6. Evie
EVIE
The shadow moves across the doorway again.
Caleb steps in front of me, shielding me with his body as he raises his pistol.
“Stay behind me.”
The order is barely a whisper.
I draw my own weapon and aim past his shoulder.
“I can shoot.”
“I know.”
“Then stop standing in my way.”
“No.”
Before I can decide whether to be angry, Caleb fires.
The suppressed shot makes a sharp coughing sound.
A man stumbles through the doorway and crashes onto the concrete floor. The rifle falls from his hand and skids into the darkness.
Caleb crosses the distance before the mercenary stops moving.
He kicks the rifle away, checks the man’s pulse, and searches his pockets. Every movement is quick and precise.
Cold.
Professional.
But when he straightens, I see something else in his expression.
Weariness.
Taking a life affects him.
He simply doesn’t allow it to stop him.
“He followed us through the tunnel,” I say.
“He found the other exit.”
“How?”
Caleb removes an earpiece from the dead man. “They had the plans.”
“For the safehouse?”
“For everything.”
The weight of those two words settles over me.
Walter Graves has access to decades of classified intelligence. Safehouses, former operatives, escape routes, buried operations—every secret the government ever decided to keep.
“How do we hide from a man who knows every place we might go?”
Caleb slips the mercenary’s ammunition into his jacket.
“We don’t.”
“That isn’t very reassuring.”
“We make him look in the wrong direction.”
Voices carry through the rain outside.
More men.
Caleb takes my hand and pulls me toward the rear of the building.
We slip through a rusted service door and into the trees seconds before flashlights sweep across the broken windows behind us.
The rain has finally stopped, leaving the world cold and silent.
Too silent.
Caleb moves twenty feet ahead of me without making a sound.
I try to do the same.
I fail spectacularly.
Every twig beneath my boots seems determined to announce my location to the entire state of Virginia.
Caleb glances back.
“You don’t have to sneak.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
One eyebrow lifts.
“I was trying not to fall.”
“That’s a different skill.”
I glare at his back. “I liked you better when you only answered with one word.”
“I never answered with one word.”
“Three, then.”
His mouth nearly curves.
I’m beginning to think that almost-smile is as expressive as Caleb McDougal gets.
We reach an old gravel road where a vehicle waits beneath a stand of pine trees.
Calling it a vehicle might be generous.
The aging green pickup has rust covering both doors and duct tape holding one headlight in place.
I stop beside Caleb. “This?”
“It doesn’t attract attention.”
“It looks incapable of attracting movement.”
“It runs.”
“I’ll believe that when it starts.”
He opens the passenger door for me before circling the hood. The engine fires immediately.
I blink.
Caleb looks almost pleased with himself.
“I told you.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am.”
“Of the truck?”
“It surprises people.”
“I can see why.”
We drive west as the first streaks of dawn appear on the horizon.
Farmhouses and rolling fields emerge from the mist. In another life, it might be a peaceful morning.
It feels impossible that only hours ago I was walking through Langley believing my greatest concern was an unfinished intelligence report.
Now my agency wants me dead.
Men have fired at me twice.
An entire house has been destroyed.
And I’m riding through Virginia with a former sniper who barely speaks but somehow makes me feel safer than anyone ever has.
I watch him for several miles.
His left shoulder is stiff.
He thinks I haven’t noticed.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
I turn toward him. “Was that a joke?”
“No.”
“I’m fairly certain it was.”
He keeps his attention on the road. “I don’t joke.”
“Liar.”
There it is again.
The almost-smile.
Progress.
“How long have you been with Shadow Division?”
“A long time.”
“You know that isn’t an answer.”
“It is.”
“Not a useful one.”
“I wasn’t aiming for useful.”
I fold my arms. “I’ve read your file.”
“I figured.”
“It wasn’t very informative.”
“They never are.”
“It said you completed more classified operations than anyone else in your unit.”
He doesn’t respond.
“It also said you received medals that don’t officially exist.”
His hands remain steady on the wheel.
“And it said you always volunteered to stay behind.”
His fingers tighten.
Only slightly.
If I hadn’t spent years studying people for the agency, I would have missed it.
“I stopped reading after that,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because I realized whoever wrote the file didn’t know you.”
He looks at me for the first time since we left the safehouse.
“What makes you think you do?”
“I don’t. Not yet.”
The last two words change something in his expression.
I continue before I lose my courage.
“But files describe statistics. Training. Operations. Confirmed kills. They don’t tell me why you stayed behind.”
His attention returns to the road.
“To make sure everyone else got out.”
The answer is so quiet I almost miss it.
“That should have been in the file.”
“No.”
“It should.”
For several seconds, only the tires humming against wet pavement fill the truck.
Then his encrypted phone vibrates.
He glances at the message, and the softness vanishes from his face.
“What is it?”
“Fathom picked up movement. Graves deployed another team.”
“How many?”
“Twelve.”
“Heading toward us?”
“Heading west.”
Caleb presses harder on the accelerator.
The old pickup surges forward with surprising strength.
I check the side mirror.
At first, there is nothing.
Then two black SUVs crest the hill behind us.
Far away.
But gaining.
“They found us.”
“They found the truck.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There will be.”
Caleb turns sharply onto a narrow county road winding between dense trees.
The SUVs follow.
He checks the mirror once, then reaches beneath the dashboard.
“What are you doing?”
“Preparing to change vehicles.”
I stare at him. “While we’re driving?”
He points toward an old red barn standing alone in the middle of an orchard.
A faded sign leans against the fence.
MILLER FAMILY ORCHARDS.
The barn doors are already open.
An older man wearing overalls and a battered camouflage cap steps into view. He gives Caleb one nod.
No surprise.
No questions.
Just a nod.
“You know him?”
“Retired Army Ranger.”
“What does he do now?”
“Raises apples.”
“And hides getaway vehicles?”
“When necessary.”
Despite everything, I smile. “How many people owe you favors?”
Caleb’s expression grows serious.
“I don’t ask for favors.”
“What do you ask for?”
“Help.”
The answer tells me more about Caleb McDougal than his entire classified file.
The pickup disappears inside the barn.
Before we come to a complete stop, the older man closes the doors behind us. A second set opens on the opposite side.
A matte-black SUV waits there.
Fueled.
Packed.
Ready.
The Ranger tosses Caleb the keys.
“Figured you’d need these someday.”
“Thanks, Hank.”
Hank looks at me. “You must be the young lady everybody’s trying to kill.”
I blink. “Is it that obvious?”
He grins. “If Caleb is risking this much, you’re important.”
Caleb moves our bags to the SUV without answering.
But he doesn’t deny it.
A few minutes later, we leave the orchard by a narrow dirt road.
In the mirror, I watch Hank drive the green pickup back toward the highway—toward the men hunting us.
“Will he be all right?”
“Hank survived three wars. He’ll know when to disappear.”
I believe him.
But something else becomes clear as the orchard vanishes behind us.
Shadow Division isn’t simply a team.
It’s a family built from years of trust and sacrifice. A family that extends beyond the men who wear its emblem to everyone willing to answer when one of them asks for help.
For the first time since Walter Graves smiled at me in that corridor, I don’t feel as if I’m running alone.
Then a bright flash fills the sky behind us.
A second later, an explosion rolls across the orchard.
Caleb slams on the brakes.
His face turns to stone.
“Hank.”