Page 45 of Code Name: Hunter
“Tea,” I answer evenly, meeting his stare.
Darius blinks slowly, realization dawning as his grip slackens on the cup. Archer’s voice is a low curse.
Logan straightens and tries to get to his feet, but his movements are sluggish now. “You drugged us.”
“I can’t risk you getting in my way.” My voice is calm, final. “Wolfe will come for me. He won’t hesitate if you’re in the line of fire. I need you alive to finish this if I don’t make it back.”
"You can't go in there alone without any backup."
“I can, and I mean to. I should have known he was a traitor, but I convinced myself to ignore the signs. I need to make this right,” I say, my voice steady even as my pulse pounds. “I know his tells, the way his ego drags him toward what he thinks is an easy win. I’ll set that bait so wide he won’t be able to resist stepping into it…"
His jaw tightens. “Vivian...”
“Save your breath.” I stand, stepping back toward the shadows. “There's nothing harmful in the drug, but it is effective. When you wake up, it’ll be done. One way or the other.”
The last thing I see before I turn away is Logan’s hand curling into a fist, his stormy eyes locked on me—not with anger, but something heavier, something that feels dangerously close to grief.
I make the journey alone, following a narrow, treacherous trail that twists up the mountainside toward the Cloister of the Black Madonna. Ice and snow crunch under each step. The wind slashes at my face until my cheeks sting. Twice I lose my footing on the ice--slick rock, catching myself against the frozen wall and forcing my breathing steady before pushing on.
The path narrows to a ledge in places, with nothing but darkness yawning below, and my legs tremble with the effort of keeping balance. But with each bend in the trail, the silhouette of the monastery grows clearer—an ink--black outline against the ghost--pale snow—pulling me forward until the looming gates finally rise before me.
The intel obtained in Brussels about the Iron Choir, paired with Wolfe’s relay and the dossier, left no doubt that Wolfe would surface for the right bait. His ego would allow nothing less. Up here in the Alps, in the shell of an abandoned monastery, I control what I can, the sightlines, approach routes, and choke points. The mountain will have to take care of the rest. It's the terrain where a single misstep could end you—and where I intend to make sure it ends Wolfe.
Hours later, the mountains rear up around me, sheer and unyielding, their snow--draped flanks catching the moonlight like cold steel. Each switchback steals a little more air from my lungs, pressing the altitude into my chest, until the climb feels less like travel and more like passage into another world. By the time I crest the ridge road, the valley behind me is swallowedin shadow, the last traces of civilization drowned beneath the peaks. It’s as if the rest of the world has simply ceased to exist.
The wind keens through the arches, its pitch rising and falling like a ghostly choir, each note swirling along the stone corridors until it seeps into the marrow of my bones. I tell myself it’s nothing more than the mountain exhaling into the night, but the way it curls around me, sharp and insistent, feels less like breath and more like a warning I can almost hear being whispered on the wind.
The cloister is older than memory, older than politics, older than Wolfe and all his rot. Pale moonlight bleeds over the courtyard, catching on the dark, weatherworn statue of the Virgin in the center. Her face is shadowed, but her outstretched hand is unmistakable—blessing or warning, I can’t decide.
I find a secluded, sheltered spot and settle at a narrow stone desk, most likely a repurposed lectern the monks once used for copying texts, in what was once their scriptorium. There is no trace of ink or vellum now; centuries of cold, damp air in the Alps have scoured away every hint, leaving only the sharper tang of my gun oil in the stillness. I withdraw a piece of notepaper I squirreled away in my pack. My hand hesitates above the page, the pen weighted with more than just ink, as if every choice I’ve made is pressing down through its barrel. This letter isn’t meant for now, but for the moment when the mountain or Wolfe might claim me, and Logan must face what remains before the first light breaks.
Logan—
If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it out. I want you to know I meant it—every time I said I trusted you. You’ve been my anchorin a storm I thought would never end, giving me something I stopped believing in after Prague—hope.
You gave me back a part of myself I thought was gone for good. and for that and so many other things, I will always love you. I’m sorry I couldn’t finish this with you. I'm sorry I couldn’t give you more than my war, my ghosts, and the pieces of me I hadn't already buried, but in the end, I gave you the best of me.
If I’m gone, promise me you’ll finish what we started. Put Wolfe in the ground, make damn sure he never casts another shadow over us—or anyone—again, and walk away from the ashes without looking back.
—V
The words are too clean for what I feel, but I don’t have the luxury of rewriting them. I fold the paper, slip it into an envelope, and mark it with nothing but his name. Any of the team who find it will know what to do if I don’t return.
I tuck the letter deep into the pack, hiding it beneath spare gear as if burying it might keep its meaning from finding me too soon. My fingers linger on the zipper before I force them away, drawing a long breath to steady the weight in my chest. Then I face forward, focusing on the task that will shape everything in the hours ahead.
The kill box takes shape in my mind before I move a single stone. MI-6 doctrine was drilled into me until I could build one in my sleep: choke point, overlapping fields of fire, no cover for the target, total cover for the aggressors. The cloister is perfect:long, narrow arcades on all four sides, the central courtyard wide open under the statue’s gaze.
I start with the southern arcade, shifting an ancient bench into position to block a clean retreat, placing an explosive device where it can't be seen, but linked to a deadman's switch I'll have with me. If I fall, or the abort code is not given in time, the last of this once great monument to peace and sanctuary will come down on Wolfe's head and bury the bastard once and for all.
The stone underfoot is cold enough to bite through the knees of my cargo pants as I kneel to fix a tripwire—thin enough to be invisible in the dim light, strong enough to send a man sprawling if he hits it at speed.
From the west arcade, I’ll have my primary firing position. The arches give me concealment, and the stone columns a steady rest for the rifle. Two quick steps back and I’m in full cover behind what used to be perhaps a confessional booth, now stripped bare but still sturdy.
I layer in contingencies—secondary firing lanes from the east arcade, more explosives, a fallback position near the bell tower stairs, and, finally, the ugly insurance: a pair of fragmentation charges tucked into the base of the Virgin’s plinth. They’re rigged to blow only if Wolfe somehow turns the kill box on me.
By the time I finish, my breath pours into the cold air in ragged plumes, and my fingers have gone numb and unresponsive from the chill. I curl and uncurl them deliberately, working the joints until a faint tingle of warmth starts to creep back in.
The radio in my earpiece crackles. "Goddamnit, Vivian. We're closing in, but Wolfe is closing faster. There's movement on the lower path. ETA for Wolfe and his goon squad is two minutes.”
