Page 34 of Code Name: Hunter
The first muzzle flash blooms in the mirror, flaring bright against the shadowed backdrop of the pines. The crack of the shot splits the silence of the hills like a whip, deafening in its closeness. Safety glass explodes inward under a short, violent burst of automatic fire, stinging my neck and cheek with glittering shards as the rear window spiderwebs in an instant.
The acrid ghost of gunpowder lingers, threading through the pine-scented air and coating my tongue in metallic adrenaline. It blends with the faint scent of pine drifting in through the cracked window and the metallic dryness of adrenaline coating my mouth.
Vivian jerks at the sound, half-turning toward it, eyes wide—scared, but not—her breathing quick and controlled, a soldier’s response to chaos. I catch that flash of tension in her shoulders,the way her fingers brace against the seat, and know she’s present in the moment even if her pulse is racing. I’ve already slammed the accelerator down, the tires spitting gravel as the engine roars and the SUV lunges forward, pinning us both to the seats.
“Seatbelt. Now.”
She snaps it into place, eyes flicking from me to the mirror and back. “How many?”
“As far as I can tell, two in the car behind us, maybe three. Passengers leaning out with a rifle. They’re not here to talk.”
She lets out a sharp, steadying breath, a hint of defiance threading through it. “Then let’s make them sweat and bleed for every miserable inch they think they can take.”
I catch the words and the tone, and despite the chaos, there’s a flicker in my chest—part wariness, part respect. She’s rattled, but that iron edge in her tone tells me she’s still thinking, still in the fight. I glance her way just long enough to register the set of her jaw, the deliberate way she breathes through the tension, and it hits me. This woman doesn’t just survive the fire; she turns it back on whoever set it.
The next turn looms—sharp, blind, the kind that can make or break the chase. I crank the wheel hard, pushing us in hot enough that the tires let out a tortured scream against the asphalt, the sound vibrating through the steering column into my arms. The centrifugal pull shoves us toward the passenger side as the SUV grips and sways.
In the mirror, the sedan fishtails, its rear end sliding wide, but the driver corrects fast and keeps on us. No rookie behind that wheel. Another shot hammers into the rear panel with a deep, ugly thud, the metal reverberating up through the chassis and into my bones, the whole vehicle shuddering like it’s been punched by a giant’s fist.
Vivian twists sharply in her seat, scanning the road ahead and behind, eyes narrowed against the glare of the oncoming curve. Her voice carries both a challenge and urgency. “Have you got a fallback plan, or are we just winging this on adrenaline and bad ideas?”
“Cache in three clicks," I tell her. The cache is Cerberus' nearest prepped drop point; stocked with gear and supplies I planted months ago in case a run like this ever went bad.
My gaze is welded to the narrowing ribbon of road ahead, every curve and drop a potential kill zone.
“We have to survive the stretch between here and there—breathing, moving, and preferably not full of holes,” I say.
The road straightens for a stretch, which is both a blessing and a curse—it gives me speed, but it gives them a clear shot too. The sedan edges closer.
Then I hear it. Not the gunfire. Not the tires.
A shout. Male. Deep voice, cutting through the wind and the engine noise as their window drops lower.
“Vivian!”
Vivian goes rigid as she recognizes the voice.
The name hangs there like a lit fuse, each syllable spitting sparks in my head, burning down toward an explosion I can feel in my bones. Every heartbeat is a fuse shortening, the promise of something dangerous and irreversible waiting at the end.
Her real name. The one buried so deep it can't even be found in MI-6 files without the right clearance. A jolt of cold goes through me, sharper than the night air. My mind rifles through possibilities—compromised intel, ghosts from her past, an inside leak—but none of them make me like our odds.
My jaw locks. “Don’t freeze on me,” I bark, sharper than I intend.
She blinks once, sharp, and for an instant the mask slips—panic flaring bright in her eyes before she wrestles it down. Herbreath catches, the smallest tremor tightening her shoulders, and I catch every micro-shift. “He said...”
“I heard.”
The sedan snarls up alongside us on the left, engine noise rising, passenger braced in the open window with a compact submachine gun that catches the light in a deadly glint.
Time stretches to a knife-edge, every sound sharpening—the rush of wind through the cabin, the ragged thump of my pulse in my ears—as every muscle in my body goes cold and precise. My world compresses to angles, trajectories, and the fraction of a second between their trigger squeeze and my counter, the air itself thick with the charge of what’s about to happen.
“Down!” I shout, slamming my arm across Vivian’s chest, forcing her lower in the seat.
The short, violent burst of automatic fire shreds the side mirror and chews into the panel above her head, shards of glass biting into my forearm.
I bring the Glock up, my arm braced against the seat frame as I send two sharp rounds into the shooter’s door—metal dimpling under the impact—before they can duck back.
The sound is a flat, deafening crack in the confined space of the cab. I wrench the wheel hard, the steering column shuddering in my grip, shoving our SUV toward their vehicle and forcing them into the guardrail’s unforgiving steel.
