Page 37 of Code Name: Hunter
“On the table,” I tell him, pointing to the clear stretch of steel under the bare bulb. I strip down to my slip, knot my hair, and glove up. The med kit thumps beside him, revealing sterile forceps, a suture kit, gauze, tape, syringes, alcohol ampoules, antiseptic wipes, and a scalpel. I lay each tool out in a precise line—forceps, scalpel, gauze, suture kit—my fingers brushing over the scalpel’s cold metal. I pause, drawing in a breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to do. My hands are steady, but my pulse pounds hard enough I can feel it in my teeth.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“Hush. I’m busy saving your life.” I cut away the soaked bandage, exposing an angry red wound. “Stay with me. I’ve got to get the bullet out.” I snap an alcohol ampoule, the sharp scentcutting through the metallic tang of blood. I steady my hands, reminding myself this isn’t Prague. This is now, and this time I refuse to lose him. The memory of what happened in Prague is a phantom—the chilly rain, the slick grip of his hand slipping from mine as I pulled away, the echo of an explosion swallowed by the dark.
He hisses when I press the gauze to his side, muscles clenching. What I see tightens my chest—fever -flushed skin, blood soaking gauze, and his eyes steady on mine.
“On three,” I say, then take it on “one.” The bullet pings into the tray.
He growls. “What the fuck happened to three? Can’t you count, woman?”
“Didn’t want you to pull away,” I answer, showing him the blood -slick round.
“Souvenir?”
“I prefer kitschy magnets, thank you.”
I flush the wound, thread the needle, and stitch the wound while thoughts of Prague crash over me again. “I’m sorry,” I tell him—for the pain, for Prague, for doubting him.
“You’re here,” he says, the words roughened with both relief and something deeper. “That’s all that matters.” His fingers still mine, then deliberately interlace them with his, holding on as if to make sure I believe him. I let my fingers curl back, not just holding him, but anchoring myself to the rough strength in his grip.
When he’s wrapped and stable, I help him down from the table slowly, bracing his weight against my shoulder. He mutterssomething about being fine, but the stiffness in his step betrays him.
I fish through the med kit again, this time coming up with a small bottle of antibiotics and some painkillers. “Two of each now, more in twelve hours,” I tell him, pressing the pills into his palm, giving him a swallow of water from a bottle. He takes them without argument. I guide him across the safehouse to the narrow cot tucked in the corner, lowering him onto it as gently as I can.
He’s out in seconds. I crouch beside him, brushing hair from his forehead, my chest tight with the weight of everything we’ve risked getting here. “I’ll wake you at daybreak,” I promise quietly, more to myself than to him.
My gaze shifts to the computer on the bench. I power it up, praying it still works. The wait drags until the Cerberus login screen finally appears. I enter the codes I’d watched Logan use, memorizing them for this moment.
The dossier flares to life, sharp as a weapon. My finger hovers over the delete key, temptation pounding in my ears. One keystroke could erase it all, the original hard copy having been burned once we had it downloaded into the Cerberus system. Could end the hunt, stop the bloodshed, maybe even buy us peace.
I freeze. The cost is too steep. Would it mean losing Logan? Those files could topple the cabal, save lives by exposing every secret. Yet part of me longs for it to vanish, for the burden to disappear with a single choice.
My hand shakes, caught between self-preservation and the mission. Delete it, and the mission dies. Keep it, and Logan might. Always the same choice—my heart or the ghosts we’re chasing.
The cursor pulses over the command. In my mind, the dossier dissolves. Names, faces, operations; all of them erasedfrom history. Some would die unseen. Others might finally be free. My body remembers the slick heat of Logan’s blood, the crushing weight of holding him upright.
“Don’t.” His voice is quiet steel, but there’s a flicker of raw exhaustion in his eyes that cuts deeper than the tone. “Don’t give them what they want, Vivian. Not now, not after everything we’ve bled for this.”
“What if they only want me dead? What if they want us both dead?” The questions escape before I can stop them, heavy with the weight of every fear I’ve tried to bury. My voice is low, almost fragile, as if saying it aloud might make it true.
His voice drops into something darker, more certain, a vow edged in steel. “Then they die wanting.”
I cross to him, sinking onto the edge of the cot before curling my fingers around his hand, grounding myself in the warmth and weight of his touch. The words are a blade, cutting clean through the tangle of fear in my chest. “I’m tired of running,” I admit, the confession pulled from somewhere raw, deeper than exhaustion, heavy with all the years and miles behind us. "I've been doing this for four years, Logan. Four long years."
“You’re not alone anymore,” he promises.
I lock the drive away without deleting it. I slide under the blanket and thread my fingers through his. He shifts, even half-asleep, and pulls me firmly against his chest, his arm wrapping around me like he has no intention of letting go.
The steady beat of his heart thuds against my cheek, anchoring me. “Then they die wanting,” I repeat as a whisper into the warm, solid space between us, letting myself rest—for now.
When morning comes, the temptation to delete the dossier still claws at me, but I keep it buried under my ribs and off my tongue. Logan sits up slowly, catching my eye. "You’ve got that look again," he murmurs.
"What look?" I deflect, focusing on unwrapping his bandage.
"The one that says you want to do something reckless." His tone is dry, but there’s an edge to it.
I ignore that and examine the wound. "You’re healing, but we need to stay on top of it." I press two more antibiotics into his palm.
