Chapter 7 #2
Vivian woke to soft light bleeding around the blinds. Her head throbbed, sharp and rhythmic, and her ribs pulsed in a deep, dragging ache. The faint smell of burnt hospital coffee drifted through the cracked door—comfortless, but grounding.
Blake slept in the chair beside her, shoulders slumped, wearing a scrub top someone must have given him.
One arm crossed his chest; the other hung loose over his thigh.
The morning light caught the bruise darkening his jaw and the small streak of dried blood along his neck. He looked exhausted. Human. Still here.
Her throat tightened. He’d stayed. Of course he’d stayed.
A gentle knock tapped at the door.
Vivian turned as it eased open. Dan leaned in, still in his dock jacket, cap shoved back on his head.
“Hey,” he whispered, like a full voice might break something in the room. His eyes flicked over the bandage at her temple, then to Blake sleeping nearby. Relief loosened his posture. “Just stopped by on my way to grab my car. Figured I’d check on you. You don’t have to explain what happened.”
“I’m a klutz,” she said without hesitation. “Slick stairs at the lighthouse.”
He stepped inside, careful not to let the latch click, and slid a worn business card onto her rolling tray.
“If you need anything, day or night—call me. I mean it. I know you’re upset with your man for buying that boat, but he clearly cares.”
“Dan—”
He lifted a hand. “I know. None of my business.” His smile was crooked, a little sad. “I’m rooting for you two, though. Maybe if I had…” He cleared his throat and offered a small smile. “Just glad you’re okay.”
She swallowed, wanting to ask about what he was going to say, but the sadness in his eyes told her that was a haunt from many years past, and it wasn’t her business. “Thank you.”
He nodded toward Blake. “Tell him I’ll help him fix Windward Lady up to sell so you two can get back to your marriage. That’s more important than a boat.”
He slipped out—soft as a breath. “Have a nice day, ladies.”
“You, too,” a woman she assumed was a nurse said.
“No more visitors allowed in that room. And security was notified they’re not to leave,” another voice said in a hushed tone in the corridor. “…we got a federal hold order on her.”
“From who?”
“Told credentials cleared, but no name given. That’s all I know. Don’t pay me enough to ask questions.”
“No kidding.”
A federal order.
A sharp rush of adrenaline flushed through her.
Their voices trailed away, so she looked at Blake again—his hand resting near the darkening bandage, his breathing slightly shallow. He needed rest. But staying here was no longer safe.
She reached out. “Blake.”
He startled awake instantly, hand going to his sidearm before he recognized her.
“It’s okay,” she murmured.
He scrubbed a hand across his face. “What’s wrong?”
“I overheard the nurses. A hold order came in. We’re not to leave.” She looked down at the blanket and tugged at a strand. “What do you think it means?”
“We were given the clear to return to our covers if we weren’t blown.” Blake’s expression hardened. “Someone at the Bureau isn’t being honest, or Laurel Tide knows who we are and plans another hit on us.” He pushed from the chair. “Until we know who gave that order and why, we’re leaving.”
She winced as she pushed upright. “And how are we getting out if we’re being watched?”
“Lower level. East loading bay. We vanish before they know we’re gone.”
“Where will we go?” Vivian asked.
“My safehouse. It’s off books. You never logged the address, right?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then Bureau doesn’t know its location.”
She nodded, relief and fear sparking together.
He helped her sit up. Pain flared through her ribs, sharp enough to steal her breath. Blake steadied her, hands warm and gentle.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
She hated how weak she felt, how even raising her arms made her tremble. But Blake didn’t rush her. His patience was steady—anchoring.
“I can do it,” she whispered.
“I know. Let me help anyway.”
He eased the robe around her shoulders, lifted her hair free of the collar. His knuckles grazed her neck. A shiver slipped through before she could stop it.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded. Couldn’t speak.
He tied the robe, stepped beside her, hand hovering near her elbow.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But let’s go anyway.”
He handed her the recovered sidearm. “Stay close.”
“Always.”
The hallway outside was unnervingly quiet.
Hospitals hummed—machines, vents, footsteps. But this? This silence was coiled. Listening.
Blake guided her along the wall, checking corners with the natural precision of a man who had survived too much. His shirt was stained with dried blood, and each movement carried a subtle wince.
Vivian kept behind him, Glock low but ready. Her head throbbed. Her ribs burned with every breath. But she forced her pace steady.
They reached the first junction. Blake angled them into the dimmer service wing.
Halfway along, Vivian caught motion through a glass panel—two “maintenance” workers near the elevator. Too still. Too prepared. One had the outline of a holstered weapon under his coveralls.
Vivian whispered, “Blake.”
He guided her toward an alcove. Reflection in the polished elevator doors confirmed it—armed, waiting.
Not hospital staff.
Not Bureau.
His extraction team.
Blake murmured, “Basement level.”
She nodded.
They slipped back and into the stairwell.
A faint metallic click drifted up from below. Slow. Controlled. Someone checking a chamber, not a radio.
Then another pair of footsteps.
A third.
Vivian froze.
Blake listened—body tense, not afraid. Calculating.
“Back,” he mouthed.
They retreated into the corridor just as the stairwell door slammed open behind them.
“Go,” Blake whispered.
They ran.
A voice followed—smooth, almost bored.
“Leaving so soon?”
Vivian’s pulse knifed through her ribs. That voice. The same cold amusement she’d heard at the lighthouse, and in her room.
They reached the dim service hallway. The elevator chimed.
Too soft. Too polite. Wrong.
The doors slid open.
A man in hospital scrubs stood inside. Tall. Still. Familiar.
Vivian’s blood iced.
The lighthouse. The fall. The ink circling his wrist. The same man that had stabbed Blake.
He smiled—not surprised.
Not triumphant.
Expectant.
“You should’ve stayed unconscious,” he said. Not taunting—just matter-of-fact. “It would’ve kept them off your trail.”
Blake raised his weapon. “Hands where I can see them.”
The man lifted them slowly, palms open—not in surrender, but in restraint.
“If I wanted either of you dead,” he said calmly, “the stairwell would have finished it. Or the parking lot. Or her room. But that’s not my plan.”
Vivian felt the floor tilt. “You shoved me.”
“I stopped you,” he corrected, voice even. “You were about to signal a surveillance node you didn’t know existed. Laurel Tide was watching. If they realized you’d seen the casing, you wouldn’t have left the lighthouse alive.”
“And why stab him?”
The man let out a low, exasperated breath. “It was a surface level slash, and I needed to make it look good, because they were watching. Now, if you’re done with the questions, I’d like to keep you alive, but you’re making it increasingly difficult.”
Blake didn’t lower the gun—but his breath changed, a small shift of doubt cutting through certainty.
“So what do you want?” Blake asked.
“To keep you alive long enough to finish what you started.” He stepped back, giving space instead of closing it. “Take this elevator to three. Back stairs to the main floor. Emergency exit to the east lot.”
“And your team?” Blake asked.
“Not mine,” he said. “Laurel’s. They’re thirty seconds out.”
A flicker, almost regret, passed through his eyes.
“You have one minute.”
Vivian swallowed hard. “Why help us?”
His jaw ticked once. “Because you’re closer than you think. And if you die now, Laurel Tide wins.
Blake edged forward enough to keep Viv behind him, his pulse thudding so hard it blurred sound into one relentless rush.
“Step out,” Blake ordered.
The man didn’t. “You want to live, you need to listen.” His mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Guess we’re past introductions. You can call me Thirteen.”
Blake’s jaw locked. “You’ve got about three seconds before—”
“Before those men chasing you round the corner?” Thirteen tilted his head toward the hall. “You need to know the why behind this? Fine.”
He reached slowly into his pocket and drew out a phone. Not a weapon, just a burner — one of the cheap, untraceable kinds Blake had used in countries where names were liabilities. He held it out.
“She’s alive,” he said. “You want proof, it’s on there. My daughter. Laurel Tide has her.”
Vivian’s breath caught, a sharp inhale that cut through the tension. Blake didn’t lower his gun.
“You’ve got ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t put you down right now,” Blake said.
Thirteen’s gaze flicked toward Vivian, then back.
“Because I can get you out of here alive. And because you want Laurel Tide as bad as I do. Maybe more. You help me get my daughter out, I stay behind. Feed you everything I know. Access codes. Routes. Drop points. You’ll never get that from anyone else.
I’m high up enough to give you everything. ”
The elevator chimed — the soft, oblivious sound of a world that didn’t know it was on fire.
Blake hesitated, reading the man’s stance, the micro-tells in his hands, the tightness around his eyes. Not bluff. Not exactly plea either. Something worse — conviction.
Men’s voices echoed down the hall.
Thirteen took a small step forward, lowering his voice.
“You can shoot me. You’ll feel good about it for five minutes.
Then Laurel Tide will scrub every trace you were ever here.
Or…” He let the word hang, heavy with implication.
“You let me help. I’ll stay buried. You get everything you wanted to take down Laurel. ”