Page 47 of Code Name: Hunter
"I know."
"You know? I know it seemed like it from the Brussels intel, but dammit, Logan, if you're withholding intel to try and protect Vivian..."
"I wasn't..."
"Bullshit!"
"Fine. That was part of it, but we weren't absolutely certain..."
"Well, we are now, and he and his band of merry men are heading for the Cloister of the Black Madonna. You’ve got minutes, not hours. He needs to be stopped. And before you think clipping him ends it—intel says the Choir’s got other ironsin the fire. Klein’s already shifting assets. You take Wolfe down, you’d better be ready for the blowback.”
"I'm not sure taking out Wolfe is going to fix the problem."
"Probably not, but it'll put one helluva dent in the Iron Choir's plans. Iron Choir...bah. Where do these arrogant arseholes come up with these names?"
I smiled. Even in a temper, Fitz always manages to make light of peripheral things.
"We've got bigger fish to fry. Vivian has gone ahead..."
"To meet him? Do you think she's still in league with him?"
"Not a chance. Vivian thinks she has to handle it herself."
"Ahh, daft woman. Get a collar around her neck, a ring around her finger, and then get her brought to heel."
This time I laugh. "Yes, because that has worked so well for you and JJ."
"JJ has yet to blow up the world. You bastards have no idea how many times I've saved you all."
He's only partially joking. I look up to Archer and Darius, who are fully awake and ready to go. Darius holds out a pack to me.
"Fitz, I need to go. That collar and ring won't do me much good if she's dead."
"Aye, lad. Go get your girl and kill that bastard Wolfe."
"Will do.”
We’re moving before the last syllable leaves my mouth and I end the call. The hangar is a blur of motion—gear slung over shoulders, weapons checked, the bitter sting of icy wind sweeping through the air. Archer and Darius fall in beside me, their silence carrying the same urgency pounding in my chest. Outside, the night bites hard; the mountains loom black against a spill of stars.
The path to the Cloister of the Black Madonna is no easy approach. It’s a jagged ribbon of rock and ice clinging to themountainside, half-buried under drifts that swallow a man to the knee. Every step is a fight—crampons biting, balance shifting with the weight of our packs, lungs pulling in air so cold it sears. Wind howls through the passes, needling exposed skin, tugging at our hoods as if trying to push us back.
The only thing I can take any solace in is knowing Wolfe and his men are out there in the same biting wind and knee--deep drifts, every step slowed by the cold, every breath burning as much as ours.
We push on, the beam of Archer’s headlamp cutting narrow tunnels of light through the swirling snow. Somewhere above, hidden by the sheer face, waits the cloister... and Wolfe. The thought of Vivian ahead of us, alone in that ruin, keeps my boots moving and my jaw set tight.
We crest a snowbank and the scene below snaps into focus—Wolfe’s men spilling from the cloister in staggered clumps, retreat in their posture. No orders, no discipline, just the raw panic of an operation unraveling.
Archer and Darius exchange a look, then we break from cover in a low rush, rifles coming up. The first burst drops two of them before they even realize we’re here. Muzzle flash stutters against the dark, the sharp reports swallowed by the wind and the stone walls.
One tries to turn his weapon on us; Darius puts him down with a clean shot. Another lurches for the archway, and Archer takes him through the shoulder, the force spinning him into the snow. The air is thick with the acrid bite of spent powder and the metallic sting of blood, boots punching deep prints into the drift as we advance.
The last of Wolfe’s men drops to the snow with Archer’s round through his chest, his rifle clattering against the frozen ground. The air smells of gunpowder and cold iron, the echoes still bouncing between the stone walls of the cloister. My pulse isa hammer in my ears, but my focus is razor sharp. The gunfight is short, brutal, efficient and over in seconds, but it’s enough to clear the yard and leave nothing between me and Wolfe.
"Archer, Darius, find Vivian. Now." My voice cuts through the night with the precision of a drawn rapier. Archer is already moving, his breath a plume in the frigid air. Darius gives a single nod before following, their boots crunching hard and fast as they vanish through the archway.
I don’t wait to see if they find her. I trust that they won't fail me and that they'll keep Vivian safe. My eyes are on the shadow slipping through the far opening—Wolfe. Trailing blood from his sleeve, but his stride is still long and relatively sure. He’s running for the ridgeline.
Not tonight, not with the cold taste of unfinished business still sharp in my mouth and the image of Vivian alone in those ruins burning behind my eyes.
