Chapter 12 Jennifer
JENNIFER
Prague has always felt like a city suspended between centuries, where the cobblestone streets and gothic spires refuse to let the present bury the past. Tonight that weight presses down harder than usual.
The lamps glow too dim, the shadows stretch too long, and I can’t shake the sensation that every uneven stone under my boots remembers secrets I haven’t yet uncovered.
I keep my collar up against the wind, one hand tucked inside my coat where the cold steel of a concealed Glock rests like reassurance.
The intel I followed here came fast, almost too fast, a chain of whispers that ended with the promise of a meeting with a man who used to be buried deep in Thorne Strategic’s inner circle.
Vega had warned me there were more like him: disillusioned, discarded, or simply too frightened to keep their mouths shut. This one, he said, had more to lose than most, which meant he might be desperate enough to talk.
The café is quiet when I slip inside, the kind of place tourists overlook, its chipped walls and mismatched chairs holding the kind of anonymity that makes dangerous conversations possible.
The smell of bitter coffee and wet wool lingers in the air, and the only sound comes from the hum of an old espresso machine.
He’s already there.
Mid-forties, sharp cheekbones, a week’s worth of stubble, eyes darting too fast between the door and the window. He sits hunched in the far corner, his coat buttoned to his throat like he expects a bullet any second.
I cross the room and slide into the chair opposite him, lowering my hood so he can see exactly who came to collect.
“Mr. Novak,” I say.
His gaze flickers, sharp with suspicion. “You shouldn’t use names here.”
“Then call me what you like. But we both know why I’m here.”
He glances at the door again, then leans closer. His voice is low, rough from years of cigarettes. “You think Thorne only builds weapons for men in deserts and jungles. You think his empire is built on profit and warlords. You don’t know the truth of it.”
I keep my tone steady. “Then tell me.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing as if weighing whether I’m strong enough to carry what he’s about to say. Then he exhales, a shudder that rattles all the way down to his hands.
“He funds soldiers, yes. Trains them, equips them. But not all of them are men.”
The words slide across the table like ice.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not human,” he says flatly. “Not all. He builds paramilitary units out of them. Shifters. Wolves, lions, bears. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. They fight harder, heal faster, obey without question because they know he is stronger than all of them.”
The café feels smaller all of a sudden, the walls closing in with the weight of what I already suspected. The memories of the lab rush back. Those bodies in glass tanks, twisted shapes caught between human and something else. My pulse picks up, but I keep my voice even.
“You worked with them?”
“I arranged shipments, signed papers that moved weapons from one country to another. But the real shipments were always people. Thorne’s projects are not just about selling rifles.
He’s building armies that no government can stand against. I left because I saw what he plans.
He will not stop at warlords. He will not stop at mercenaries. He is consolidating.”
“Consolidating what?”
“Power,” Novak says. “The kind of power no one man should hold.”
His hands tremble as he pulls a folded piece of paper from his coat, sliding it across the table. Coordinates. A name. A date.
I tuck it into my pocket without breaking eye contact.
“You know he’ll come for you now,” I say.
“He already has,” Novak answers with a grim smile. “The only reason I’m alive is because I move too fast to pin down. But I won’t be alive much longer, not once he knows I talked to you. That’s why you need to leave this city before it’s too late.”
I rise slowly, pulling enough cash from my pocket to cover the untouched coffees. “Then you’d better keep moving, Mr. Novak. Because if you’re right, he’s already watching both of us.”
He doesn’t argue. He only nods once, bitter, and then slips out the side door without looking back.
I leave by the front, walking quickly into the night air, the paper burning against my leg like a live coal.
Back at the hotel, I don’t bother with lights.
I sit on the edge of the bed, laptop open, secure VPN running, and begin drafting the report.
Every detail Novak shared, every line of coordinates, every whisper about paramilitary shifters goes into the file.
My fingers fly across the keys, the rhythm a drumbeat against the silence of the room.
When it’s finished, I encrypt the report, layer upon layer, then send it through the DOJ’s hidden channels, the same system I used before. My chest loosens when the confirmation pops up. The file is away.
I lean back, rubbing my eyes, telling myself it’s progress even if it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
Then the confirmation vanishes.
I sit up straight, staring at the screen as if blinking will bring it back. The message isn’t there. The file isn’t there. The system refreshes itself to a blank screen, clean as though nothing happened.
My throat tightens.
I whisper the name I’ve been carrying like a curse. “Thorne.”
I shut the laptop, shove it into my bag, and pace the room. The street outside is quieter than it should be, the sounds of Prague muted as though someone drew a veil over the city. I grab my jacket, ready to move, because every instinct tells me staying in one place is suicide.
The knock comes before I can reach the door.
Soft, deliberate.
I freeze, hand hovering over the Glock. Another knock, heavier this time.
“Room service,” a voice calls in Czech.
I didn’t order anything.
My hand tightens on the gun. “Not interested,” I shout.
Silence. Then the door explodes inward, the chain snapping like thread.
Three men rush in, dressed in black, faces covered, movements precise.
The first grabs my arm, the second my throat, the third kicks the Glock across the floor before I can raise it.
I fight, elbow sharp, knee driving into ribs, teeth bared in fury, but they’re trained and fast, their grips unyielding.
“Easy,” one hisses in accented English, his breath hot against my ear. “We only need you alive.”
I spit at him, twisting hard, but the second clamps a cloth over my mouth, the chemical sting filling my lungs before I can hold back.
The room spins, the floor tilting beneath me.
The last thing I hear before darkness swallows me is the sound of the door shutting, calm and final.