Twenty-Three
The plane reeked of cold metal and stale coffee—a cocktail of nerves and routine that Anya found oddly comforting. It smelled like vigilance, not luxury.
Luxury aircraft lulled people into complacency—plush leather, gentle lighting, every detail designed to make danger feel a continent away.
This jet was different—bare-bones, functional, forgettable.
Perfect for disappearing into the clouds and coming out somewhere new.
Devon had acquired it through a shell company—just another cargo hauler on the manifest. Exposed panels, bolted jump seats, modular racks—everything about the interior said, “move fast and leave no trace.”
It was functional, forgettable, yet perfect.
Anya sat in the back, hunched over her tablet as satellite overlays flickered across her face. The aircraft climbed through winter clouds, the world outside vanishing, but her focus only sharpened.
Across from her, Ice lounged back in his seat, his boots propped against a crate of equipment as he swiped through a second tablet. He lifted his gaze momentarily, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Do you always look that intense when you’re reading?”
“Yes.”
“Comforting.” His voice was a grin in the dark.
Anya ignored him.
At the front of the cabin, Justin leaned against the narrow galley counter, his voice a low murmur into his comm.
She strained to catch the snippets of his conversation, each word a puzzle piece into their mission.
“…confirming arrival corridor…” “…yes, Montenegro…” “…no local contact until we assess.” The hum of the aircraft enveloped them, but his words danced just above the noise.
His voice had that quiet gravity—the kind that made people listen even when they didn’t want to. It was irritating how effective it was.
Ice shot her a sideways grin. “Keep staring at him like that, and he’ll notice.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You absolutely are.”
Anya took one last look, then glanced away.
Justin ended the call a moment later and crossed the cabin toward them.
Ice straightened slightly. “Please tell me Devon has good news.”
Justin dropped into the empty jump seat beside them. “That depends.”
Ice sighed. “That’s never the start of a good sentence.”
Justin tapped the tablet in Anya’s hands. “What’s your read?”
Anya spun the tablet, the screen alive with satellite overlays—supply routes crisscrossing, thermal signatures pulsing bright, elevation lines carving up the landscape. “Devon’s data checks out. All three convoys converge right here.”
She zoomed in, Montenegro’s mountains bursting across the screen—jagged, remote, valleys carved by solitude and secrets. A land where even the shadows had nowhere to hide.
Ice leaned forward. “That’s a nightmare.”
She couldn’t disagree. “Yes.”
Justin studied the map. “Which is exactly why Sokolov chose it.”
Anya nodded. “He’s not hiding Dawn Wing. He wants us to see it—and to walk right in.”
Ice frowned. “Then what’s he doing?”
Justin answered quietly. “Protecting it.”
The plane shifted slightly as turbulence caught the wings.
Anya’s fingers tightened on the tablet as she zoomed in. The basin snapped into view—two lonely roads, a narrow rail tunnel, the whole place boxed in by mountain walls. Her heart hammered. This wasn’t a facility. It was a maze.
Ice whistled softly. “That’s not a training facility.”
Justin’s eyes hardened. “No.”
“That’s a fortress.”
Anya shook her head. “No.”
Both men looked at her.
“Sokolov doesn’t build fortresses,” she said. “He builds traps.”
Ice groaned. “You keep saying that.”
Justin leaned back slightly. “Explain.”
Anya tapped the map. “If this was a fortress, he’d reinforce the perimeter. He hasn’t.”
Ice frowned. “So what did he reinforce?”
“The inside.”
Justin’s expression shifted. “The danger isn’t getting in. It’s what happens after.”
“Yes.”
The cabin went quiet for a moment as they contemplated that information.
Ice finally exhaled. “Well, that’s uplifting.”
Justin looked toward the cockpit door. “How long until landing?”
Devon answered through the speaker system. “Three hours.”
Ice groaned again. “I’m starting to miss the snowstorm.”
Justin ignored him. “Any movement around the facility?”
“Minimal,” Devon said. “But that’s what bothers me.”
“Why?”
“Because someone triggered the internal network two hours ago. Biometric scan.”
Anya looked up sharply. “What kind of trigger?”
Devon hesitated. “Biometric.”
Justin felt the shift immediately. “Meaning?”
“Someone accessed the training system.”
Ice blinked. “Training?”
Devon’s voice lowered. “Yes.”
Anya stared at the basin on the tablet, heart pounding. Dawn Wing wasn’t a bunker or a command center. It was a forge—a machine built to turn people into weapons.
Justin watched her carefully. “You’ve seen this before.”
She couldn’t deny it. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“Years ago.”
Ice leaned forward again. “In the program?”
“Yes.”
Justin’s jaw tightened. “Then we burn it down.”
Anya didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes remained on the screen. “Maybe.”
Ice frowned. “That’s not the confidence I was hoping for.”
Justin leaned slightly closer. “What are you thinking?”
She zoomed in on the map once more. There it was—the rail tunnel, a narrow line vanishing into the imposing mountain wall. “This.”
Ice blinked. “A tunnel?”
“Yes.”
Justin studied the terrain. “Supply rail.”
“Or evacuation route.”
Ice rubbed his face. “I’m starting to hate mountains.”
Justin stood. “We’ll assess once we land.”
Ice nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
Anya powered down the tablet and let the silence settle, thick and heavy.
The plane continued climbing toward cruising altitude.
For a few minutes, no one spoke.
Then Ice glanced toward the cockpit. “You know something weird?”
Justin didn’t look at him. “Lots of things.”
“Devon’s been quiet.”
Justin noticed that too. “Devon?”
A pause. Then Devon’s voice returned. “…still here.”
Ice narrowed his eyes. “That was suspicious.”
Justin leaned toward the console. “What’s going on?”
Devon exhaled slowly. “I found something.”
Anya straightened slightly. “What?”
Devon hesitated before transmitting a file to the tablets.
Justin opened it—grainy surveillance still, a man on a shadowy dock, shoulders hunched. Face half-turned, but unmistakable. Pierce. Alive.
Ice’s voice dropped. “No way.”
Justin felt his pulse slow. “Devon.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
Devon’s reply came quietly. “Pierce.”
The cabin fell silent.
The image was old, probably weeks old. But the man in it was unmistakable. Older. Rougher. Alive.
Anya stared at the screen, mind racing. She hadn’t dared hope for this—Pierce, alive. Mentor, traitor, family. Her heartbeat rattled with relief and dread, memory and unfinished business. Could she ever forgive him for what he did to her brother?
Ice leaned back slowly. “Well.”
Justin didn’t look away from the screen. “Where was this taken?”
“Adriatic coast,” Devon said. “Two hundred kilometers from Dawn Wing.”
Anya’s voice came quietly. “He’s ahead of us.”
Justin nodded. “Yes.”
Ice shook his head. “That man really doesn’t know when to quit.”
Justin closed the tablet. “If Pierce is moving toward Dawn Wing…”
Ice finished the thought. “…then the party’s already started.”
Justin looked toward the cockpit window, where the sky stretched cold and endless beyond the glass. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It has.”
And somewhere deep in the mountains, Colonel Viktor Sokolov was already waiting—watching, preparing, certain that the next move on the board belonged to him.
Let the hunt begin.