Page 34 of Oath
I moved.
Ducked low, rolled into the next alcove, and came up with the backup piece in my hand. The Glock barked once. Twice.
The corridor lit up as a flashbang hit the far end. Not mine.
Shit.
That wasn’t part of the plan.
I dropped flat and covered my face just as it went off. White-hot light. Pressure wave. My ears rang like church bells in a storm.
Footsteps followed.
Heavy. Purposeful. Not like the previous crew—these weren’t operators. These werecleaners.
I pulled my knees under me, pressed back against the wall, eyes still swimming.
Then I saw the silhouette.
Not armor.
A coat. Long, black. Military cut.
He didn’t move like a soldier. He moved like a man who owned the floor under him.
A voice followed.
“Captain.”
Not a question.
Not a command.
Just… acknowledgement.
I forced myself to my feet. Slow. Deliberate.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked, voice rough.
The man stepped closer. He wore gloves. No insignia. No rank. Just the coat and the weight behind his stare.
“Vega,” he said.
Bullshit.
Vega wasn’t a person. Wasn’t a name.
That’s what we’d always told ourselves. It was an operation, a protocol. A codename. Something someone could deny in court.
But this guy—he was walking like someone who didn’t need court.
“You’re late,” I said, flexing my hand. The bleeding hadn’t stopped.
He gave the faintest smile. Not warm. Not cold. Clinical.
“We’re never late. We arrive when the math says we’re needed.”
I didn’t like that phrasing. Themath.That wasn’t military talk. That was something else. Something that felt—performative.
