Chapter 8 #2
Even before the man pulled off his goggles, Blake knew who it was. The same stance, the same eerie stillness that had filled the elevator back at the hospital. Thirteen. His gloved hand flexed once at his side, and the faint mark of the laurel tattoo caught the gray light.
They met at the front porch, the wind cutting through the eaves hard enough to make the boards creak.
“Morning,” Thirteen said, voice calm—too calm. “You both look like you’re expecting an ambush.”
“Maybe because we don’t trust you,” Vivian snipped, arms crossed tight against the cold.
That earned him a small smile. “You’re sharp. He wasn’t exaggerating.”
Her brow furrowed. “Who?”
Thirteen’s eyes flicked between them, reading the tension like he’d written it himself. “Maddox.”
Blake’s gut went cold. “I knew it,” he said, stepping forward. “I knew Maddox was the leak.”
Thirteen shook his head once, slow. “Not him.”
Blake stopped short. “Then who?”
“Someone close to him,” Thirteen said, voice steady but laced with something that sounded like pity. “Someone who’s been feeding Laurel Tide intel for months. Maddox doesn’t even see it. He thinks he’s in control.”
The wind picked up, flinging snow across the porch. Blake set his jaw, the muscle barely ticking, his mind turning hard and fast, matching names to possibilities. He didn’t like how short the list was.
Vivian’s breath clouded the air between them. “So he’s not the enemy but not smart enough to see one. We’ve been running blind,” she said.
Thirteen nodded once. “And if you don’t move soon, you’ll run out of time entirely.”
“You said you could help,” Blake said.
“I said I would,” Thirteen unhooked a bag from the back of the snowmobile and tossed it to the ground, then pulled a small waterproof satchel from his jacket and set it on top of the bag.
“Coordinates. Schedules. Access codes. It’s not everything, but it’s enough to get you close with the intel I already left you in the car. ”
Vivian crouched and grabbed the bag. “Close to what?”
“To the docks,” Thirteen said. “Laurel Tide’s next shipment leaves in forty-eight hours. My daughter will be on that boat. I thought we’d have more time when I arranged you two getting aboard Windward Lady, but Laurel got spooked.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. “That was you.”
Thirteen only stood stone-faced as if the question wasn’t worth a response.
“And if we do this, what do we get in return?”
Thirteen hesitated, and something—regret, maybe—passed through his eyes. “You get her out. Make sure she’s safe. And I’ll get you everything.”
Blake studied him, noting the faint tremor in his hand, the tired resignation that looked too practiced to fake. “You’re staying behind.”
Thirteen nodded once. “Someone has to feed you intel. If I vanish, Laurel Tide goes dark. But if I’m still here…” He shrugged. “I can buy you time. Buy her time.”
The wind cut through Blake’s coat, sharp enough to sting, but his focus stayed locked on the man in front of him. “Why the sudden change of heart? People like you don’t grow consciences overnight.”
Thirteen met his gaze without flinching. “People like me don’t usually have daughters either.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Blake felt something twist behind his ribs, a flash of the photo on Thirteen’s phone—wide eyes, dark braids, fear no child should know.
It pulled at the same place that had kept him up half the night, watching Vivian breathe under that threadbare blanket, trying not to remember the way her mouth had felt under his.
He shoved the memory down where it couldn’t get in the way.
“The girl in the video,” he said.
Thirteen nodded. “Her name’s Mara. They took her a few weeks ago.”
They took her because she fit the profile Laurel Tide targets—kids who slip through cracks, whose disappearances don’t immediately raise alarms.”
“If you’re so high up, why don’t you get her out?” Blake asked.
“I can’t risk them discovering she’s mine. Heck, I didn’t know until a few weeks ago. You’re the only two who know that fact.”
Blake exhaled slowly, breath fogging in the air. For a second, the soldier in him understood—the helplessness, the guilt that burrowed under the skin and stayed there. “And this is your penance.”
“This is my choice,” Thirteen said, shoulders slumped for a second before he stood like dangerous enemy again.
“Aren’t you worried what’ll happen to her even if she makes it out?” Vivian asked in a tone that sounded less agent and more motherly.
Thirteen rubbed a hand down his face, the motion rough, almost punishing.
“Anything is better than her future with me. I wasn’t good enough for her mother.
Rochelle… she saw that long before I did.
” His eyes drifted past Vivian and Blake, unfocused, as if the memory was happening on the far side of the room.
“She didn’t tell me about Mara until weeks before she died.
Weeks. And not because she didn’t trust me—because she did.
She knew exactly who I was. What I wasn’t.
” A hollow laugh scraped out of him, short and joyless.
“I’d never be good enough for her either.
Best gift I can give that kid is distance. Miles of it. An ocean, if I’m lucky.”
“You don’t know that,” Vivian said, but Thirteen shook his head.
“I never stood a chance at her age. I know what growing up in my shadow would do. I won’t let history repeat itself.”
For the first time since they’d met him, Thirteen looked… small. Not weak, but worn down by the weight of a life he’d never fixed and couldn’t outrun.
His gaze stayed far away for a long moment—somewhere in the past, somewhere with Rochelle, somewhere he’d never repair.
Then he snapped his chin up, sealing the emotion behind steel.
“You’ll need to move by nightfall,” he said, voice snapping back to tactical precision. “There’s a patrol every six hours along the inlet road. They’ll widen the perimeter by evening. You stay past sundown, you’ll freeze or be found.”
All the softness vanished—the man closing the door on himself before anyone else could. He turned toward the snowmobile.
Blake’s voice stopped him. “Why trust us? You don’t even know if we’ll keep our word.”
Thirteen half-turned, smirk faint but real. “Because you’re you,” he said simply. “The one who won’t quit even when it costs him everything. And you won’t let a little girl be abused by the bullies. And her…” His eyes flicked to Vivian. “She’s the one thing you wouldn’t risk losing.”
The words landed like a punch. Blake didn’t look Viv’s way. Couldn’t. Not when the memory of her lips still felt too close, too warm against the cold.
Thirteen pulled on his goggles and started the engine.
And then he was gone—swallowed by the storm, the growl of the snowmobile fading into white.
Blake stood there for a long moment, the silence pressing in on him. The cold bit deep, but it wasn’t the weather that left him unsteady. It was her—standing beside him, cheeks flushed from the wind, eyes bright and alive.
He tore his gaze away before he made another mistake. “We move in thirty,” he said, his voice low. “Grab what you can carry.”
She searched his face. “Do you believe him?”
He met her eyes, the echo of last night’s closeness still whispering beneath his ribs. “I believe he’s desperate. And sometimes, that’s the only kind of truth that matters.”
Vivian drew a slow breath, her expression steady even as a flicker of warmth crossed her features. “Then let’s make sure he didn’t just trade one life for three.”
Blake nodded once. “Agreed. But how’s your ribs and your head?”
“How’s your side?” Viv shot back.
Blake nodded. “Understood.”
And they both did. They’d been trained to keep going despite bruised ribs, concussions, stitches, and far worse.
Outside, the sleet thickened, swallowing the world in white. Inside, the cold settled into his bones—but not deep enough to erase the memory of her lips or the quiet truth that scared him most.
He’d risked everything before. But this was the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.
Morning turned to afternoon as they combed through every piece of intel they had, tension stretched tight in the small cottage.
Blake turned from the window, forcing his focus back where it belonged.
The storm was getting worse—wind clawing through the trees, sleet slicing sideways through the fading light.
Tracks wouldn’t last long out there. Good and bad in equal measure.
He exhaled slowly and looked at Vivian.
She sat stiffly on the edge of the worn armchair, her arm wrapped protectively around her ribs, trying—and failing—to hide the strain bracketing her eyes.
She’d been pretending she could push through the pain, that she didn’t need help, but he saw every shallow breath, every wince she tried to bury.
“Viv,” he said gently, “it’s time to get those ribs taped.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it, pressing her lips together. Trust. Reluctant, fragile, but there. She nodded once.
Blake grabbed the roll of athletic tape and crouched beside her. “I’ll make it quick.”
She drew in a tight breath and reached for the hem of her shirt, lifting it gingerly. The dark bloom of bruises along her side made him go still. Anger flared—hot, sharp, and useless. He reined it in. She didn’t need his rage. She needed steadiness.
“Okay,” he murmured, voice low. “I’ve got you.”
He placed his hand at her waist, warm against her cold skin. Vivian flinched, not from him, but from the contact, and he softened his touch. Slow. Careful. Let her feel everything he wasn’t saying.
“Tell me if anything hurts.”
“It already hurts,” she said, trying for humor. It came out thin.
He gave her a quiet smile. “Then tell me if I make it worse.”