Silent Night (Agents of HIS #11)

One

Virginia, United States of America

Justin Franks had learned a long time ago that truth was a luxury—perception was survival. Perception got a man promoted. Perception got a man watched. And, when the wrong person decided you were easier to erase than to understand, perception got a man killed.

He’d learned that lesson in a motel room stinking of bleach and burned coffee. The target hadn’t drawn a weapon. Hadn’t run. He just sat on the edge of the bed, smiling like a man who already knew how every story ended.

Justin had pulled the trigger anyway.

Not because the man was innocent. Not because he was guilty.

By the time Justin was sent in, the decision had already been made somewhere above him, by someone who would never touch the consequences.

That was the moment he stopped believing that operations were about truth. They were about outcomes.

Justin blinked the memory away and focused on the present.

He’d lived in that gray long enough to know the rules. He’d also lived in it long enough to know Silent Night didn’t play by anyone’s rules but their own.

Silent Night didn’t just frame people; they vanished them. Precision and silence—clean removals, quiet deaths. These were former assets who had learned too much or dared to think for themselves. Curiosity was the only crime that ever mattered.

Now, the organization had turned its sights inward—one of their best marked for erasure, hunted with the same cold precision they once used to control the world from the shadows.

The SUV’s headlights swept across the gravel turnout as he eased to a stop and killed the engine. The night pressed in—cold, pine-scented, and so dense with quiet it made your instincts itch.

Virginia back roads stretched undisturbed—no streetlights, no accidental witnesses, just miles of darkness and the kind of secrecy that let monsters move unseen. It was the perfect stage for an ambush—or a reckoning.

Justin remained still for a moment, hands relaxed on the wheel, listening.

Nothing obvious caught the eye—no engines roaring, no boots crunching, and no animals in sight close enough to matter.

Still, he didn’t trust nothing.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. 02:17. He’d arrived early on purpose.

If Silent Night were watching, he wanted them to realize he had arrived early, before their script dictated. It was a subtle move, but small actions add up. Over time, these small moves could become powerful leverage.

He stepped out into the biting cold, quietly shut the door behind him, and pulled his jacket tighter as he fixed his gaze on the distant tree line. The facility loomed deeper within the woods, a dark, imposing silhouette against the night sky, and even from afar, he could sense its presence.

Not the building. The attention.

Justin adjusted his comm, resolve sharpening every movement as he started forward. His boots whispered over the packed earth—no flashlight, no unnecessary comfort. Light was a lure; comfort, a trap. He’d learned long ago that survival belonged to the wary, not the comfortable.

He moved through the trees with practiced ease—neither rushing nor lingering. Branches clawed at his coat, cold air stinging his lungs. The forest smelled of old needles, wet bark, and the faint metallic tang of something manmade—danger hiding under earth and memory.

A compound always left a lingering scent. Even when abandoned. Even when it was merely pretending to be.

The placement wasn’t accidental. It was remote enough to create isolation, yet close enough to keep a watchful eye on response times.

Not abandoned—curated abandonment.

Silent Night appreciated locations that once whispered of safety. People relaxed more easily in places that seemed abandoned than in those that felt threatening. A bunker kept you on edge. A decaying facility sparked curiosity.

Curiosity killed operatives more reliably than aggression ever did.

The training cadence mirrored a strategy he had glimpsed in classified documents—conditioning, pattern reinforcement, behavior shaping. It was the kind of program designed to cultivate assets and then meticulously conceal the blueprints.

If Silent Night was rebuilding it, they weren’t experimenting. They were refining.

That meant this wasn’t just a meeting point.

And Anya Morozov stood exactly where fate, enemy, and unfinished business wanted her—caught in the crosshairs of someone else's story, but never anyone's victim.

By the time he crested the first rise, he had already mapped out three possible sniper positions and five potential routes in and out, marking them instinctively—like some men might count steps on a staircase.

Charlie Team didn’t do sloppy work. Neither did Anya Morozov.

That thought lodged in his head and stayed there.

He’d seen her countless times—during briefings, on screens, in photographs taken from surveillance cameras and drones. Even in grainy stills, she exuded a cold confidence that made most people instinctively step back.

But photos never captured her essence. The real Anya was sharper—her presence more precise, her command effortless. She wielded silence like a scalpel, never wasting energy on intimidation—she didn’t need to.

Justin had encountered many dangerous women, but Anya wasn’t one to threaten with fear. She was dangerous simply because she didn’t care whether you were scared or not.

He crested the ridge and spotted her at the tree line—rifle steady, body poised. She wore the night like a second skin: unapologetic, fearless, not hiding or blending, but owning the darkness itself.

He paused behind a tree, his eyes sharp as he watched for a moment. Not out of curiosity or to spy, but because you never interrupt a predator mid-hunt—unless you’re eager to face its teeth.

He studied the line of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, and the deliberate rhythm of her breathing. She wasn’t tense like someone nervous—she was tuned in. A living, breathing precision instrument.

A sudden, unwelcome awareness washed over him—sharp and immediate. He recognized the discipline instantly. But it wasn’t military, nor federal. It was a program, carefully trained.

The stillness wasn’t about patience—it was calculated caution. The way she placed the rifle emphasized readiness over asserting dominance. She wasn’t aiming to control the area; she was silently observing, waiting for it to make the first mistake.

Justin felt something tighten in his chest. Someone had taught her to hunt people who thought they were safe. Which meant someone had once taught her she wasn’t.

Silent Night wasn’t just circling her. It had made her.

She looked like someone who’d been broken and reforged—eyes heavy with old battles, posture radiating a quiet strength built from surviving what should have shattered her. The weight she carried wasn’t just burden; it was proof she’d learned what she was capable of—and chosen to keep going anyway.

Her beauty was a force—like the edge of a blade, as captivating as a storm. It drew you in from a distance, dangerous and magnetic, daring you to come closer and risk being cut.

Justin exhaled, forcing his heartbeat steady—mission first, threat assessment second, everything else a distant third.

Mission. Threat. Silent Night had been leaving their symbol like breadcrumbs for weeks—the crescent moon bisected by a line showing up unexpectedly, always near HIS operations, always close to those who once believed they were safe behind walls and protocols.

And now it was close to Anya, which meant it was close to him, whether he wanted it or not.

His comm crackled. Devon Hamilton’s voice came through, low and clean.

“Franks. You in position?”

Justin hesitated, his gaze fixed on Anya as she subtly shifted in the shadows, her eyes locked on something lurking just beyond the compound’s edge.

“She’s here,” Justin said quietly.

“As expected,” Devon murmured, followed by the faint click of keys. Devon always surrounded himself with screens—a shield against chaos. Justin respected that: it took a different kind of courage to be the mind in a room full of weapons, standing firm in the storm.

“You’re there because Jesse wants eyes he trusts,” Devon said. “Not because he’s trying to make your life miserable.”

Justin let out a soft breath. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Devon ignored that. “We lost two more anomalies in the last forty-eight hours. Both from the prototype batch. Same extraction signature. Clean. Professional.”

Justin didn’t like that word.

“Anya’s name is on the same archive,” Devon continued. “We can’t reach Alexei. That leaves you.”

“So, you send the guy everyone suspects might switch sides,” Justin said, his voice clipped but lacking any real heat. He’d spoken harsher words to his own reflection.

Devon’s voice sharpened. “We send the guy who has survived the gray and came back still standing. And the guy who knows what it looks like when a trap is dressed up as an opportunity.”

“Why now?”

“Because someone resurrected the architect.”

Justin exhaled slowly, and a tight knot formed in his gut. “Sokolov.”

“Yes.”

Justin’s gaze stayed fixed on Anya. “She won’t like it.” There was a kind of admiration in his voice, a recognition that she’d fight fate itself before letting someone else write her ending.

“She doesn’t have to like it,” Devon replied. “She has to live.”

Justin didn’t miss the unspoken half of that sentence. And you’re the one we’re gambling can make sure she does.

Jesse never assigned protection details without layers. If Justin was there, it wasn’t just backup—it was a test. See who survived up close, and who was just good on paper.

It’s not about whether he could fight, but whether he could be trusted.

Silent Night wasn’t the only thing testing him tonight.

Justin rubbed his jaw and exhaled slowly. Fine. He’d never mastered living clean, but when danger lurked, he knew exactly where to stand.

He turned off the comm and stepped forward a few cautious strides, planning his approach with care.

He didn’t come from behind, where she might feel cornered, nor from the side, which could be mistaken for testing her boundaries.

He moved into her line of sight with just enough sound to be deliberate.