Page 36 of Code Name: Hunter
She works in silence for a few beats, her focus absolute, the steady pressure on the wound as unrelenting as the look in her eyes. The faint rustle of gauze and the muted crinkle of packaging fill the air between us. When she winds the bandage, her movements are crisp, efficient—yet under that discipline, I catch the subtle tremor she’s trying to bury, the one that tells me exactly how close she came to losing me out there.
“Your name,” I say quietly.
Her fingers still for a fraction of a second before she resumes. “We’ll talk when you’re not leaking all over the place.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding onto my lap, Logan. You’re not fine.”
The edge in her voice isn’t anger—it’s fear, coiled tight and buried under layers of steel, the fear that doesn’t make her retreat—it makes her reload, giving her words a lethal precision.
When she finishes, she sits back just enough to meet my eyes. “Whoever that was, they knew more than they should. About me. About before. And now they know you’ll take a bullet for me.”
“Good,” I say.
Her eyebrow arches. “Good?”
“They now know exactly what they’re up against.”
The silence between us is taut as a drawn wire, vibrating with words unsaid and truths neither of us is willing to touch yet. It’s the kind of quiet that hums in the bones, heavy with what we’re both carrying. But there’s no luxury in prying it open now—not with the echo of her name still hanging in the air like smoke and the hot, unignorable weight of fresh blood between us, binding and dividing us in the same breath.
Far off, an engine growls—a low, throaty sound that threads through the stillness like a warning. It’s faint at first, almost lost beneath the whisper of wind through pine, but it grows steadily, a predator closing distance. Vivian’s head snaps toward the noise, eyes narrowing as her body goes tense, the shift inher breathing telegraphing she’s already bracing for impact. My hand goes automatically to my weapon, fingers curling around the grip, the familiar weight sliding into my palm as my pulse kicks hard in my chest.
“Guess they found the turn,” I say.
She exhales through her nose, steadying herself. “Then we finish this here.”
I shake my head once. “No. We move. The cache has a dirt track out the other side. They don’t know it’s here. We use it.”
Her eyes lock onto mine for a long beat, searching for something—resolve, a plan, maybe proof I’m not about to bleed out on her. Then she gives a short, decisive nod, the kind that carries its own weight of trust and challenge all at once.
“Lead the way,” she says, her voice low, threaded with an alloy of determination and an undercurrent I can’t yet place—something that pulls and warns in the same breath.
I brace a hand against the cold metal, I grab the supplies we’ll need and push off the tailgate with a slow, deliberate movement that sends a sharp lance of pain through my side, hot enough to blur my vision for a beat. My feet hit the ground solid, the loamy scent of damp earth rising as I straighten. Every step toward the hidden track is measured, my weight kept low, ears tuned to the whisper of night and the distant growl of engines hunting us.
Behind us, headlights slice into the night, spearing through the trees in jagged flashes as the road curves. The beams bounce over the terrain, a reminder with every sweep that they’re closing in. Ahead, the track narrows into a dark ribbon threading through the pines, each shadow concealing either safety or an ambush. If I’m right, it’s the road to the next safehouse.
If I’m wrong, we’re not just lost; we’re delivering ourselves, gift-wrapped, into the hands of whoever’s hunting us, and they’ll be waiting with muzzles up and the patience to let us walk right into the kill box.
15
VIVIAN
The dirt track winds away from the cache, hugging the slope as pine boughs slap at our shoulders and twigs snap underfoot. Each step dislodges loose stones that skitter downhill, the incline pulling at already -tired muscles. The sharp scent of sap and damp stone clings to the cool air, shadows stretching long across the path. A low night wind threads through the trees, carrying the faint creak of boughs overhead. The air is cool enough to sting the tips of my ears, each breath a reminder of how far we are from safety. Only the occasional spill of moonlight cuts through the canopy, lighting the uneven ground that demands all my focus.
Logan’s boots drag slightly, the weight of each step heavier than the last. Cold air bites into my lungs, each inhale tasting faintly of pine and damp soil. The path is slick in places; the earth giving underfoot. I adjust my pace to match his, slipping an arm around his waist when the incline grows steep, feeling the solid heat of him even through the layers.
Logan leans into me just slightly, his breathing measured but heavier than he wants to admit. His jaw works in a tight grind, a muscle ticking at the hinge. The rhythm of his steps stutters every few paces, and the heat radiating through his jacket feelsunnatural. After what feels like miles of bone--tired trekking, the path narrows before spitting us out into a clearing where a battered utility shed crouches beside a tarp--covered shape.
“Backup vehicle,” Logan says, voice rough. He’s too steady for someone with a bullet in him.
“I drive.” I’m already stripping the tarp off the matte gray pickup. “You bleed. I steer.”
He tries to argue with my name on his tongue. I cut him off with, “Get in.” He obeys silently fuming while I belt him in.
The diesel coughs to life, and I muscle the truck along a rutted path until it spits us onto an unmarked strip of asphalt. Fifteen minutes later, we nose up to what looks like a solid stone wall. Logan rasps out a code; the wall splits open, and cold air spills from the opening. It feels like stepping into the hollowed-out bones of the mountain itself—hidden, fortified, and meant for secrets no one survives knowing.
The triage safehouse is carved into the mountainside, its exterior camouflaged to vanish into the cliff. Inside, it’s all concrete and stainless steel, lit in a clean, clinical glow. Shelves hold med kits, rations, water, and tools for surviving the worst.
