Page 17 of Code Name: Hunter
The sound of gravel spitting beneath fast-moving tires jolts every nerve in my body. I grab Logan’s arm as the black SUV barrels up the hillside, its tinted windows swallowing the moonlight like a shadow devouring the road. The low growl of the engine vibrates through the ground, a steady predator’s purr that makes the fine hairs along my arms rise. The clouds part—just enough for a sliver of silver light to catch on the windshield, glinting like a blade before vanishing. My stomach drops.
"Here we go," I mutter, instincts kicking in like a whip crack. My fingers curl around the SIG at my back, smooth from use, cold despite the night’s heat. I scan the angles, calculating cover, escape routes, kill zones. The SUV is still—its engine ticks as it idles. I shift my weight, muscles coiling, ready for whatever's about to pour out of that vehicle like oil from a ruptured drum. Stillness has weight, and this one presses against my ribs like a held blade, daring me to breathe first.
Logan steps in front of me, shielding me with that lethal, deliberate calm that used to drive me mad—but saved my life. His jaw ticks, eyes scanning the shadows, already five steps ahead. "Three inside," he says, voice clipped, almost too quietto hear. He’s assessing every movement, every angle, tension rolling off him in waves. Precise. Deadly. Familiar.
The vehicle rolls to a stop less than ten feet away, tires crunching on loose gravel. A beat passes—a breath held by the night itself—before all three doors snap open in perfect precision. One man emerges with lethal grace, like a viper uncoiling. Tactical gear hugs his frame, matte black and made for shadows. Pistol drawn, silencer glinting faintly in the moonlight.
Then I see it: a silver signet ring with a deep blue stone. Oval cut. I know that ring. I traced it with my fingers in beds scattered across too many countries to count. I saw it flash when Wolfe raised a toast. When he brushed hair from my cheek. I watched him bleed beside me on too many missions. The recognition hits with the same force as a bullet, except this one tunnels inward, burrowing through bone and memory until my hands want to shake and my throat tightens.
It’s the same ring. Wolfe’s ring. For a split second, it’s not the mission that’s in jeopardy—it’s me. Not because of bullets. Because of belief. The kind that corrodes from the inside out.
It can’t be. The design is etched in my memory like a scar. Wolfe’s ring. The one he never took off—not for cover stories, not for assassinations. Not for me.
My lungs seize. I want to deny it, dismiss it as coincidence, but the nausea crawling up my throat won’t let me. That ring was bespoke, one-of-a-kind. Commissioned by his grandfather. I remember staring at it in hotel rooms across Europe, listening to him talk about legacy and lies.
I'm so distracted by Wolfe's ring, I completely miss the other two men climbing out of the SUV.
"Down!" Logan barks, his voice sharp as steel. He grabs my shoulder, yanking me down and shoving me behind the jagged edge of a crumbling stone planter. My knees slam into thepacked earth, gravel biting through my trousers, but I barely register the sting. The air tastes of metal and cordite, each suppressed shot slicing the night into ragged ribbons.
My mind is reeling.
Gunfire slices overhead—sharp, suppressed cracks that barely disturb the night, but hit with deadly intent. The stone planter shudders as rounds pelt it, shards biting into my arms. Logan shifts beside me, body low and coiled, every line of him screaming readiness. His eyes track the muzzle flashes with cold calculation, reading their formation, timing, and intent. He’s not just reacting—he’s hunting. It's where he gets his call sign.
I pull my SIG free and brace my forearm against the edge of the planter, eyes sweeping the field. Two of them are moving wide, flanking us in a pincer pattern. The third—the one with the ring—stays central, giving orders in near-silent hand signals. They are professional. Trained. Disciplined.
But so are we.
They move as if they’ve drilled this a hundred times, as if they already know how I breathe, how I dodge, how I fight. That familiarity is its own kind of danger.
Logan glances at me once, a quick flick of the eyes—sharp, certain—and I nod. No need for words. We move as one. Predator and predator. This isn't just instinct—it’s intimacy honed through pain. Logan doesn’t just predict my next move. Hecountson it. And for the first time in years, I am counting on him too. He breaks left; I pivot right, slipping from behind cover like a whisper threaded with steel. The air vibrates with violence about to be unleashed, and every part of me welcomes it. I've missed this... working with him.
My pulse syncs with the gunfire as I race toward the tree line, boots barely skimming gravel. Logan fires two quick shots, forcing the central figure—the one with the ring—into a crouchbehind the SUV’s fender. He doesn’t flinch under pressure, but neither do we.
Ash appears, sliding from the trees like a wraith, blade low and lethal. She doesn’t speak. Her eyes meet mine for half a second, a silent coordination honed through shared blood and battle. Blade in hand, silent as smoke. Ash takes the left flank. Logan charges the center. I move to the right, drawing and firing.
The enemy reacts too slowly. That’s their mistake. They think they’re the hunters. They're wrong. They’re the hunted.
The man I aim for ducks, rolls, and returns fire. He’s good—clean lines, sharp reflexes. But not good enough. I drop him with two rounds to the chest, center mass, watching him jerk and collapse like a marionette with its strings cut. No hesitation. No remorse.
He came here to kill us. That forfeits mercy. Whatever he was before—soldier, agent, pawn—he chose his side. I’ll never apologize for surviving.
My breath doesn’t hitch. My pulse doesn’t stumble. He’s just another shadow trying to erase me. I’ve spent too long in the dark to flinch now.
Behind me, a grunt and a heavy thud of impact. Ash’s target is down, motionless. Her blade gleams red as she withdraws it from the man’s abdomen with a slow, practiced motion. Blood drips in fat beads onto the gravel, pooling beneath him. No hesitation in her stance. No flinch in her eyes. Just cold precision. She wipes the blade clean on his pants leg as if she just cut a piece of steak, and then sheathes her blade. She doesn’t look at the body once it’s down. For Ash, the fight ends the second the threat stops breathing.
I spin just in time to see Logan slam his man—the one with the ring—into the stone wall. The ring catches the moonlight as the guy tries to grab his weapon. Logan knocks it out of his hand,cracks his ribs with a knee, and finishes with a brutal palm strike to the throat. Efficient and final.
The body slumps to the ground, limbs folding unnaturally as his head lolls to the side. I see his face clearly now—similar bone structure, same military cut, even a scar along his jawline—but it’s not Wolfe. Relief doesn’t come—only a colder dread, the kind that whispers this was never about the man. It was about what he carried into this fight. Still, my eyes lock on the glint of silver near his knuckle. The ring. It shouldn't hurt this much. Not after everything. Not after I’ve buried him ten thousand times in my mind. But the pain isn't grief—it’s recognition.
It's identical. Same deep blue stone, same worn etching, same weight of memory. A copy so perfect it could only mean one thing. This wasn’t coincidence. Someone wanted me to see this. To question everything I thought was real.
I’ll never say it aloud—not to Logan, not to Fitz, not even to myself as I lie awake, tracing ceiling cracks as if they were constellations. The ring makes undeniable what I’ve only ever let myself believe in fleeting pieces.
Wolfe is alive.
Once the dust settles and the bullets stop flying, I look over and watch Ash scan the perimeter, then nod once and melt back into the trees. My heartbeat hasn’t caught up yet. The quiet that follows isn’t peace—it’s the pause between lightning and the strike.
The silence after combat is always the loudest. It hums in my ears like a countdown. And Logan—Logan looks like a man seconds from detonation. Logan grabs my hand in a grip too tight to be comforting and drags me back inside. The old villa door bangs shut behind us like a verdict. My back hits it hard, breath whooshing from my lungs. Then his hands slam into the wood beside my head. Not a touch—an impact. The door shakes. So do I, but I don’t show it.
