Three #2
Anya circled the vehicle once anyway, checking the undercarriage and rear bumper before opening the passenger door.
Justin slid behind the wheel.
The engine turned over quietly, but he didn’t pull onto the road right away.
Anya noticed. “You’re waiting.”
“Listening.”
The SUV idled beneath the trees. After a tense pause, he carefully eased it onto the road, its headlights remaining dark for the first hundred yards.
Justin could sense her watching him from the passenger seat. He kept his eyes on the road.
Most operators drove the same way they fought their battles, with aggressive, reactive moves, constantly re-adjusting their line. Justin, however, took a different approach. Years in the gray had taught him a vital lesson: by controlling the pace, he could dictate the outcome.
The road curved sharply between the trees.
He slowed slightly.
“You know this road,” Anya said.
“I drove it earlier.”
“You memorized it.”
Justin didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
She studied him for another moment. “You plan exits before you need them.”
“That surprises you?”
“No.”
Her tone stayed even. “It concerns me.”
Justin glanced at her briefly. “And yet you got in the car.”
“That was also tactical.”
“Of course it was.”
Silence settled again as the SUV wound through the mountain road. Anya rested her rifle across her knees. “They knew Alexei wasn’t here.”
Justin didn’t look at her. “Yes.”
“They wanted to see what that did to me.”
The tires hummed quietly against the pavement.
Justin kept his eyes forward. “And?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Then, “They saw.”
Justin nodded once. “Good.”
Her gaze shifted toward him. “That doesn’t sound like sympathy.”
“It isn’t.”
The road climbed toward a low ridge. Beyond it lay the valley where Site Bravo waited.
Justin checked the mirror again. He did it every thirty seconds out of habit. Or maybe survival.
“You check your six a lot,” Anya said.
“Habit.”
“Or paranoia.”
He shrugged. “In my experience, the difference is mostly academic.”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned back slightly in the seat.
For the first time since they left the facility, the rifle resting across her knees shifted from being braced for action to settling against the door.
Justin noticed.
The silence in the SUV shifted, a delicate thread of tension hinting at possibilities.
Justin adjusted his grip on the wheel, steady, controlled—
—and felt her shift beside him. Not toward the door. Toward him. Subtle. Barely there.
Her knee brushed his as the SUV took the curve, contact brief but unmistakable. Neither of them moved to correct it.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. But his hand tightened on the wheel—just enough to betray that he’d felt it.
So had she.
The contact lingered for half a second longer than it should have.
Then the road straightened. And the space between them returned.
It wasn’t trust—not yet. But it was the first flicker of something more—a fragile spark in the dark, daring both of them to imagine what it might become.
Ahead, the road curved toward the small town where Site Bravo waited.
Justin increased the speed slightly.
The mission had just changed.
And if Silent Night thought the trap at the facility had given them answers, they were about to learn that the hunt worked both ways.
Site Bravo, a quaint veterinary clinic, might not have turned heads with its appearance, but that was precisely why Jesse Hamilton found it appealing. The cracked parking lot, the sign hanging by a thread, and the porch light flickering with a mysterious charm all added to its unique allure.
The interior had undergone a dramatic transformation into a bustling temporary command center.
Monitors lined the reception desk, displaying a flurry of activity, while radio equipment had taken over the space once filled with pamphlets on livestock care, creating a hub of communication and coordination.
Devon sat behind three laptops at once, fingers flying across the keyboards.
Charlie Team occupied the waiting area.
Charlie Two, Nate “Ice” Maguire, leaned back in a chair that looked ready to tip over at any moment.
When Justin passed him, he grinned. “Well, look who survived.”
Anya walked silently past him without slowing.
“That her?” Charlie Two asked.
Justin stopped, and Anya continued past him as if she wasn’t being spoken about.
Justin nodded. “That’s her.”
Ice’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard stories.”
Justin raised an eyebrow. “Stories?”
“Two kilometers,” he said.
Justin waited.
“Mountain pass in Kazakhstan. Counterterror op. Wind gusting sideways hard enough to knock rifles off target.” Ice shook his head. “She hit three moving targets in under ten seconds.”
Justin crossed his arms. “You were there?”
Ice shook his head. “No. But the guys who were still talking about it like they saw a ghost. They say you don’t hear the shot first.”
Justin frowned slightly. “What do you hear?”
Ice’s mouth curved faintly. “Nothing,” he said. “Because if you hear the shot…it means she wasn’t aiming at you.”
Justin looked at Anya’s retreating back and noticed the slight shift in her posture.
He had worked with some of the best operators in the world. Very few ever earned the kind of respect that turned into myth.
Anya Morozov had.
And somehow that fact didn’t make him feel safer. It made him wonder who had trained someone capable of becoming that precise. Because people didn’t become weapons like that on their own.
Justin nodded at his team and moved toward someone who intrigued him both professionally and personally—a lethal combination in his world.
Jesse stood near the center of the room with a tablet in one hand and coffee in the other. “Report.”
Justin delivered it cleanly. “Two hunters engaged inside the facility. Professional operators. They withdrew after confirming Morozov’s presence.”
Jesse’s eyes flicked to Anya.
She nodded once.
“Facility then activated lockdown protocols. Cameras, ventilation, sealed exits.”
Devon turned one of the monitors toward them. “That matches what I’m seeing. Power surge from the building’s internal grid.”
Justin folded his arms. “They weren’t trying to kill us.”
Ice slammed his chair legs down and raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”
“They were studying us,” Justin said.
Silence settled over the room.
Anya spoke next. “Training exercise.”
Jesse nodded slowly. “That means the program isn’t dead.”
Devon typed rapidly. “I’ve been digging through dormant traffic channels.”
A map appeared on the monitor, showing Eastern Europe and the Caucasus region.
“Two years ago, a ghost procurement network began moving biometric hardware and tactical sensors through shell companies,” Devon said.
Ice leaned forward. “That sounds expensive.”
“It is.”
Another screen popped up. A photo from a file. Stern face. Scar above one eyebrow. Name underneath: SERGEY ANTONOV.
Justin studied the image. “Prototype.”
Devon nodded. “Former Silent Night trainee. Disappeared years ago.”
Anya stepped closer. “Where is he now?”
Devon zoomed the map. Georgia—the country. Mountainous terrain. Remote villages. “Last signal came from here.”
Ice whistled softly. “That’s a long drive.”
“Or a short flight,” Jesse said.
Everyone looked at him.
Justin already knew what was coming. “You’re thinking strike.”
Jesse nodded.
“If Silent Night is reactivating former program assets, Antonov is a thread worth pulling.”
Ice stood. “I love pulling threads.” Charlie Two snapped his pistol magazine into place.
Charlie Three began packing equipment.
Justin looked at the map again. Mountain village. One road in. One road out. Perfect place for an ambush.
“Antonov isn’t the real target,” Anya said quietly.
“No,” Justin agreed.
“He’s bait.”
Jesse’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe.”
Ice grinned. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Justin turned back to Jesse. “You want Charlie Team?”
“Yes.”
“And Morozov?”
Jesse glanced at her. “She goes.”
Anya didn’t blink. “I was going anyway.”
Jesse almost smiled. “You deploy in forty minutes.”
Charlie Team sprang into motion, gear bags snapping open, weapons checked in a flurry of precise, practiced movements.
Devon began compiling intel packets.
Justin remained at the map. Anya stepped beside him. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she tapped a ridge overlooking the village. “They’ll put a counter-sniper here.”
Justin nodded. “Good position.”
“You’ll send someone.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him. “Who?”
Justin met her eyes. “You.”
Ice groaned from across the room. “Oh, good. The scary sniper gets the mountain again.”
Anya ignored him.
Justin studied the terrain.
Silent Night had begun this game. But now they had something else—a new direction. Antonov. Georgia. And the increasing certainty that someone had rebuilt the program from scratch.
Justin picked up the mission folder and looked at his team. “Intel brief in five. Forty minutes until departure.”
Ice slung a rifle case over his shoulder. “I hate flying.”
Anya and Justin took the intel packets from Devon, settling at the table—leaning in, eyes scanning, every muscle ready for what came next. They wouldn’t go in blind. Not again.
Because whatever Silent Night had started in that abandoned facility, the game was still on—and this time, they weren’t just pawns. They were coming for the players behind the board.