Twenty-Nine
The safe house looked like nothing—just another forgotten ruin pressed flat by snow and time. Which, of course, meant it was worth killing for.
Ice eased the truck off the mountain road and into the narrow gravel cut that led down toward the abandoned border patrol relay station. Snow covered most of the old structure’s roof and collapsed fencing, and the wind had already begun filling the tire tracks behind them with drifting white.
Justin watched the storm swallow the road in the side mirror.
Good.
Let the mountain erase the trail.
The truck rolled to a stop beneath the sagging overhang of the old garage bay, headlights slicing through swirling snow before vanishing into the gloom.
Gucci pulled in behind them a moment later. The engines died. Silence flooded the valley, thick and absolute, as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath.
For the first time since the tunnel fight, adrenaline ebbed from Justin’s veins, leaving only the raw ache of his wound and exhaustion gnawing at his bones like a persistent animal.
He hated that part. Pain was information. Exhaustion was weakness.
Ice shut off the lights and glanced sideways. “You still awake?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good. Means you’re not dead.”
Frosty opened the passenger door and helped Justin climb down.
The cold hit like a fist, teeth gnawing at the skin around his collar and sending his wound flaring electric-hot. He refused to show it. Not here. Not in front of the team.
Inside the safe house, the air was warmer, though barely. Devon had activated the backup generator remotely before they arrived, and the low hum of the system echoed through the concrete walls as the overhead lights flickered to life.
Anya came in last, shutting the door with a whisper of finality and sliding the bolt home without ever breaking her vigil at the windows. Still hunting. Still watching. Every muscle tense, eyes sharp as glass.
Justin sat on the old metal examination table Frosty had cleared near the wall.
“Let’s see it,” Frosty said.
Justin shrugged out of his jacket.
The blood had soaked through the bandage again.
Ice winced. “Okay, yeah, that’s worse than I thought.”
Frosty ignored him and cut the wrap away with surgical scissors. “Bullet exited clean,” she said. “But you tore the muscle when you rolled.”
Justin nodded. “I figured.”
“You also lost enough blood to make the next twenty minutes unpleasant.”
Ice leaned against the wall. “Great news all around.”
Frosty began cleaning the wound.
The antiseptic seared his skin—hot, merciless, a reminder that surviving always came at a cost.
Justin gripped the edge of the table and focused on the opposite wall.
Anya stood nearby, arms crossed, her gaze icy and unblinking—the same lethal focus she brought to sniper overwatch, now trained on every movement in the room.
He pretended not to notice.
Frosty worked fast, efficient and precise.
A few minutes later, the wound was sealed with sutures and wrapped in a clean compression dressing.
“Try not to do anything stupid for a few hours,” Frosty said.
Ice laughed. “You just told a man who got shot protecting a sniper not to do anything stupid.”
Frosty shrugged. “I can dream.”
Justin slid off the table slowly. The pain had settled into something manageable now. Not gone. Never gone. Just…contained.
He pulled on a clean shirt from one of the gear packs and turned toward the main table in the center of the room. The map was already spread across it.
Anya had moved there while he was being treated.
Of course she had.
Devon’s voice came through the comm speaker mounted on the wall. “Everyone settled?”
“For the moment,” Justin said.
Devon exhaled softly. “Good. Because I have updates.”
Ice pulled out a chair. “That sounds ominous.”
“Always,” Devon replied.
Justin leaned over the map. “Talk.”
Devon brought up a projection on the old wall monitor. Satellite imagery flickered into place. The rail corridor. The tunnel. The service road. And the convoy.
But something about the image was wrong.
Justin narrowed his eyes. “That’s not the convoy we hit.”
“No,” Devon said. “That’s the convoy they wanted you to see.”
Ice straightened. “Wait.”
Gucci swore under her breath.
Justin folded his arms slowly. “Decoy.”
“Yes.”
Anya didn’t look surprised.
Justin noticed that immediately. “You knew.”
She nodded. “The collectors.”
Ice looked confused. “What about them?”
“They weren’t primary retrieval personnel,” she said.
Justin caught on. “Training grade.”
“Yes.”
Frosty blinked. “You’re telling me that whole fight was…practice?”
Devon answered quietly. “More like calibration.”
Ice rubbed his face. “That’s worse.”
Justin studied the satellite image again. “If that was the decoy convoy…”
Devon switched the feed. Another road appeared. Farther east. Deeper in the mountains.
Justin felt the answer settle into place. “The real transport.”
“Yes.”
Ice leaned forward. “You’re kidding.”
Devon shook his head. “Two hours ahead of the convoy you intercepted.”
Justin exhaled slowly.
Sokolov had never intended the tunnel convoy to succeed.
It had been bait. Pressure. A way to watch how Anya and Charlie Team reacted under stress. A way to measure Justin. A way to shape the board.
Justin glanced at Anya. She was already studying the map, recalculating lines of attack and retreat, mind sharpening to a razor’s edge even as the world outside blurred with snow.
“Where’s the real transport now?” he asked.
Devon zoomed the image outward. “Moving north.”
Ice frowned. “Toward the border?”
“Yes.”
Gucci tapped the table. “So Sokolov’s pulling assets out.”
“No,” Anya said. “He’s consolidating.”
Justin nodded. “He’s bringing the hunters together.”
Devon’s voice came again. “And something else.”
Ice groaned. “There’s always something else.”
Devon ignored him. “We caught another signal burst about fifteen minutes ago.”
Justin stiffened. “Pierce?”
“Yes.”
The room went quiet.
Ice looked around slowly. “Okay, that guy really needs to stop doing that.”
Anya leaned closer to the map. “Location.”
Devon marked a point on the screen.
Justin’s stomach tightened. Because that point was not random. It was ahead of the real transport. Directly in its path.
“He’s intercepting them,” Justin said.
“Yes.”
Ice whistled softly. “That man has zero survival instincts.”
Justin shook his head. “No.”
“He knows exactly what he’s doing.” Anya’s eyes never left the map. “Pierce doesn’t attack without leverage.”
Ice looked skeptical. “He’s one man.”
“Not exactly,” Justin said.
Ice looked at him. “What does that mean?”
Justin tapped the ridge line just north of the transport route. “If Pierce is ahead of the convoy…”
Ice’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Frosty leaned forward. “You think he’s setting a trap.”
Justin nodded. “Yes.”
Devon spoke again. “Which means you have a decision.”
Justin didn’t hesitate. “We move.”
Ice grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Frosty shook her head. “You just got shot.”
Justin shrugged into his jacket again. “I’ll live.”
Anya finally looked up. Her gaze held his for a moment. Then she nodded. “Good.”
Ice pushed away from the wall. “Alright then.” He grabbed his rifle. “Feels more like round two.”
Justin looked around the room—Charlie Team battered but ready, Anya’s eyes glinting with resolve, the map a battlefield in miniature, and the storm outside still howling across the mountains like a warning they couldn’t afford to ignore.
Sokolov had moved his pieces. Pierce had moved his. Now it was their turn.
Justin checked his watch. 04:12. The night wasn’t even close to over.
He slung the rifle across his shoulder and headed for the door.
Behind him, Anya fell into step. “You shouldn’t be leading this with that wound,” she said quietly.
Justin didn’t slow. “Probably not.”
She watched him for a moment. Then said the one thing that made him pause. “You didn’t hesitate.”
He looked sideways. “About what.”
“At the ridge.”
The storm rattled against the metal door as they stepped outside.
Justin considered the question. Then answered honestly. “No.”
Anya nodded slowly.
Not gratitude. Something tighter.
She stepped closer—not enough to block his path, just enough to close the space between them until the storm felt farther away.
“You didn’t even think about it,” she said.
Justin held her gaze. “No.”
Her eyes searched his face—not for the answer, but for the truth behind it.
It was there. Uncomplicated. Unhidden. Dangerous.
Her hand came up before she decided to let it, fingers brushing the edge of his jacket near the fresh bandage. Not probing. Not careful.
Confirming.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.
“Don’t do that again,” she said quietly.
Justin’s mouth curved faintly. “Can’t promise that.”
Her fingers tightened once in the fabric. “Then I’ll adjust the plan,” she said.
“So will I.”
The words landed between them—equal, deliberate, and far too personal for a battlefield.
For a second, neither moved.
Then she let go first and stepped past him and headed toward the trucks.
And the distance snapped back into place like it had never been broken.
Justin watched her for a second. Then followed.
Because the war had changed tonight. Sokolov had tested them. Pierce had entered the board.
And somewhere ahead in the mountains, the hunters were about to learn they weren’t the only ones who knew how to set traps.