Sixteen
The safe house was alive: coffee brewing sharp and rich, antiseptic stinging the air, damp earth pressing in from the wild outside. Every breath tasted like aftermath and the promise of more trouble.
Justin knew the combo meant two things: the mission had gone sideways—and against all odds, they were still breathing. That was victory, for now.
Five miles from the collapsed village, the mountain lodge hid under pine and stone, invisible to satellites and strangers. Outside, it looked abandoned—rotting shutters, a warped porch, frost crawling up cracked glass. A perfect cover for a war room.
Inside, it was all HIS—hard lines, humming tech, weapons and paranoia in the walls.
Portable servers hummed on the crowded table, weapons stacked in neat, lethal rows along the wall. Tactical maps glowed on three screens—Devon’s remote connection turning the lodge into a nerve center, every pixel pulsing with urgency.
Charlie Team moved with silent, focused purpose—no celebration, just the muscle memory of people who survived by always being ready for the next fight.
Ice placed the archive case on the table and unlatched it.
Justin watched the hinges open, every nerve on edge—like a man eyeing a bomb whose timer he couldn't read.
Because, in a way, that’s exactly what it was—one wrong move and the whole world could go up.
Across the room, Anya leaned at the counter, sleeves rolled, cleaning her rifle with the kind of mechanical precision that said she was holding herself together one piece at a time. She hadn’t said much since the mountain, but her silence was louder than most people’s shouting.
It wasn’t unusual. But it was never comfortable. Not for him. Not for anyone who knew what silence cost her.
Justin turned back to the table. “Devon.”
Static flickered once before the Hamilton brother’s voice came through the speaker. “I’m here.”
“Tell me this wasn’t a waste of three hours and a collapsing mine.”
Keys clacked rapidly in the background. Devon always sounded like he lived inside a keyboard. “Depends,” he said calmly. “Did you bring the drives?”
Ice lifted one of the hardened cases. “Got four.”
“Then no,” Devon replied. “Not a waste.”
Justin stepped back as Ice connected the first drive—everyone in the room holding their breath for what would appear.
The screen flickered, and rows of encrypted files appeared suddenly.
Even from across the room, Justin’s eyes locked onto the screen—personnel files, op logs, training blueprints. Every secret Sokolov thought he’d buried was staring them in the face.
Antonov sat at the end of the table under Frosty’s watchful eye, hands finally free but posture rigid—the kind of caution you wore when you knew you weren’t the most dangerous person here. His eyes flicked to the screen, then away.
“Recognition?” Justin asked him.
Antonov nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Ice glanced over. “Good news or bad?”
Antonov gave a dry laugh. “That depends on who you ask.”
Justin pulled up the first open directory—Program Evaluation Files. He scrolled through the list: names, numbers, psychological deviation reports, kill directives. His jaw tightened as he absorbed the details.
Sokolov hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said he wanted the prototypes erased. He’d been methodical.
“Devon,” Justin said quietly.
“Yes?”
“How many names are on these lists?”
Keys clacked again, then halted. The silent pause that followed stretched longer than Justin preferred. “More than expected,” Devon finally remarked.
“How many?” Justin persisted
“Forty-two.”
The room froze—every heartbeat a question, every answer loaded with danger. Even the air felt like it was waiting for someone to flinch.
Ice blinked. “Forty-two what?”
“Forty-two prototypes.”
Justin leaned back slightly. “Antonov.”
The Russian looked up reluctantly. “Yes.”
“You said the Morozovs were part of the early phase.”
“They were.”
“How early?”
Antonov hesitated. Then answered. “First generation.”
Justin’s eyes found Anya across the room, as if pulled there by gravity. She always drew his focus, even when she didn’t want it.
She paused her cleaning, her head tilting slightly as she listened intently.
Justin cleared his throat and continued. “And the others?”
Antonov’s voice was quiet now. “Some failed early. Some died in training. Some disappeared.”
“And the rest?”
Antonov met his gaze. “They survived.”
Justin looked back at the screen. Forty-two. Forty-two people Sokolov now considered loose ends.
Anya moved deliberately, boots whispering over the floor. Every eye tracked her as she paused at the table, scanning the list. Her question was quiet, but it cut: “How many are still alive?”
Devon answered before Antonov could. “Hard to confirm.”
Justin tore his gaze from Anya and looked at the screen to Devon. “That’s not an answer.”
“Working estimate?” Devon said. “Maybe fifteen.” His voice was tight with implication—fifteen ghosts, or fifteen targets.
Ice whistled quietly. “Fifteen ghosts.”
Justin shook his head. “No.” He tapped the screen. “Fifteen targets.” Not ghosts—prey.
Antonov nodded grimly. “That is exactly how Sokolov sees it.”
Anya’s finger traced the names, her expression unreadable.
Justin saw her expression change as she reached the names he already knew were coming. Something twisted in him—grief tangled with a fury he never let show.
MOROZOV, ALEXEI
MOROZOV, ANYA
Her voice was calm—too calm, the kind that made everyone brace for a storm. “Status classification?”
Ice leaned closer, reading the screen. “Deviation.”
Antonov spoke quietly. “That means uncontrollable.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed. “Uncontrollable how?”
Antonov hesitated again.
Anya answered for him, her gaze hard. “Independent.”
Justin met her gaze. For a split second, the room faded. There was only the memory of her mouth, her skin, her trust—everything that could be lost if they didn’t win.
Then she broke his train of thought. “They couldn’t predict us. Which means they couldn’t control us.”
Ice leaned back. “So their solution is murder?”
Antonov shook his head. “Not murder.”
“Then what?” Ice asked.
“Correction.”
Justin’s laugh was sharp. “That’s a pretty word for execution.”
Devon cleared his throat through the speaker. “Not exactly.”
Justin turned slightly. “What does that mean?”
The keys clicked once more, punctuating the tense silence, until Devon broke it with words that changed everything: “These files aren’t just termination orders.”
Justin frowned. “Explain.”
“The program architecture includes retrieval protocols.”
Ice blinked. “Retrieval?”
Devon’s voice sharpened. “Some of the prototypes weren’t meant to die.”
Anya’s gaze lifted from the screen. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning Sokolov intends to recover certain individuals.” Justin looked slowly toward Antonov.
The Russian didn’t try to hide it. “Yes.”
Justin’s voice dropped. “Which ones?”
Antonov looked right at Anya. “You.”
Silence slammed into the room. Charlie Team froze, every muscle ready for the next shot to be real.
Ice swore softly.
Justin didn’t move. His heart pounded wildly at the thought of Anya being back in the madman’s hands. “Why?”
Antonov answered carefully. “Because the Morozovs are the most successful prototypes the program ever produced.”
Anya’s jaw tightened. “And that makes me valuable.”
“Yes.”
Justin felt a coldness deeper than anger settle in his chest. “So the hunters aren’t just assassins.”
Antonov nodded. “Some are.”
“Others?”
“Collectors.”
Justin exhaled slowly. The abduction they’d discussed wasn’t hypothetical. It was a matter of time.
Anya stepped back from the table.
Justin watched her cross to the window, every instinct coiling tighter as she put distance between them. Not just space—something sharp and silent, like the air before a storm breaks.
She didn’t look angry. She looked focused. More dangerous.
He crossed the room without announcing it, stopping just behind her—not crowding, not touching. Close enough to feel the faint heat she carried despite the cold pressing in from the glass.
For a moment, neither spoke. The world narrowed to the glass—her, steady and unyielding, and him, a shadow at her shoulder, both of them watching for the next move in the dark.
“I’m not letting them take you,” he said, voice low. Not a promise—just a fact. A line he would let no one cross.
Anya’s gaze didn’t leave the tree line, but her fingers brushed the back of his—brief, intentional. “I know.”
Ice broke the silence. “So let me get this straight.” He tapped the screen. “Sokolov wipes the archives. Kills the failures. Kidnaps the successes.”
Antonov nodded once. “Yes.”
Ice leaned back. “Guy’s ambitious.”
Devon’s voice cut in. “You’re missing the important part.”
Justin looked up. “What part?”
Keys clacked as a new file opened on the screen, revealing location coordinates.
Justin’s pulse shifted. “Devon…”
“That,” Devon said, “is the transfer route from the Georgia archive.” His tone was grave—a new front opening.
Justin leaned closer. “Where does it go?”
Devon zoomed in on the map. The marker settled over a rugged mountain area. Balkans.
Anya turned slowly from the window.
Justin met her eyes and their gaze locked with unsaid emotion.
“Dawn Wing,” she said.
Antonov nodded. “Yes.”
Justin’s gaze flicked from Charlie Team to the screen, then settled on Anya. “This isn’t just cleanup.”
“No,” she replied. “This is recruitment.”
The wind rattled the windows. Somewhere in the dark, a branch cracked beneath falling snow. The world outside held its breath, waiting for their next move.
Justin ended Devon’s connection. “Charlie Team.”
Ice straightened immediately. “Yeah?”
“Get some sleep.”
Ice frowned. “That’s not your usual plan.”
“No.” Justin stared at the Balkan coordinates. “Because tomorrow we hunt where Sokolov is building the next generation.”
Ice smiled slowly. “That sounds more like you.”
Justin glanced across the room.
Anya was already packing her rifle—no questions, no hesitation. Every motion said she was ready to hunt.
Good.
Because Silent Night had finally shown its real shape—a monster with too many faces, and teeth in every shadow.
And the war wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.