Chapter 34 Viper
VIPER
After Vaughn’s press conference, the compound seems to operate at its usual rhythm. Except it doesn’t.
The three of us stay on top of Sentinel projects throughout the week. Alongside that work, I gather intel and feed selected pieces to the appropriate channels. The routines hold, but something’s off kilter.
Nothing obvious. Not some soap-opera mess. Only a shift in familiarity that changes the temperature.
At breakfast, Kira moves through the kitchen wearing one of Andrew’s old hoodies. The big sleeves are pushed up to her forearms, and her hair is twisted up the way it is when she works around the stove.
Boyd stands behind her at the counter, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, the other spread over the curve of her belly like it belongs there.
Andrew comes in from outside and kisses her, like it’s the simplest thing in the world to lower his mouth to hers, linger, then brush his knuckles over her cheek before he heads back out.
She smiles after him. Not overly bright. Natural.
My chest constricts like a muscle cramp.
Protective instincts, I tell myself for the hundredth time.
The lie isn’t working this week.
It isn’t the threat outside the fence that has me watching the room from the shadows. It’s the way Andrew’s hand sets at the small of her back, and the way Boyd runs his fingers through her hair. The way she leans into both of them like she’s found the kind of comfort she’d been starving for.
But the worst part isn’t the jealousy.
It’s the assumption.
The one that sits in the air, unspoken. They all made space for each other, and now I can simply … fall in line.
I refuse to be an accessory.
I do even worse with wanting to be one.
So I bury myself beneath the clean certainty of intel. Monitors, encrypted channels, time stamps. This world never asks how I feel, only whether I’m right.
I have three active threads this morning.
One, a regional scanner feed and social chatter, filtered for anything that even resembles Kira’s name, description, vehicle, or the senator.
Two, federal contacts who want me to hand them the whole damn thing neatly wrapped in a bow, so they can march it into a courtroom.
Three, keeping the first two from ever touching the mountain.
A secure call comes in on a channel that doesn’t exist on paper, and I accept it. “Go.”
“You’re feeding us crumbs, Mercer.”
They only use my real name when they want something. “Crumbs are what keep you alive. If I give you the whole loaf, you’ll choke on it.”
“Funny. We’re not laughing.”
“I’m not trying to entertain you.”
Paper rustles on the other end. Impatient bureaucracy from a man who thinks authority is the same thing as competence.
“Your ‘missing fiancée’ situation is turning into a media narrative,” he says. “Local agencies are treating her as a mental health missing person. Not protective custody. Not witness handling.”
My jaw locks. I’ve watched the footage countless times. I’ve reviewed it frame by frame.
Preston Vaughn at a podium with watery eyes and a tremor in his voice that was almost believable. A detective at his shoulder, lending credibility. A clean, soft story: pregnant bride, overwhelmed, unstable, vanished.
“He’s shaping the battlefield,” I say.
“That’s what we’re saying.” The contact’s voice turns colder. “If we can’t classify her correctly, our ability to protect her through official channels is compromised. We need something actionable, something we can prosecute. Names. Accounts. Shipping paths.”
“You’ll get what you need. Not what you want.”
He draws in a breath. “You’re obstructing.”
“I’m controlling exposure.”
“Your exposure isn’t the priority.”
My fingers tighten on the edge of the desk. “You don’t get to define my priorities.”
Silence. Then, “We’re running out of time.”
“So am I,” I say, and end the call.
Afterward, I sit staring at the dark reflection of my own eyes in the monitor.
Contained. Controlled.
Hard to read, like she said.
Because if anyone saw what was actually happening under my ribs, it would get used against me.
Or worse, against her.