Page 71 of Anchor
As the edges of the panic softened, another memory surged. Not a face. Not a sound.
But a screen. Her screen at the NSA. Code—dense, looping, buried deep where no one would casually look. And in the middle of it was three letters. V. O. S.
She hadn’t thought much of it back then. It didn’t trigger any flags. It wasn’t protocol. It didn’t connect to any official designation. It just sat there, hidden like a shadow in the pattern.
But now… Her eyes widened. “I saw his name in the code.”
Ian leaned in. “What?”
Claire looked at him, dizzy but clear. “At the NSA. When I found the buried pattern. It wasn’t just code. Someone signed it. Three letters. V-O-S.”
Ian’s jaw tightened. “What kind of code?”
Tuck leaned in, still watching her vitals.
She swallowed. “Data pathways. Manipulated time logs. Misdirection triggers. I flagged it quietly. But it was already there.”
Ian’s voice was low. “That’s the same kind of technology he used in Afghanistan.”
Claire stared down at the edge of her blanket. “It wasn’t random. It was his fingerprint. And I missed it.”
Ian rested a hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t miss it. You saw it. Long before anyone else did.”
Claire sank back against the pillows. Her pulse finally settled, but her voice stayed haunted. “He’s been in the background this whole time.”
Ian met her eyes. “He’s not in the background anymore.”
TWENTY-FOUR
TEN DAYS POST-SHOOTING
The chair’s wheels made no sound on the polished floor, but she could feel every inch of the movement. Her hands rested in her lap, still marked with the faint yellow bruises of old IV lines. The wound at her side ached less now, but enough to remind her how close it was to killing her.
Tuck pushed her chair carefully, slowing just slightly as they passed through the final checkpoint in the executive corridor. Two guards on either side. Armed. Unsmiling. One scanned Tuck’s badge. The other scanned hers.
“Still feels like I’m being processed,” she muttered.
Tuck gave a soft grunt, part sympathy, part humor. “You’re not bein’ admitted,” he drawled gently. “You’re bein’ protected.”
She looked up. The elevator was open, already cleared. And waiting at the top of the hall—Reid.
He stood tall in Chase uniform black, freshly shaven, with hair damp from a shower. His eyes landed on her, and even behind the composed expression, she saw the shift. Something deeper.
He stepped forward as the elevator opened on the executive floor. Tuck didn’t say anything, just gave a quiet nod and turned the chair toward him.
Reid met them halfway, dropping to one knee beside her. “You ready?”
Claire nodded. “Yeah, just don’t make me walk too far.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He wheeled her across the threshold himself.
It wasn’t a hospital room. That was the first thing Claire noticed. No harsh lights. No sterile walls. The suite smelled like lavender and clean fabric. The windows were partially shaded, casting a warm wash of sunlight across a soft gray bedspread and wide leather chairs.
Medical technology still sat in the corner, subtle, streamlined, and tucked behind a privacy screen. A vitals monitor. A small IV pump on standby. But nothing overwhelming. It felt like a place to breathe. A place to heal.
Claire rested her hands on the armrests of the chair and exhaled. “You sure this isn’t someone’s presidential suite?”
Reid gave her a wink. “Not anymore.”
