ward blinked. “That’s it?”
“You’re not under arrest. You’re not military. You don’t have clearance. So, yes. That’s it.”
The next thing he knew, he was being walked down a different corridor, handed a plain duffel bag with his belongings—phone, passport, and wallet—and escorted out into the early morning light.
He blinked hard against it as his eyes took a little time to adjust to the real world again.
A government sedan waited at the curb. The man who opened the door for him didn’t smile.
“Atlanta. One-way. Commercial. You’re on the noon flight. Don’t miss it.”
Ward slid into the back seat, gripping the strap of the duffel like it might disappear.
He didn’t bother to ask questions; nobody would answer them anyway, and if he asked the ones he wanted to ask, they’d know he’d lied and he’d never be allowed to leave.
He stared out the window as the gates opened and the secure facility faded into the background.
He was free. But leaving felt nothing like escape. It felt like having half of his heart ripped out of his chest, because the one who owned it remained behind in the secure base he’d just been released from.
No one seemed interested in his story beyond confirming his name and giving him a pat-down that was more formality than suspicion. Just enough scrutiny to tick a box. A debrief that included one Navy liaison, one very polite Homeland Security rep, and a whole lot of vague head-nodding.
He told them the version he’d rehearsed in his head.
Caught in the blast. Lost underground. Rescued by a black ops team while trying to survive.
They hadn’t asked about Viper specifically.
Maybe they didn’t know, or perhaps they just didn’t care.
One of the officers gave him a pre-loaded phone, a new ID badge with his original name, and a one-way plane ticket home.
“Your records are clean, Dr. Sutherland,” the liaison had said, handing him the envelope. “You’re just a man who got unlucky. And then lucky again. Go home. Get some rest.”
Rest.
Right.
The plane to Atlanta was half full. He sat by the window, staring at the clouds, his hands clenched in his lap the entire time.
Every time the engine shifted pitch or turbulence made the wings jostle, his stomach turned.
He didn’t think it was fear; instead, he thought it might be the absence of the flicker of fire he’d come to associate with Viper.
By the time he unlocked the front door to his apartment, the sun was low on the horizon. The place smelled faintly of dust and lemon cleaner; the cleaning lady must have come by while he was away.
He wandered inside like a stranger, each step that had once been so familiar now felt slightly off-kilter.
His bookshelves were in order, and the throw blanket was still folded on the couch.
His office was just as he’d left it, a half-written draft open on the screen, the blinking cursor waiting.
He leaned against the doorframe and stared at his desk for a long time.
He was home. Safe and alive, and it meant absolutely nothing.
The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was loud and suffocating. There were no boots in the hallway. No low, rough voice asking if he was okay. No coffee maker brewing military sludge or quiet snark traded over a battered kitchen table.
Viper isn’t here.
He’s never been here, so I can’t picture him here either.
He sat on the edge of his bed for hours, staring at the blank wall across from him. He tried music. He tried tea. He even tried pulling up a mindless show on TV, and nothing worked.
Eventually, he lay down and stared at the ceiling, trying to will himself to sleep. He lasted fifteen minutes before throwing off the blanket and sitting up again, his breathing ragged with frustration.
“This is bullshit,” he muttered to the empty room.
Because this wasn’t home anymore. It hadn’t been since the moment a black-clad operator had looked at him like he was more than just a stray academic in the wrong place. Since the moment he’d felt knuckles trail gently down his arm, something fierce and protective had settled over his heart.
Trace’s cabin wasn’t exactly a safehouse, but it was something. A tether to the man who had carried him through the fire—literally and otherwise. If he couldn’t be with Viper right now, he needed to be near something that still echoed with him.
Decision made, he stood and began moving on autopilot.
Packed a small duffel—clothes, toiletries, and the backup hard drive with all his field notes.
His body moved efficiently even while his heart thrummed unevenly in his chest. He laughed at himself as he left a note on the kitchen counter addressed to no one, just in case someone came looking for him or wanted to report him missing.
Then he grabbed his keys and locked the door behind him.