13. Walt
THIRTEEN
Walt
The steady beep of monitors pulls me from the darkness. My chest feels like it’s been crushed in a vise, each breath a careful negotiation with pain. The sharp, antiseptic smell of the hospital permeates everything, mixing with the metallic scent of blood that still lingers in my nose. My tongue tastes copper and chemicals—remnants of surgery and intubation.
There are multiple people in the room—familiar breathing patterns of my team.
Someone’s drinking coffee—the rich aroma pushes back the sterile hospital air. It smells like Guardian Grind’s special roast. One of Malia’s signature drinks.
My heart clenches, remembering Malia behind the counter, the way she smiled as she brewed my ridiculous custom orders.
My eyes crack open to the fluorescent glare. Through the haze, I make out Doc Summers’ petite form beside my bed. Her dark hair is pulled back in its usual neat braid, her presence radiating that quiet strength I’ve always admired. Beyond her towers Forest, his massive frame nearly brushing the doorframe. The fluorescent lights catch his shock-white hair, those ice-blue eyes intent as he studies me.
“Welcome back,” Doc says softly, her gentle tone belying the steel I know lies beneath. Her small hand feels cool against my wrist as she checks my pulse. “How’s the pain?”
“Like I got shot,” I manage, trying for humor, but my voice comes out raw.
My throat feels like sandpaper. Ice chips appear in a small cup—Hank’s doing, always anticipating needs. The cold soothes my throat but does nothing for the burning in my chest.
“Twice,” she corrects, adjusting something in my IV. The cold rush of medication dulls the edges of the agony. “The shoulder wound was relatively clean. The chest shot…” She pauses, her dark eyes serious. “You were lucky. Half an inch to the left, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Lucky isn’t the word I’d use. Lucky would have been spotting the threat before they took her. Lucky would have been noticing how Malikai’s hands shook every time his phone buzzed. Lucky would have been protecting her like I promised her I would.
My teammates spread out around the room in defensive positions—old habits die hard. Ethan stands near the window, his posture alert despite hours of waiting. Blake and Rigel flank the door while Hank and Gabe occupy opposite corners. The usual playful energy between those two is gone, replaced by cold professionalism.
Memory slams back like a physical blow. Malikai trying to hand me something. Metal glinting in the parking lot lights before skittering away under the planter. The terror in his eyes when it fell.
“Wait!” I try to push myself up, ignoring the explosion of pain in my chest. The monitors shriek in protest as my heart rate spikes. “The parking lot—there’s something… Malikai tried to give me something right before they came. Small, metal. It fell under the planter. We have to?—”
“Easy,” Forest’s deep voice rumbles as his massive hand gently but firmly pushes me back down. The man’s like a mountain—immovable when he chooses to be. “You’re not going anywhere with those wounds.”
“You don’t understand,” I grit out, fighting against both his grip and the darkness threatening to pull me under. Sweat breaks out on my forehead from the effort. “No one knows about it. Whatever it was, he was terrified they’d get it. I have to go back…”
I catch the look Doc and Forest exchange. Something in their expressions sets off every alarm in my head. I’ve seen that look before—when they uncovered Townsend’s trafficking ring that took Jenna. One of nine pillars of evil, each headed by a Sentinel, all orchestrated by the phantom who’s haunted Guardian HRS since its inception: Malfor.
We took down Townsend, but he was just one head of the hydra. Eight Sentinels remain, each controlling their criminal empires. The thought churns my gut worse than the bullet wounds.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I look between them, noting how my teammates have gone still around the room’s perimeter. Even Hank and Gabe drop their usual swagger, their expressions grim. “You know something about why they took him.”
Rigel pushes off from the door. “Been running scenarios since your call. The targeting bears similarities to what happened with Mia.” His jaw tightens—we all remember how she was hunted after she uncovered deuterium thefts. How close we came to losing her.”
“Yeah, but how’s that related?” My mind’s still muddled with the aftereffects of anesthesia.
“Mitzy’s been digging while you were in surgery,” Doc Summers adds, pulling up data on her tablet. “She found a pattern we missed before. The Third Sentinel isn’t dealing in nuclear materials anymore. He’s systematically targeting quantum physicists.”
That catches my attention. “Malikai’s field of expertise.”
“Precisely.” Forest’s ice-blue eyes narrow. “According to Mitzy’s analysis, three research facilities have been hit in the past month. Each time, their lead physicist disappeared. In two of those cases,” he pauses, his expression grim, “family members were taken as leverage.”
My hands clench in the sheets. “Like Malia.”
“Seems the Third Sentinel’s evolved his game,” Rigel adds. “From stealing materials to acquiring the minds that could weaponize them.”
“Mitzy’s still investigating Malikai’s research,” Doc continues, “but preliminary analysis shows he made some kind of breakthrough in quantum tunneling effects three months ago.”
Three months.
When Malia said he changed. When he stopped talking about his work and started jumping at shadows.
“What kind of breakthrough?” I ask, though my gut churns with the probable answer.
“The kind that could revolutionize particle containment fields,” Forest says. “Or destabilize them. Mitzy’s working on the technical details, but if she’s right…”
“It’s exactly what the Third Sentinel would want,” I finish. The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. “Malikai refused to cooperate, so they took his sister.”
The monitors spike again as rage floods my system. The Third Sentinel. The same monster who hunted Mia, who’s now branching into something potentially even more devastating.
The monitors register my spike in heart rate, but I barely notice. All I can see is Malia’s face as they dragged her away. Another piece in Malfor’s grand design, executed through his Sentinels.
We’ve been hunting these bastards since they first surfaced. Nine pillars of organized crime, each specialized, each deadly. Townsend’s human trafficking operation was just one piece. The Third Sentinel’s nuclear ambitions are another. And still, Malfor stays hidden, orchestrating it all from the shadows.
What kind of man brings his sister to dinner knowing killers are hunting him?
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Doc Summers turns to Forest.”
“This isn’t about the abduction of a quantum physicist anymore.” Forest’s pale eyes turn serious.
“That’s what I’m thinking too,” she says. “Ever since Mia exposed Sentinel’s deuterium operation, the Third Sentinel shifted focus. He or she isn’t collecting nuclear materials anymore—they’re collecting the minds that can weaponize them.”
“And Malfor’s letting it happen,” Forest adds grimly. “The timing’s too perfect. Right after we shut down the Third Sentinel’s heavy water operation, they pivot to quantum fusion research. Fucking frustrating. It’s like Malfor is always three moves ahead.”
“What’s the endgame?” I ask, frustration making my voice rough. “First deuterium stockpiles, now quantum physicists?”
“Global destabilization,” she says quietly. “That’s what Mia suggested. But destabilization through controlled fusion? That’s a whole new level of threat.” Her voice carries quiet authority she wields like a blade. “What did this object look like?”
I force myself to focus past the pain, past the fury and guilt churning inside me. “Small. Metallic. Maybe a thumb drive or data chip? He was desperate to give it to me, kept reaching for his breast pocket all night…” The memory sharpens. “He checked that pocket every time his phone buzzed. Like he was making sure it was still there. I need to get back to that parking lot.” I start pulling at the IV in my arm, ignoring how the movement sends fire through my chest. “Whatever Malikai tried to give me, it’s important enough that he risked his sister’s life. Important enough that a Sentinel sent a hit team.”
“Walt.” Ethan steps forward, his expression grim. I’ve never seen him look so concerned. “You can barely sit up.”
“Then find me a wheelchair,” I growl. “I’m going back to that lot. Now.”
“You’ve lost too much blood,” Doc Summers interjects, her small hand surprisingly strong as she stops me from yanking out the IV. “The bullet in your chest barely missed your heart. You need time to heal.”
“Malia doesn’t have time!” The words tear from my throat, raw with desperation. “They’re using her to control him. You know what people like that do to their leverage when they’re done with it.”
A heavy silence falls. They all know exactly what happens to leverage that’s outlived its usefulness. I’ve seen too many missions end that way.
“I promised to protect her,” I continue, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Whatever Malikai was working on, whatever he tried to give me—it might be our only lead to finding her.”
Forest and Doc Summers exchange another look, having one of their silent conversations. Despite not being blood-related, they read each other like family. Finally, Forest nods.
“I’ll take a team back to the restaurant,” he rumbles. “We’ll tear that parking lot apart if we have to.”
“Mitzy’s already digging into Malikai’s research,” Doc adds, already typing on her tablet. “See what would interest a Sentinel enough to risk such a public grab.”
“Not good enough.” I force myself to sit despite the protestations of my body. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. “I need to be there. I saw exactly where it fell.”
“You’ll tear your stitches,” Doc Summers warns, but there’s resignation in her voice. She knows me well enough to know I won’t stay put. Not with Malia’s life on the line.
“Then you better come with us,” Forest says to his sister with a hint of approval in his ice-blue eyes. “Because he’s going whether we help him or not. We’re going to need someone to stop the bleeding when he pops those stitches.”
Ethan steps forward, already issuing orders to the team. Within minutes, they’ve procured a wheelchair and are helping me into it, careful of the tubes and wires. Each movement sends daggers of pain through my chest, but I welcome it.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, pain means I’m alive. I’ll never stop hunting for her as long as I’m alive.