Chapter 12 Asher
Chapter Twelve: Asher
We're in an industrial unit on the outskirts of Singapore, the kind of place that gets rented by the week and paid for in cash.
Concrete floors, metal walls, no windows, a single bare bulb casting harsh shadows across the faces of everyone gathered around the makeshift planning table.
The air conditioning rattles and groans, fighting a losing battle against the tropical humidity that seeps through every crack.
Weapons spread across every surface. Rifles, handguns, suppressors, flash bangs, combat knives, zip ties, medical kits. Enough firepower to start a small war. Which, in a way, is exactly what we're doing.
Jinx is beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush when he reaches for a magazine. The contact is grounding. A reminder of what we have. What we're fighting for.
"Extraction logistics." Jagger pulls up a map on his tablet.
The facility is marked in red, a sprawling compound that looks like a hospital from the outside.
Clean lines, manicured grounds, a sign out front that probably says something comforting about children's health.
The children's wing is highlighted in yellow, tucked into the eastern corner of the compound.
"Once we have the kids, we need to move fast. Every minute we're inside increases the chance of reinforcements.
Local police response time is eight minutes.
Private security backup is twelve. We need to be gone before either arrives. "
"How are we getting them out of the country?" Marlee asks. She's field-stripping a rifle, her fingers moving on autopilot, her eyes never leaving Jagger's face. "Forty? That's not exactly a subtle number. Even in a city this size, that many kids moving at once is going to draw attention."
"Private medical charter. Seletar Airport, north side of the island.
Small airfield, minimal security, mostly used for corporate flights and medical evacuations.
" Jagger zooms in on a cluster of hangars near the end of a single runway.
"The plane's already on the ground. A modified 737 with medical facilities.
Registered to a Swiss rehabilitation foundation called the Keller Institute.
The foundation doesn't actually exist, but the paperwork does.
Letterhead, board members, a decade of tax filings. Completely bulletproof."
"And the story?"
"We're transferring patients from a local facility to a specialized treatment center in Geneva.
Standard medical evacuation protocol. The paperwork shows these children were admitted to a private hospital here six months ago for various neurological conditions.
Now they're being moved to a facility better equipped to handle their needs. "
Marlee's hands pause on the rifle. "Forged documents for forty-ish children. That's not small-time work."
"Jonah's contact. The journalist. She has connections in customs, in medical licensing, in a dozen different government agencies.
People who owe her favors and don't ask questions.
" Jagger pulls up another image. A woman with sharp features, gray-streaked hair, eyes that have seen too much.
"Her name is Song. She's been building this network for fifteen years, waiting for a chance to use it against the people who took her daughter. Tonight's that chance."
"Her daughter?"
"One of the first to test the updated pits. Before they called it the Foundry. Before they had protocols." Jagger's voice goes flat. "Song never found out what happened to her. Never got a body to bury. She's been hunting them ever since."
The room goes quiet. Everyone here knows that kind of loss. Everyone here understands what drives a person to spend fifteen years building an underground network just for one night of vengeance.
"And if customs decides to look too closely?" Jinx asks.
"They won't. The foundation has a history.
Legitimate transfers, real patients, clean records going back a decade.
It's designed specifically for situations like this.
The kids will be sedated for transport. Medical necessity, documented by physicians on the foundation's payroll.
Anyone who checks will see unconscious children being moved for treatment, not trafficking victims being smuggled out of the country. "
The irony isn't lost on any of us. Using the Silent's own methods against them. Forged paperwork, shell organizations, sedated children moved across borders without questions. The only difference is the destination.
"Ground transport?" Jace asks. He's sitting apart from the group, sharpening a knife with slow strokes. The rasp of metal on stone is almost meditative, a counterpoint to the tension humming through the room.
"Two vans staged three blocks from the facility. Unmarked, medical plates, tinted windows. We load the kids, drive to Seletar, transfer to the plane. Wheels up within ninety minutes of breach. Once we're in international airspace, we're untouchable."
"And on the other end?"
"Elliot." Jagger's expression softens, just slightly.
The only crack in his professionalism. "He’s setting up a reception facility outside Geneva, an old boarding school that's been converted for our purposes.
Medical staff, therapists, security, everything these kids will need when they wake up.
It's isolated, defensible, and completely off the grid. "
When they wake up. Not if. Jagger's already thinking past the mission, past the extraction, to the aftermath. The long, slow process of undoing what the Silent has done to these children.
"What about the woman from the plane?" Jinx pushes off the wall, moves closer to the table. The marks on his neck are visible above his collar, purple and possessive. My marks. "The one who was watching us."
"Lost her at the airport." Marlee sets down the rifle, picks up a handgun, checks the chamber. "She cleared customs ahead of us and disappeared into the crowd. Either she knew we clocked her and ran, or she's reporting to whoever's running the facility."
"So they know we're coming."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Jagger closes the projection, plunging the room into dimness broken only by the single bulb.
"The source says Cross has been at the facility for three days.
She's not there because of us. She's there because of the children.
Whatever they're planning, whatever these kids are being prepared for, it's bigger than one extraction team. "
"Or it's a trap," Jinx says. "Like Geneva."
"Possibly." Jagger meets his brother's eyes, and something passes between them.
"But we've taken precautions. No electronic communication since we landed.
No predictable patterns. No contact with anyone outside this room.
And the source has been right about everything else.
The location, the security rotation, the number of children.
If she wanted to set us up, she's had plenty of chances. "
"I don't trust her."
"You don't have to trust her. You just have to trust the intel." Jagger checks his watch, a beat-up analog that can't be tracked or hacked. "We breach at 0200. That gives us four hours to prep, rest, and get into position. Questions?"
Silence.
"Then let's get to work."
The maintenance tunnel is exactly as bad as Jagger described.
Dark. Cramped. The ceiling so low I have to duck, spine bent at an uncomfortable angle, the walls close enough that my shoulders brush cold concrete on both sides.
The smell is a thick cocktail of sewage, industrial cleaner, and something else underneath.
Something organic. Rotting. The kind of smell that makes you breathe through your mouth and regret every choice that led you here.
Water drips somewhere in the darkness ahead. The sound echoes off the curved walls, disorienting, making it impossible to tell how far away the source is.
Jinx is ahead of me, moving through the darkness with ease. His body is a shadow among shadows, rifle up, every step silent despite the uneven ground. The night vision in his tactical goggles turns his eyes into glowing circles when he glances back at me. Behind us, Jace and Marlee cover our six.
We've been underground for fifteen minutes. It feels like hours.
"Checkpoint one," Jagger's voice crackles in my ear, soft and distant. "You should see an access hatch in twenty meters. Utility junction. That's your entry point to the facility's lower level."
The hatch materializes out of the darkness. Rusted metal, bolted to the ceiling, a faded maintenance code stenciled on the surface in yellow paint that's flaking with age. Jinx stops beneath it, tilts his head back to examine the lock.
"Padlock. Old. Shouldn't be a problem." He looks at me. "On your go."
I nod. Pull out the bolt cutters, position them around the rusted shackle. The metal is cold and slick with condensation. The lock gives way with a dull snap that sounds impossibly loud in the confined space. The echo bounces down the tunnel behind us, announcing our presence to anyone listening.
We wait. Counting seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Listening for alarms, footsteps, the distant shout of guards who heard something they shouldn't have.
Nothing. Just the drip of water and the hammer of my own pulse.
Jinx reaches up and pushes the hatch open. It swings upward with a groan of protesting hinges, rust flaking down into his face. He doesn't flinch. Just squints against the debris and waits for it to settle.
The space above is dimly lit. Red emergency lighting, the kind that runs all night in facilities like this. Standard protocol. Easier on the eyes of night staff, harder for intruders to navigate.
Jinx is through in one fluid motion, pulling himself up and disappearing into the space above. A moment later, his hand reaches down, pale in the red light.
"Clear. Move."