Chapter 12 Viper
VIPER
I never lose track of time, but during the second week of Kira’s stay, I realize I’ve been at my desk for nearly sixteen hours.
My monitors are cluttered with strings of encrypted messages, procurement memos, and digital breadcrumbs. There’s a dull ache behind my eyes and my back is stiff, but the pieces are finally starting to form a picture.
The web I’ve been unraveling is revealing its ugly, sprawling shape, and it’s more dangerous than the three of us assumed.
I lean back and flex my fingers. Dark ops. Of course it is.
Something worse than a clean federal conspiracy or a rogue politician.
A black cell operating inside DOD’s special activities center, where the commanders don’t sign anything, the operators don’t exist, and oversight is fiction.
Shadow programs need clean money, and that’s where Senator Vaughn fits in.
With his carefully cultivated public image and the community foundations bearing his name, he can launder profits from illicit arms sales while he hides behind his squeaky-clean reputation.
Money comes in from overseas buyers, gets funneled into shell foundations, then gets attached to initiatives Vaughn sells to the public with polished charm. From there, the funds flow into federal channels under the false pretenses of innovation, training, or research.
And Kira is likely the only innocent person who ever heard Vaughn discuss both sides of the machine. The only witness who can tie the two worlds together.
She’s an operational risk they’d need to remove before the wrong auditor, analyst, or overeager congressperson stumbles into the truth.
I hate being right about things like this.
“This situation is fucked, and I’m gonna unfuck it,” I mutter as I remove every bit of metadata and strip location signatures that could be traced back to the compound.
I re-route the latest packet of intel through three secure channels before passing it to two trusted federal contacts.
One of them is in cyber investigations, the other in a discreet oversight office tasked with internal corruption.
One piece at a time, I’m building a case big enough for federal prosecutors to want to keep Kira alive as a protected witness.
Once she’s tied to a federal corruption investigation, it becomes too risky for the dark ops group to take her out. I’m going to make her untouchable, one parcel of classified evidence at a time.
I’ve thrown governments off our trails before. This is no different.
Except it is. Because it’s her.
And she’s pregnant, I remind myself for the hundredth time.
On my way to the kitchen for sustenance, I encounter the woman herself. She’s carrying a basket of folded laundry that’s too heavy for someone recovering from an accident, not to mention pregnant.
Before I reach her, her foot snags on the edge of a rug. I grab her arms, catching her as the basket of laundry lands on the floor beside us.
“Oh!” She grips my forearms. “Sorry. That was graceful.”
I keep my hands on her elbows until she has her balance. “You good?”
She nods, her cheeks reddening. The flush of pink emphasizes the blue of her eyes. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Your body’s healing. You’re allowed to be off-balance.” I pick up the laundry and tuck the basket under my arm. “Meanwhile, stop carrying heavy things.”
She responds with a crooked little smile that catches me off guard.
Later, when I’m stacking firewood by the back porch, she appears again, dressed in her winter gear and acting like she’s reporting for duty. “What can I help with?” she asks.
When I try to wave her off, she gets that determined look in her eyes. The exact same look I’ve seen during morning briefings, when she asks us questions sharper than analysts I’ve worked with.
“I’m feeling much better,” she says, “and I want to do my part around here.”
“You already do.”
She shrugs off my protests and joins in, though I’m grateful when she lifts a piece that’s barely bigger than a twig. “See, I’m starting slow.” She smiles up at me like she’s proving a point.
“You shouldn’t be lifting anything.”
Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. “I know my limits. I’m not as helpless as you think.”
“I never said you were helpless.”
I keep a close eye on her as she proceeds to show me she does know her limits. She works cautiously and takes frequent small breaks. When I give her other things to do, like tying bundles with twine and sweeping loose bark to the side, she switches tasks without comment.
When we’re finished, she leans against the railing and takes a deep breath.
I nod to where she’s cradling her belly in her hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She looks down and smiles. “I felt the baby moving again.”
I don’t usually experience things like warmth or tenderness, but the hopeful look on her face tugs at my chest. “You talk about your baby like you already know them.”
“I feel like I do, in a way.” Her focus shifts to the distant treeline, and she’s silent for a minute, before saying, “I’m not just living for myself anymore. Everything I do affects my child.”
When I don’t say anything, she goes on. “I want my son or daughter to have a normal childhood. Friends. School. Maybe even a yard to play in. It can’t happen if I’m always looking over my shoulder.” She hesitates. “Do you think that’s possible? With everything that’s going on?”
I consider my answer carefully. “Yes,” I say, finally. “We’re going to make it possible.”
She kicks at a clump of snow with the tip of her boot. “You say that like it’s a fact.”
“It will be.”
When I glance at her a moment later, tears are sparkling in her eyes. Her voice wobbles, and my throat thickens. “Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For everything you’re doing behind the scenes. You’re the reason we have a plan, and I wouldn’t be alive without you. You’re risking a lot to do it, too.”
Before I can respond, she touches my arm with the tips of her fingers, and a jolt shoots through me.
It’s not lust, though I’m not immune to her beauty. To the ripe fullness of her hips. The soft swell of her breasts.
But what's hitting me now is something far more dangerous.
“You don’t owe me thanks,” I manage. “I’m just doing my job.”
She curls her fingers around the sleeve of my jacket. “You’re doing a lot for me, and I feel so much safer because of it.”
This woman is putting her trust in me with no hesitation.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I tell her, swallowing hard.
She pulls her hand back, looking hurt. “Do what?”
“Put your trust in someone so easily.”
She draws in a breath and meets my eyes again. “It isn’t easy,” she whispers. “Not anymore. But I still trust you.”
She looks at me for a few more seconds, chin up, proud. Finally, she turns and walks off, leaving me standing there with a shaky pulse as old instincts come roaring back to life. Not the violent ones that were trained into muscle memory, but the protective ones I buried after leaving the Corps.
There’s something about this woman. Her quiet dignity, her resilience, the fierce hopes she has for a child she hasn’t even met yet. She still has faith, even though fear would be more logical after what she’s been through.
All of it makes me want to be worthy of the trust she’s placed in me.
And that’s more terrifying than the enemy outside our walls.