Page 49 of Code Name: Hunter
When she breaks away, it’s not from reluctance but purpose, her breath warm against my cheek before she turns. "I've got one more thing to do."
She moves with quick, deliberate grace back to her pack, the whisper of zippers and fabric as she draws out her laptop, the glow of the screen spilling over her determined expression.
Her fingers hover for a heartbeat over the touchpad, looking at me. I nod, and she presses a single key. "Full dossier—twenty global outlets. Timed release. They’ll have it before sunrise."
Archer’s voice is grim over comms. “You hit them that hard, expect them to hit back harder. The Choir doesn’t take public embarrassment lightly.”
Vivian’s smile is sharp. “Good. Let them come. At least now the world’s watching.”
The tension I’ve been carrying since Brussels finally starts to unwind from my body. Crossing the short space between us, my gaze locks on hers, pulling me in like a tether. For the first time tonight, I draw a slow, complete breath, filling my lungs as though I can finally take in the air with her here, in the same space, alive and unbroken.
Outside, a fresh gust of icy air knifes through the ruins, rattling the loose stones and sweeping away the last metallic tang and distant cries of the fight, leaving only the raw hush of the mountain night.
We’re not done—not with Klein and the Iron Choir still moving pieces on the board—but tonight, this battle is ours and the taste of victory is sweet.
I’m not letting her out of my sight again—and I tell her as much, the words low but sure, following it with a rough, heartfelt, “I love you too.” Archer and Darius fall in with us, and together we start down the mountain, the icy wind howling all around us, but not feeling quite as cold as it was before.
The air bites at my cheeks as I thumb my comm, Fitz’s brogue snapping through before I can speak. “Well? You still breathing?”
“Alive and headed for Monte Carlo,” I tell him, giving the bare-bones update.
“Aye, and dragging trouble with you, no doubt,” he fires back. “You planning on bringing me a souvenir, or just another heap of bodies?”
“Only if you want Wolfe’s knife.”
“Pass. Got enough paperweights.”
Despite the bite of the wind, my mouth quirks. “We’ll keep you posted. Darius is going to work with the FIS to clean up the trash we left littered on their beautiful mountains. Give JJ a kiss from me and try not to get into trouble while we’re gone.”
“No promises, lad. But you let that woman out of your sight again, and we’ll be burying you both. Signals intelligence just went nuclear. Intercepts are spiking across half the globe. Someone’s put a bounty on your head, and hers is right beside yours. Open contract. Which means every merc, assassin, and bottom-feeder from Lisbon to Vladivostok just got your scent.”
“Copy that.”
I end the call; the wind tearing at my hood as Archer, Darius, Vivian and I continue down the mountain, the wind clawing at us all the way down the trail. But it’s not the cold making the hairs on my neck rise. Somewhere out there, someone just marked us for elimination, and every step toward Monte Carlo feels like walking into a loaded crosshairs.
EPILOGUE
VIVIAN
Logan’s Penthouse
Monte Carlo, Monaco
One Week Later
The Mediterranean stretches out like a vast sheet of molten gold in the early morning light, the rippling surface catching every spark of the rising sun. From the wraparound balcony of Logan's penthouse, I watch the sun crawl up over the horizon, igniting the water and slowly burning away the last wisps of night haze until the sky blushes with color.
Behind me, Logan moves about in the kitchen with quiet efficiency—mugs clinking softly against the counter, the muted thud of his footsteps over the polished floor, and the soft hiss of the kettle curling steam into the air. The rich scent of tea leaves begins to mingle with the faint brine of the sea drifting in from the balcony, a contrast that grounds me in this fragile moment of peace.
A week ago, the air between us crackled with the acrid tang of gunpowder and the metallic bite of blood. Today, it carries thewarm steam of tea and the salt-sweet kiss of the Mediterranean, and somehow I can’t decide which edge cuts deeper.
“You’re brooding,” Logan says as he steps out onto the balcony, two mugs in his hand. His hair is still damp from the shower, beads of water catching the sunlight along his temples, shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal just enough tanned skin to distract me, sleeves rolled up to his forearms in that infuriatingly casual way that somehow looks deliberate. The man has no business looking that devastating in the daylight, and he knows it.
I take the mug he offers, my fingers brushing his in a slow, deliberate glide that sends a tiny shiver up my arm. “You didn’t want me to make the tea?” I ask, tilting my head just enough to feign innocence, though the corner of my mouth betrays a hint of a smile.
"I'm not drinking anything you hand me again," he murmurs with a wry half-smile, brushing a lingering kiss across my forehead before straightening.
"I'm not brooding. I'm thinking.”
