Page 21 of Code Name: Hunter
And if Wolfe thinks he can use that—use her—he’s about to find out exactly what it costs to gamble with what's mine. I backed off once. I let him walk away with her name on his lips and blood on his hands. Not this time. This time, I come at him head-on. There won't be a chain short enough or strong enough to hold me back, no directive brutal enough to blunt what’s coming. He played his hand once, and not knowing, I let it ride.
But now? Now I know. Now I play to win. Now I’m not just coming for him—I’m coming to end him.
I turn to the screen, eyes fixed on the ring and make a vow under my breath. I will find you, Wolfe. And this time, you don’t walk away.
I let you haunt me once. I let you fracture her, fractureme. But you're not a ghost anymore.
You're a loose end. I specialize in cutting those, and when I do, I’ll make sure the last thing you see is the truth you tried to bury staring back at you.
9
VIVIAN
Monte Carlo pulses like a lover in silk sheets—tempting, untrustworthy, and far too good at hiding knives in lace. The trick is remembering the lace is always bait—and the knives are always aimed at you.
The street market sprawls in layers of scent and sound—spices, citrus, and the sharp bite of brine that stings the back of my throat. Colors bloom in every direction: ripe produce stacked high, tapestries fluttering like flags of forgotten kingdoms, jeweled glass bottles catching slivers of sun. Buskers fill the corners with violin strings and soft flamenco echoes. A woman argues in French over the price of lavender soap. And through it all, I move unnoticed. A soul wrapped in linen and shadow. A parade of tourists flows around me, their gazes sliding past like water over polished stone.
Perfect.
I drift through the market like smoke—ungraspable, shifting with the breeze—trailing my decoy coat just enough to catch the eye without holding it. Just long enough to plant a hook in the subconscious—so when they lose me, they’ll want to find me twice as bad. Loose ponytail, aviators reflecting fractured sunlight, messenger bag worn like a second skin. Every detailwas curated to be forgettable. I blend into the scene, my presence as unobtrusive as the street musicians strumming near the olive trees on the corner. I’ve run this play more times than I can count—distract, dissolve, disappear. But today?
Today I’m the spark before the fire. It’s about provocation, not disappearance.
My tail hooks me near a stand of colorful embroidered kaftans—his movement precise, measured. Civilian clothes hang comfortably on his frame, but they can't hide the tension riding his spine or the practiced scan of his eyes. He checks corners without turning his head, maintains distance without losing contact. A shadow with discipline—close enough to strike, far enough to let me wonder when. Every step is an echo of muscle memory drilled into him by years of black ops conditioning. He doesn’t flinch when a child darts in front of him, doesn’t pause to sample the dried fruit offered by a vendor. His focus is unwavering.
He’s good. Cerberus good. But I test him anyway. If he passes, I’ll know how fast I need to burn this bridge. If he fails, he’ll never see me coming.
I slip behind a spice vendor draped in burlap sacks of turmeric and anise, letting the scent cloud his sightline. I double back toward the rotisserie stall, blending with a trio of tourists snapping selfies. My movement is casual, but calculated—angles tight, tempo irregular, like a jazz riff designed to trip him up.
He follows. Steady. Controlled. His gaze never lingers, but I feel it trace the hem of my coat with sniper precision. Someone trained by MI-6 or the CIA—or someone who wants me tothinkthey were.
I buy time with a handful of dried figs, lifting them from a crate while the vendor barks in Arabic-accented French. I act distracted, digging in my pocket with exaggerated irritation. The euros slip through my fingers and clatters to the ground. I cursein English—not loud enough to draw attention, but just enough to sound authentic. I crouch to retrieve them, shifting my weight slowly as I scan the reflection in a chrome hubcap beside me. He's still there. Watching, waiting. Waiting is its own kind of threat—it leaves space for the imagination to sharpen the blade.
I count to three, turn the frustration on my face into a mask of haste, and pivot north. I slip through a narrow alleyway laced with laundry lines, scooter grease, and the hint of someone's burnt meal. Heat bounces off the walls. A moped backfires, but I don’t flinch. I just vanish.
The metal rungs of the fire escape are hot under my palms, sun-scorched and weathered by salt air. I scale the ladder like it’s muscle memory—because it is—and take position on a semi-flat terracotta rooftop overlooking the market below. I move without hesitation, boots finding rhythm on cracked tiles, breath controlled, muscle memory.
At the top, the Mediterranean sun slams against my back, searing through the thin fabric of my linen shirt like a punishment. Heat rises off the tiles in shimmering waves, baking the surrounding air. I crouch behind a low roof-garden wall, knees brushing dried rosemary and chipped terracotta planters. Heart pounding, pulse steady.
I press low against the sun-warmed lip of the rooftop, the edge rough beneath my palms as I scan the crowd below. Heat warps the air, making bodies ripple like watercolors. But I don’t blink. I breathe slowly. Steady. One breath. Two. My pupils narrow behind tinted lenses, filtering chaos into clarity. From up here, every movement writes its own confession—posture, pace, the way a gaze skims or lingers.
And then I see him.
My tail—moving like he’s just another shopper meandering through the sunlit chaos. But I recognize the rhythm. The pattern. He scans discreetly, eyes flicking past stalls andcanopies without stopping, subtly angling for high visibility points. A hunter in cargo shorts.
He emerges from the alley as if he belongs there, swagger woven into muscle memory. That maddening, easy gait. Casual purposes threaded with too much precision. Not too fast, not too slow. Eyes forward, hands relaxed at his sides, each footfall placed with surgical intent. The walk you only learn after years of being taught that presence is as much a weapon as a sidearm. He thinks he’s invisible, and he thinks I don’t see him.
I scan the rooftops, the alley shadows, the reflection in a polished fruit cart mirror—subtle, patient sweeps. Only one tail so far, but that means nothing. Professionals travel in layers. The obvious one is bait. The real danger is the one I haven’t spotted yet.
If they’re well-trained, there are more. There should always be more.
And then?—
My breath catches, sharp and involuntary.
Across the square—thirty meters, maybe less—a figure moves with a stride that sucker-punches my memory. Dark jacket. Easy gait. That posture, that exact weight distribution in the step. The same tilt of the head that used to mean he was scanning exits.
Wolfe.
