Page 73 of Anchor
The penthouse was too polished to feel like safety. But the bed was wide, the air was quiet, and for the first time since the gunfire at the university, Claire wasn’t tethered to monitors or IV poles.
She lay propped on pillows, pale but awake, her gaze drifting toward the city lights below. The hum of her own breathing still sounded strange without the tube. The silence stretched until she broke it. “I keep replaying it,” she whispered. “If the angle had been different, or if the NSA agents didn’t stop me when they did…” Her voice thinned. “Reid, I should have died.”
He sat close at the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees. His uniform shirt was gone, replaced by a plain black tee. The fatigue in his eyes hadn’t lifted in days. “You didn’t.”
She looked at him, sharp and fragile all at once. “And if I had?”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t look away. “Then I’d have gone with you.”
Her breath hitched. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “You mean…”
“I mean exactly that.” His voice was steady, steel wrapped in quiet. “That’s not bravado, Claire. That’s the truth. I had my hand on you, and if you hadn’t made it, I wouldn’t have let go.”
That sank deep, and for once, she didn’t try to deflect. Tears pricked her eyes but didn’t fall. She just reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “Don’t say that like it doesn’t matter. It matters.”
His thumb slowly brushed her knuckles. “Then let it matter.”
The silence after wasn’t empty but full, heavy with all the words they didn’t need.
Finally, she let a small smile crack the exhaustion. “So, about that cot.” Her chin angled toward the stiff canvas frame shoved in the corner. “You’re not sleeping there.”
“Claire…”
“No,” she said softly but firmly. “Not after what we’ve just said to each other. I want you here with me.”
For a second, he hesitated, filled with old instinct, professionalism, the line he’d been trained not to cross. Then he saw her eyes. And the decision was gone before it even formed.
He changed into gray sweats in the bathroom, folded the cot against the wall, and slid in beside her.
She shifted closer instantly, curling against his chest like she’d always belonged there.
“Better.”
He exhaled, his arm slipping around her waist, his other hand brushing gently through her hair. “Better,” he echoed.
Her breathing slowed, steady against him, sleep tugging her under. Reid pressed soft kisses along the crown of her head, lingering there long after her eyes closed.
In the dark, with the city humming below and danger waiting outside, she slept in his arms. And Reid finally let himself believe she was safe, if only for tonight.
CHASE EXECUTIVE SUITE – FOURTEEN DAYS POST SHOOTING
The coffee in Reid’s hand went cold an hour ago. He didn’t notice. The executive suite was quiet this early—dimmed lights, deep shadows stretching across the hardwood floor. Claire was still sleeping in the bedroom, her vitals monitored remotely. The suite had the feel of a hospital wing dressed in luxury: clean lines, reinforced windows, embedded surveillance in every corner. Here, even comfort came with a steel lining.
Apex stood at the war table they'd set up along the wall—a modular interface folded out from the paneling. Heat maps. Badge logs. Scrubbed footage. Military-grade comm intercepts. All of them glowing in dull blues and reds, like embers that refused to die.
“All circumstantial,” Apex muttered. “Two sightings in Berlin. One in Casablanca. No names. No confirmed identifications. Just asset trails, clean, quick, and silent.”
Reid didn’t look up from the scrolling cascade of time-stamped packets. “Dead ends.”
Apex’s jaw flexed. “He’s not hiding. He’s choosing.”
Vos wasn’t running. He was performing. Letting them see what he wanted. Laying a trail built on theater and blood.
Reid leaned forward, dragging his fingers through a cluster of comm bursts. “Overlay these with Emberline routing logs. Not just ghost traffic but old backdoors, legacy dead nodes. If anything pings, I want it boxed.”
“Already halfway there,” Apex said. “Fused the packet layers with our netwatch. We’ll know if he even breathes near another signal.”
One of the feeds shifted—a grayscale photo stuttering into view. Vos, 2005. Neatly shaven. Slim-cut suit. A smile that didn’t touch his eyes.
