Chapter 32
THE VIGIL
SARAH
The waiting is the hardest part.
Ghost puts the timeline at four months. Maybe less. That’s how long we have until Phoenix consolidates its fragments at Ghostwater. Until the monster we wounded heals itself and tries to stand again.
I spend most of the time coordinating. It’s what I’m good at—the logistics of crisis, the management of moving pieces. Director Vance mode, even though I’m technically on indefinite leave from an agency that doesn’t know its satellites were used as weapons in a war they’ll never hear about.
Ghost handles the cleanup with the cold efficiency of someone who’s erased inconvenient truths before. Senator Vance died in a “private aircraft accident” over the Nevada desert. The wreckage will be found eventually. The body won’t.
I should feel something about that. My father denied a grave.
I don’t.
“You’re brooding.”
Levi’s voice pulls me back to the present. We’re in the Seattle safe house—a different one from the first night, larger, better equipped for extended operations. I’m standing at a window that overlooks nothing but gray sky and grayer water.
“I’m thinking,” I correct him.
“Same thing, with you.” He comes to stand beside me. His shoulder brushes mine. “What are you thinking about?”
“The patient lists. There are over four thousand names.” A ferry cuts across the Sound, leaving a white wake in the dark water. “Four thousand people carrying a monster inside them, and they don’t know it.”
“We’ll reach them.”
“We can’t reach all of them. Not even with Guardian’s resources.” I turn to face him. “Phoenix will activate some of them before we can distribute the antidote. People are going to become—vessels. And we’re going to have to decide what to do about them.”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem.”
“Tomorrow’s problems have a way of becoming today’s casualties.”
He doesn’t argue. Just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear—a gesture so casual, so intimate, that it still catches me off guard.
“You know what I’ve learned from flying suicide missions?”
“That you have a death wish?”
“That you can’t fly the whole route at once.” His hand lingers on my jaw. “You fly the next ten seconds. Then the next ten. Then the next. You try to see the whole canyon at once, you’ll crash into the first wall.”
“That’s either incredibly profound or terrifying.”
“Probably both.” He grins. “Point is—we saved the sky. We caged the beast. We’ve got a plan. Right now, that’s enough.”
“Is it?”
“Has to be.” He pulls me closer. I let him. “The alternative is making yourself crazy, and that’s not useful to anyone.”
“I’m the director of the NRO. Brooding at windows is literally in my job description.”
“Former director.”
“On leave.”
“Indefinite leave. Which means you’re currently unemployed.” His arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Might have to get a real job. I hear helicopter pilots are in demand.”
“I am not learning to fly.”
“I could teach you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’d be good at it. All those control issues would translate nicely.”
I elbow him in the ribs. He laughs and holds me tighter.
For a moment—just a moment—the weight lifts. The four thousand names, the monster in the cage—all of it recedes, and there’s just this. His arms around me. The gray sky. The absurd reality that I’m standing here, alive, married to a man I met six days ago.
Six days.
It feels like a lifetime.
A few days later, I look across the room to where Julianna is hunched over her workstation, typing furiously, with dark circles under her eyes. She hasn’t slept more than a few hours since we arrived. Every time someone suggests she rest, she refuses. Like she’s trying to outrun something.
Guilt, probably. Or maybe she’s just afraid that if she stops moving, Thorne’s promise will catch up with her.
“She’s not evil,” Levi says quietly. “You know that, right?”
“She funded a program that infected thousands of children with a bioweapon. To do something she thought would protect the country. Same justification my father used.” I hear the bitterness in my own voice. “Same justification everyone uses right before they become a monster.”
“Where’s this coming from? You’re nothing like your father.”
“Are you sure about that?” I turn to face him fully.
“I authorized leaving Phoenix alive because it served our tactical interests. I’m coordinating a secret operation that will never be acknowledged by any government.
I’m making decisions that affect thousands of lives without their knowledge or consent.
” I shake my head. “How is that different from what he did?”
“Intent.”
“Intent doesn’t bring back the dead.”
“No.” He takes my hand. Holds it between both of his. “But it’s the only thing that separates people like you from people like him. You’re doing this to save lives. He did it for power. Same actions, different souls.”
“That’s a very thin line.”
“All the important ones are.”
I want to argue. Want to push back against the easy absolution he’s offering. But I’m tired, and his hands are warm, and sometimes the thin line is all you’ve got.
“When this is over,” I say slowly, “when Phoenix is dead, the patients are safe, and the world isn’t ending—what happens then?”
“Then we figure out what normal looks like.” He grins. “I’m told it involves things like dinner reservations and arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes.”
“I’ve never done normal.”
“Me neither. Should be interesting.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.” He pulls me closer. Kisses my forehead. “But it’s honest. And that’s the best I’ve got.”
Honest. Such a simple word. Such a rare thing.
I lean into him and let myself believe that maybe, when all of this is over, honest will be enough.
“You’ve been standing here for an hour. You haven’t eaten since this morning. You’re running on fumes and spite.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. And that’s okay.” His hand finds mine in the darkness. “But I’m not letting you burn yourself out before we’ve started the real fight.”
“The real fight?”
“This is triage. Phoenix is wounded, not dead. We’re going back to Ghostwater.
We’re going into that facility, past whatever defenses Phoenix has left, and we’re going to trap it forever.
” His grip tightens. “I need you sharp for that. I need you here. Not lost in your head playing out worst-case scenarios.”
“That’s literally my job. Worst-case scenarios are what I do.”
“Then take a night off.” He tugs gently at my hand. “Come to bed. Eat something. Let me remind you what you’re fighting for.”
“What am I fighting for?”
“This.” He steps closer. His other hand comes up to cup my face. “Us. Whatever comes next. A future where we’re not running from monsters or burying fathers or watching the world almost end.”
“That sounds like a fairy tale.”
“Maybe. But I’ve made a career out of impossible flights.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Let me believe we can land this one too.”
I should argue. Should point out that belief doesn’t stop bioweapons or cage digital gods or save thousands of people from becoming vessels for a monster’s consciousness.
But his eyes are soft in the dim light, and his hand is warm on my skin, and sometimes belief is all you have left.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Take me to bed. Remind me what I’m fighting for.”
He smiles. Slow, warm, and full of promise.
“Yes, ma’am.”