Fourteen
The steel door locked with surgical precision—too clean, too swift, the kind of closure that meant someone was orchestrating every move.
Anya sprinted into the west corridor, boots pounding, Justin a breath behind.
Charlie Team fanned out, forming a tight, lethal line along the stone passage.
The tunnel coiled like a vein through the mountain’s spine—close, claustrophobic, every sound amplified.
Overhead, electrical conduits snaked in tight bundles, humming with the threat of power and secrets buried deeper still.
This corridor was crafted with purpose—built by someone who knew it would be tested under fire, every inch a fuse waiting for the spark.
Anya ran her hand along the sealed steel, the chill biting into her skin. Robust, reinforced—built to withstand assault. Magnetic locking bolts lined the frame, a fortress meant to keep secrets and enemies alike.
“They triggered it remotely,” Justin said.
“Yes.” She stepped back, studying the hinges, the lock plate, and the surrounding rock.
Orlov and Irina didn’t linger to claim victory in the fight. Instead, they remained just long enough to ensure the door slammed shut behind them.
Ice crept up from behind the stack, flexing his forearm where Irina’s blade had kissed skin. Blood trickled, but his voice was steady. “Breaching?”
Justin looked at Anya. “Thoughts?”
She crouched beside the door, fingers tracing the cold metal, searching for the secrets hidden beneath. “No external keypad,” she said. “No manual override.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the system controlling this door isn’t here.”
Ice glanced back toward the server chamber. “Back in the core?”
“Most likely.”
Justin exhaled slowly. “And if we reopen it from there?”
Anya looked down the corridor again. “You’re assuming the archive is still behind this door.”
“You think they moved it?”
She shook her head. “No. They’re still moving it.”
Antonov’s voice came from behind them. “That door leads to the staging vault.”
Every head turned to the man.
Justin motioned for him to step forward. “Define staging.”
Antonov swallowed once before answering. “Temporary storage. Physical backups. Data drives waiting for transfer.”
Anya straightened. “Transfer to where?”
Antonov’s mouth tightened. “Sokolov’s main facility.”
Justin’s eyes hardened. “Which is where?”
Antonov hesitated.
Ice stepped closer. “You’re running out of reasons to stall.”
Antonov raised both hands slightly. “I don’t know the exact location.”
It was obvious Justin didn’t believe him.
Anya did, not out of trust in Antonov, but because she knew Sokolov would never risk revealing such sensitive information. “He doesn’t know,” she declared with certainty.
Justin studied her for a moment before nodding. “Fine.” He turned back to the door. “Options.”
Frosty spoke first. “Explosive breach.”
Anya shook her head immediately. “That risks the archive.”
“Thermal cutter?” Gucci suggested.
“Too slow.”
Ice tapped the metal plate with his knife hilt. “Manual mechanical breach?”
Justin frowned slightly. “Meaning?”
Ice pointed to the hinges. “These bolts aren’t external. But the hinges are.”
Anya crouched down, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in for a closer look.
Ice was right.
Beneath modern electronics, old-school engineering lurked—a testament to Sokolov’s faith in both technology and steel. These hinges were built for war.
She stood again. “It will take time.”
Justin nodded once. “How long?”
“Ten minutes if we’re lucky.”
He glanced back toward the server chamber. “Orlov bought them at least that much already.”
Charlie Team shifted positions automatically, forming a defensive perimeter around the corridor entrance.
Justin looked at Ice. “You’re on the hinges.”
Ice flashed a sly grin. “Quiet jobs have always been my thing.” He knelt, multitool working the metal seam—fingers quick, tension humming, every second a countdown.
The corridor fell silent again.
Anya slipped back to the chamber entrance—every sense razor-sharp as she took up a defensive position, eyes locked on the tunnel mouth where Orlov and Irina had vanished.
Justin stepped beside her. “You think they’re gone?”
“For now.”
“Meaning?”
“They’ll come back if the archive stays.”
He followed her gaze into the dark passage. “Because Sokolov wants those records erased.”
“Yes.”
Justin glanced back toward Antonov. “And you’re sure this vault contains prototype files?”
Antonov nodded. “Everything they kept from the early program.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Everything.
Anya felt something tighten in her chest.
Justin noticed.
“You want to see them.” Not a question.
She kept her eyes on the tunnel. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She didn’t look at him as she answered. “Because I want to know what they wrote about us.”
Justin didn’t respond immediately. Then quietly said, “You might not like the answer.”
“I already don’t.”
Ice’s voice cut across the corridor. “Five minutes.”
The steel bolts were already loosening.
Good. Desperation meant cracks, and cracks could be broken wide open.
But the mountain around them felt too still.
Anya shifted her stance slightly.
Justin noticed. “You hear something?”
“Not yet.”
He didn’t like that answer.
Neither did she.
Because when the hunters were close—
You usually heard them.
A subtle tremor ran through the soles of her boots—a distant metal-on-rock echo, the first warning that the hunt had begun.
Justin felt it too. “Tunnel.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
She shut her eyes for a moment, tuning into the world around her. A single step echoed, followed by a pause. Then came another step, this one with a distinct, varied rhythm. “Two.”
Justin keyed his comm immediately. “Contact inbound.”
Charlie Team snapped into tighter positions along the corridor walls.
Ice kept working the hinge bolts without looking up. “Three minutes.”
Anya adjusted her rifle and centered the scope on the dark tunnel mouth.
Justin crouched beside her. “Orlov again?”
“Yes.”
“And Irina.”
“Most likely.”
Justin’s voice lowered slightly. “They’re not here to win.”
“No.”
“They’re here to delay.”
“Yes.”
Which meant something worse was happening somewhere else. Something involving the archive.
Ice’s final bolt came free with a soft metallic click. “One minute.”
The footsteps echoed with an undeniable presence, each one resonating louder than the last.
Justin shifted closer, just enough to close the gap between them, his shoulder brushing hers as he adjusted his angle to cover the corridor’s blind edge.
His hand came up briefly, steadying against the stone beside her—but not quite touching.
Not quite. Close enough that she felt the intent.
Close enough that if she moved, she’d lean into it.
She didn’t look at him. But she didn’t move away either. Instead, she adjusted her stance by a fraction, aligning with him—same sightline, same breath, same timing.
Two operators.
One firing line.
Then the shadow moved—
Orlov emerged from the shadows, presence undiminished despite the crimson bloom on his shoulder—a wound from Justin’s shot, but he moved like pain was just a theory. Irina followed, eyes sharp, clocking the door, Ice, and then Anya. She flashed a faint, dangerous smile. “Too late.”
Justin rose from his crouch. “Maybe.”
Orlov tilted his head slightly. “You’re persistent.”
Justin lifted his weapon. “You’re in the way.”
Orlov glanced toward the door. “Of history.” Then he fired.
The corridor erupted into chaos. Suppressors roared, gunfire sparking as bullets ricocheted off steel. Charlie Team moved as one—precision bursts, relentless hunters forced back, every shot a declaration.
Anya fired once.
Orlov darted sideways, the round whizzing past his head, grazing the stone with chilling proximity. Swift. Relentlessly swift. Yet, he knew it wouldn’t remain so forever.
Ice slammed the final hinge free. “Door’s loose!” The words crackled like a starting gun.
Justin seized the steel edge with determination and yanked it sideways. The massive panel ripped away with a deafening screech of metal. Behind it—
The vault—rows of sealed crates, hard drives in shock-proof cases guarding digital gold. Paper files packed tight in bins. Three metal cabinets loomed, Cyrillic labels spelling PROGRAM ARCHIVE. The secrets were finally within reach.
Anya stepped inside.
Justin right behind her.
Charlie Team held the corridor.
Orlov’s fire intensified.
Irina’s pistol snapped in quick, precise shots aimed at Ice and Frosty.
They were desperate now.
Good.
Anya strode to the nearest cabinet, heart pounding. She flung the door open—folders jammed the shelves, names lost to shadows, numbers coded with power, photographs freezing moments, training reports detailing obsession. Her fingers skimmed the spines and landed, finally, on one file.
The photograph staring back at her was unmistakable. Alexei. Age sixteen. Eyes colder than she remembered. Below it—
SUBJECT: MOROZOV, ALEXEI
STATUS: UNCONTROLLED VARIABLE
Her grip tightened on the folder—knuckles white, pulse pounding.
Justin looked over her shoulder. “That’s not the label they wanted.”
“No.”
She pulled another file. Her young face looked back at her from the photograph.
SUBJECT: MOROZOV, ANYA
STATUS: PROGRAM DEVIATION
Anya felt the room tilt—no shock, just the bitter clarity that none of them had ever been triumphs. They were always the mistakes Sokolov wanted to erase.
Justin opened another cabinet. His expression changed immediately.
“What?”
He handed her the file.
SUBJECT: PIERCE
STATUS: TERMINATION ORDER
Her pulse stopped for half a second.
Pierce.
The room suddenly seemed very quiet. Even with gunfire echoing down the corridor. Like Alexei, she had convoluted memories of Pierce.
Justin’s voice was low. “They were hunting him too.”
Anya stared at the file. “He didn’t die in the explosion.”
“No.”
Justin looked toward the corridor. “He was running.”
Gunfire ripped through the corridor again—closer, fiercer, the kind that meant even the desperate would fight for what they feared losing most.
Ice shouted from outside. “They’re pushing!”
Anya closed the file.
Sokolov didn’t just resurrect Silent Night; he’d turned it into a purge. No prototype, no failure, no survivor was safe.
Her.
Alexei.
Pierce.
Justin.
Charlie Team.
Everyone connected.
She looked up at Justin. “This isn’t cleanup.”
“No.”
“It’s extermination.”
Orlov’s voice echoed from the tunnel again. “You understand now.”
Anya lifted her rifle. “Yes.”
Justin turned back toward the corridor. “Charlie Team.”
The answer came instantly. “Ready.”
Justin’s eyes hardened. “Let’s make this archive survive. If Sokolov wants history erased, we’ll write the ending ourselves.”
Because if Silent Night’s history stayed buried—
Sokolov won.
Anya Morozov had finished letting men like Sokolov write the story. This time, she was taking the pen—and aiming it straight at his heart.