Page 152 of Anchor
Vos ducked low, firing again, the round clipping Reid’s arm. Pain shot white-hot through his body, but he pressed forward,firing two more times. One struck Vos’s thigh, spinning him against the wall.
Still, Vos didn’t stop. He was laughing now, low and ragged, like a man who had nothing left to lose. He lunged, slamming into Reid. The impact sent fire through Reid’s ribs, but he held his ground. Their weapons clattered to the floor.
They fought hand-to-hand, brutal and desperate. Vos drove his fist into Reid’s side, targeting every weakness. Reid answered with an elbow to the jaw, feeling bone give.
Vos caught him by the throat, forcing him back against a door. His breath was hot and venomous. “She will never be yours. Everything she is came from me. And the baby will never be yours either.”
Reid’s vision blurred, but his hand found the hilt of his knife strapped low against his hip and pulled it free. He drove it upward with every ounce of strength he had left. The blade punched under Vos’s ribs, sinking deep.
Vos’s eyes widened in shock, his grip faltering. Reid twisted the blade once, then shoved him backward. Vos staggered, blood blooming across his shirt.
Reid dropped the knife and lunged for his gun that lay in sight, his palm closing around the grip slick with sweat and blood. He pushed up to his feet as Vos steadied himself against the wall, refusing to fall.
Their eyes locked one final time. Reid lifted his weapon, his voice ragged but certain. “She was never yours.”
The shot cracked through the corridor, echoing off steel and glass. Vos reeled, eyes wide, and then he collapsed to the floor.
Reid stood over the body, chest heaving, weapon still raised until the silence settled around them. Only then did he let the gun lower, his gaze cutting back toward stairwell door.
Claire was safe. Their daughter was safe. And Vos was dead.
MATERNITY SUITE – 0215 HOURS
The suite was dim, a warm hush hanging over the monitors and the whisper of oxygen. Claire lay sleeping, curled on her side, her face turned toward the NICU feed looping silently on the far wall. Their daughter’s tiny chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, peaceful and strong.
Tuck dozed in the chair with his arms crossed, long legs stretched out. Hush and Stack stood watch by the door like statues, eyes sharp even in the quiet.
The door opened, and Reid stepped inside. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, blood seeping through the wrap around his ribs and down his arm, knuckles raw. He carried himself stiffly, each step a test of will, but his eyes found Claire first and did not leave her.
Tuck rose instantly, already reaching for the med bag. “Sit. You’re bleeding. Let me?—”
Reid shook his head and waved him off. “I’m fine.” He sank down beside Claire, bracing one hand against the mattress. His chest burned with every breath, but his gaze stayed steady.
“Claire, it’s over.”
Claire stirred, eyes opening slowly, unfocused at first, then fixed on him. “Reid…?” It was too dark for her to see his bleeding wounds.
He gave her a faint, tired smile, more strength in his eyes than in his body. “He’s gone, Claire. Vos is dead. I put him down myself.”
Her breath caught, a long shudder spilling out of her chest. No tears came, only the quiet collapse of fear she had carried for too long. Her hand reached for his, her fingers threading into his with a grip that would not let go.
“You’re sure?” she whispered.
Reid nodded once. “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. He’s gone. There’s nothing left. Not him. Not his people. It’s over, for real this time.”
Claire’s eyes closed again, her shoulders sinking into the mattress as though she had finally laid down a heavy burden. Her hand remained tight in his. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.
Reid stayed crouched beside her, battered and bloodied, letting the silence fold around them. Tuck hovered just behind, the med bag open, but he didn’t press again. He had heard Reid’s words and the conviction in them.
Once Claire was asleep, her breathing even and steady, Reid let Tuck work. Fresh bandages replaced the blood-soaked ones, antiseptic stung across his ribs, and the worst of the bleeding was stopped. When it was done, Tuck handed him a clean tee shirt and soft pajama bottoms, saying nothing more.
Reid slipped into them, the fabric pulling gently across bruises and stitches, and crossed back to the bed. Careful not to wake her, he eased in behind Claire and drew close enough to feel the warmth of her body. His head touched the pillow, and his eyes shut instantly, exhaustion pulling him under.
For the first time in months, the fight was over. The war was finished. And against every threat, every scar, they were still here.
NICU SUITE – 11 DAYS POST-BIRTH
The wheelchair felt strange under her. It wasn’t pain, not really, not anymore. It was more like the echo of pain, as if her body hadn’t realized the war was over. Every movement came with a whisper of effort, a reminder of what she’d survived. What they had survived.
