Chapter 24
24
T he SUV idles quietly on the side of a residential street near the edge of Princeton’s campus. The sky is dark, moonlight hidden behind a veil of clouds, and the faint glow of fluorescent lights can be seen in the distance. I sit in the backseat, my eyes fixed on the live feeds of the interior cameras inside the lab displayed on my laptop.
Around me, the guys prepare to head out. Whit adjusts the strap on his vest a few times until he has it just right, his calm demeanor the complete opposite of the adrenaline thrumming beneath the surface. Beckett checks the route I’ve highlighted for them on the map again, while Quinn sits beside me, radiating restless energy, drumming his fingers against the armrest of the door.
“This guy better be worth it,” Quinn mutters. “Don’t get me wrong—I live for a challenge. But a favor for a favor?” He exhales, shaking his head. “Feels like a lot when it means cracking Princeton’s security. This isn’t some back-alley smash and grab.”
“Trust me,” Beckett says, without looking up. “When we need him, he’ll be worth it.”
I take a deep breath and focus on the feeds. Their unnamed friend—the one who called in the favor weeks ago—wasn’t kidding about the lab’s interior cameras.
They’re everywhere.
“Most of the guards are moving toward the parking lot,” I say, watching the skeletal crew dwindle on the screens. “Dr. Voss just left. They’ll be gone in five minutes.”
Whit turns and gives me a reassuring smile. “Deep breath, princess. There’s no rush—it’s better for this to take longer and not be seen than leave a trail of bodies.”
Quinn grins. “Except, you know, the part where we’re sitting in a car on a quiet street, and it’s only a matter of time before someone notices us. Oh, and leaving a trail of bodies is way more fun.”
I shoot him a mock glare. “Gee, thanks, no pressure.” He leans across the seat and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Nah, you got this, easy-peasy,” he says before he pulls away from me.
I was surprised when they invited me to go with them. They said it was a straightforward job—just an eight-hour drive—and that I’d be out of harm’s way, working from the SUV. At first, I didn’t understand. How could I do my job without the equipment and programs I rely on to track them and get them home safely?
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the SUV was loaded with nearly all the tech I’m used to. Now, I’m already wondering how many more missions I can worm my way into. I like not being left behind.
Our moment comes a second later. The remaining guards are stretched thin and the last of Dr. Voss’ security detail pulls out of the parking lot, I nod. “You’re clear. Go now.”
Without a word they move, slipping from the SUV and disappearing into the shadows.
“Celest, you with us?” Beckett’s voice crackles through my earpiece.
“I’m here,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Moving in,” Beckett says, his tone all business.
I track their movements on the screen, watching as three dots creep toward the edge of the lab. No one would notice unless they were looking right at them. Now, I understand how they moved seamlessly through the shadows of the manor.
The moment they reach the perimeter, I disable the lock on the first door.
“You’re clear,” I say, setting the hallway feed on a loop. “Go now.”
Quinn’s voice crackles through the comms, low and full of mischief. “Damn, sweetheart, you’re so fucking hot. I can’t wait till we get back so I can bury?—”
“Quinn, shut up,” Beckett and Whit say simultaneously. I stifle a small laugh and then clear my throat, my focus staying firmly on the mission at hand.
They slip through the now-unlocked door, efficient and silent. They move as one, fluid and practiced as they make their way toward the specified lab. I keep my eyes glued to the feeds, tracking the few guards patrolling and making sure their paths don’t cross, setting off the interior security protocols.
Their body cam feeds fill one of the monitors, showing the cold, clinical halls of the lab. Every inch is polished to perfection, from the shiny tiled floors to the sterile white walls, all under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. Glass panels line some corridors, revealing rows of state-of-the-art equipment and workstations—likely filled with research students during the day.
I wonder if any of them know who they’re actually working for.
“Everything’s clear,” Beckett murmurs through the comms, his voice low.
They move silently through the shadows of the dormant lab, their dark clothing slightly less inconspicuous against the clinical, white surroundings. Long, stainless steel tables stretch across the vast room, covered in microscopes, vials, and neatly organized instruments. Screens on the walls display data streams and blueprints of complex machinery I can’t begin to decipher. Shelves of labeled samples line one side, each glowing faintly under UV lights.
“Celest, how we looking?” Whit asks.
“Everything’s still quiet,” I reply, double-checking the feed. “No signs of you being spotted.”
When they reach the door to Dr. Voss’s office, I unlock it remotely. The faint beep of the access panel clicks through the comms as the door swings open. My chest tightens as the body cams reveal the room beyond.
The office is an unsettling blend of precision and chaos. The desk is meticulously arranged: a stack of neatly labeled research files, a sleek laptop, and a set of gold-plated pens arranged in perfectly spaced alignment. The walls, though, they tell a different story.
Scattered across the walls are haphazardly pinned sketches and diagrams, some faded and curling at the edges. Equations are scrawled on a whiteboard that stretches across an entire wall, symbols looping in a manic frenzy. A corkboard is covered in photos—blurry shots of test sites, explosions, and grainy images of weapon prototypes in various stages of construction.
Behind the desk, a shelf holds an odd collection of items: an antique compass, a globe marked with points, and a pristine model of a weapon prototype encased in glass. Altogether, it looks as if the room had exploded with chaos, while the interior remains untouched.
Quinn lets out a low whistle. “Hot damn. Beck, this guy’s desk is somehow more meticulous than yours. Didn’t think it was possible to out ‘neat’ the control freak.”
“Fuck off, Quinn,” Beckett snaps.
“Love you too, Becky.” There’s a scuffle, followed by Quinn’s quiet chuckle. “Alright, alright, I’m done. Promise.”
“Can we focus?” Whit asks, though he’s clearly trying to hold back his laughter.
“What do you make of this guy?” Beckett asks the group, pulling everyone back on track.
“I’ll tell you one thing, this guy definitely has dead bodies in his freezer,” Quinn says, far too casually. I make a mental note to avoid any deep freezers around here.
“No kidding,” Whit mutters. “How does he come across as stable to anyone?”
“I’m not sure,” I add thoughtfully. “He’s not just methodical—he’s obsessed. I don't think it's just work for him; it’s his entire life.”
Not bothering to make any observations on the doctor’s mental state, Beckett moves to the filing cabinet on the far wall. When he opens it, a faint beep sounds. I freeze.
“Celest,” Beckett says sharply. “We’ve got a problem.”
My pulse spikes as I stare at the screen. RF trackers. Shit. If we trigger this, everything goes to hell.
I force myself to breathe, to calm down and think. I just read about this. What was it? I sift through my mental files, searching for the information I know is there. Seconds stretch, but then—I remember.
I exhale slowly, my gaze flicking between the feeds. “The tracker is tied to the files, and it looks like if you try to open the case, it will trigger an alarm. Don’t move them yet.”
I quickly pull up the schematics of the lab’s security system that their nameless friend provided, scanning for a workaround. My heart races, but I shove the panic aside. I’ve read about RF tracking systems before, and suddenly the solution comes to me in a rush of adrenaline.
“Okay,” I say, my voice steady. “You need to scan the tracker first. Use the portable scanner in your pack.”
“On it,” Whit says.
While they prepare the scanner, I access the lab’s central system and start isolating the RF signal. “Once you scan the tracker, I’ll duplicate the signal and loop it before terminating the original. The system won’t know the files are gone, and the alarm on the case will be disabled.”
A few tense seconds pass before Whit’s voice comes through again. “Scan complete.”
I key in the duplicate signal, my fingers flying over the keyboard. “Done. It’s looping. The files are good to go, and the alarm is no longer a problem.”
“Not a particularly strong bit of security, is it?” Quinn asks, amusement curling in his voice.
“Not on its own, but the building itself is locked down tight. Without the information your friend provided, we would never have been able to get this far.” It’s true—I’m gaining more knowledge every day, but I am nowhere near that guy’s level. This job would’ve been impossible without the backdoor into their systems he gave us.
“Fair point,” Quinn says.
They retrieve the research and grab anything else that looks remotely related to it, then make their way back out. I guide them through the camera blind spots, adjusting as necessary when a group of researchers comes out of nowhere.
“Cameras are clear,” I say, my voice steady. “You’re almost out.” The body cams show the same cold, clinical corridors as they move back toward the exit.
I can’t shake the weight of what I saw in that office; it lingers in the back of my mind. Dr. Gideon Voss isn’t just a scientist—he’s a man obsessed with power, destruction, and control. And now, thanks to the guys, his work won’t go any further.
At least, not this time.
“Exit’s clear and unlocked,” I say as they approach the last door and trigger the release. “Go now.”
“Too easy,” Quinn jokes as they slip outside.
“Don’t jinx it,” Beckett mutters.
“Since when are you superstitious?” Whit asks, to which Beckett mumbles something about never being too careful under his breath, barely audible through the comms.
Minutes later, they’re back. I let out a shaky breath and sink into my seat as the SUV roars to life. Within moments, we’re speeding down the highway, Princeton fading behind us.
“Nice work, Celest,” Beckett says from the driver’s seat. “That was smooth.”
“Flawless,” Whit adds, glancing back at me with a warm smile.
Quinn leans over the small space between us, brushing my hair behind my shoulder. “You were brilliant, sweetheart. That whole tracker thing? Genius.”
I feel a warm flush spread across my chest as a shiver runs through me. “It’s not just me; we made the plan together,” I say softly.
Quinn smirks. “Don’t sell yourself short. Well, I guess not shorter than you already are—my little fun-sized genius.”
Laughing, I swat at him. “Hey! I’m not that short!”
“You are pretty small, Short Stack,” Whit adds.
“No! I’m average. I looked it up.”
“Nothing about you is average,” Beckett says, before ruining the compliment. “Polly Pocket.”
“Oh, my god,” I huff, fighting the smile creeping onto my face as they laugh.
Driving down the dark highway, everyone falls into a comfortable silence. Beckett’s focused on the road, Whit’s leaned back, relaxing in the passenger seat, arms crossed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s asleep. I sit in the back, laptop in hand, still monitoring the lab’s communications, waiting for the alarm to be raised.
Next to me, Quinn flips through the stolen research files. It’s easy to underestimate his brilliance, especially since he never seems to take anything seriously. But Quinn is a genius. He’s reading through the files, clearly comprehending their contents, but his normally easygoing demeanor has shifted into something darker. He’s been quiet for the past twenty minutes; it’s worrisome.
Finally, he lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “This guy… he’s not just brilliant—he’s sick. And you know it’s bad if it makes even my stomach churn.”
Beckett glances at him in the rearview mirror. “I assumed that much, but what did you find?”
Quinn doesn’t look up, flipping to another page. “I mean, this weapon isn’t just designed to destroy—it’s designed to make people suffer slow, agonizing deaths. There’s no efficiency or strategy here, just widespread destruction. It’s fucking sadistic.”
Whit shifts in his seat, his jaw tightening. “I’m afraid to even ask, but what does it do?”
Quinn pauses, reading a line aloud. “‘The compound triggers a chain reaction at the cellular level, causing widespread organ failure over several days. Death is inevitable and excruciating.’” He snaps the file shut and tosses it onto the empty space between us. “He wants people to beg for death—even women and children.”
“That kind of weapon,” Beckett says, his tone even but grim, “isn’t meant for war. That kind of suffering is about sending a message—he’s a fucking terrorist in the making.”
Whit nods, his voice low. “You can control an entire country with something like that. If you make people too terrified to fight back, you’ve won before the fight’s even begun.”
Quinn leans back, draping his arm across the back of my seat. “And Voss? He wasn’t just creating one weapon. These notes…” He gestures toward the pile of files. “They’re prototypes for something bigger. He wasn’t just working on a bomb—he was building a system. Something scalable. I bet those pins in his globe have something to do with it.”
A chill runs down my spine, and I glance back at Quinn. “How does someone even think like that?”
“He’s not thinking like a human being,” Quinn says, his voice quieter now. “He’s thinking like a megalomaniac playing God.”
The weight of his words settles over the car, and I can’t help but picture what that kind of hell would look like. It’s horrifying—yet that kind of cruelty is familiar. Too familiar.
I never imagined it was possible for someone to be worse than Josiah. If he ever got his hands on something like this, he’d use it and call it an act of God. The thought is horrifying. Beckett breaks the silence, pulling us from our spiraling thoughts. “Good thing our contact requested everything be destroyed.”
“What about the digital files?” Whit asks.
“He said he was taking care of them. That’s why he asked us to go in and extract the physicals. He said something about planting a virus that will ‘eat’ everything and then infect the cloud,” Beckett says, and I breathe a little easier.
“Who is this guy?” I ask.
“I only know his code name—Wraith. I met him in an online forum a couple of years ago. He’s a vigilante hacker. Remember when that senator from Florida had his search history released, causing him to resign a few weeks later?”
Quinn barks out a laugh. “Ha! Yeah—wasn’t there something about furries?”
“Yeah—that was him.”
“That was absolutely brilliant,” Quinn says, sounding like he might have a new idol.
As the car falls quiet again, I glance at the files—something’s been nagging in the back of my mind. “Do you think Voss was working for or with someone? Or was this all his own twisted genius?”
“Hard to say,” Beckett replies. “But someone had to fund him. A project this big doesn’t happen without serious backing.”
Whit frowns. “If there’s a client or a group, they won’t stop just because the research is gone. They’ll either find someone else or start over with what they remember.”
“If they do, we’ll just have to find them first,” Quinn says, his grin sharp and dangerous now. “But that’s a problem for another day.”
When we get back, I watch as they throw all the files into the industrial incinerator—the reason they have one is not something I want to think about—the flames consuming everything. The smell of burning paper fills the air, sharp and acrid.
“Good riddance,” Whit mutters, his jaw tight.
Quinn claps his hands together once, making me jump. “Well, I don’t know about you all, but I suddenly find myself in the mood for pizza.”
Beckett sighs. “Quinn…”
“Shut up?” Quinn asks. Beckett just looks at him for a minute. I can see the corners of his mouth twitching as he fights to maintain his stoic demeanor.
“Pizza is the greatest thing in the world. If you disagree, I’m gonna need to see some ID,” Quinn says, changing his tone to something over-the-top and cartoonish, making us all burst into laughter.
I’m barely paying attention to their chatter—Whit and Beckett discuss the logistics of pizza delivery while Quinn sings something about… turtle ninjas ? All I can think about is how bright my life has become with them in it.
I watch them, their voices filling the space with warmth. Whit, watching Quinn, arms crossed, shaking his head with a quiet smile. Beckett, ever the leader, keeping them from getting too off track. And Quinn—unapologetically chaotic, making us all laugh when the night should be too heavy for humor.
It should terrify me—how much I need this, how much I crave it. The chaos, the certainty, the way their voices stir something deep inside me
It doesn’t.
It feels—right.