He gurgles, clawing at my arm.
"Where is the third man?" I ease the pressure.
"Radio..." he wheezes. "Called... called it in..."
"Called who?"
"The... Cleaners."
My blood runs cold. The Cleaners aren't mountain rescue. They are high-priced mercenaries.
"Why her?" I press the knife tip against his eyelid.
"Not... her... The data... she has the data..."
"Tristan!"
Austin’s voice crackles over my earpiece. "Tristan, we have vehicles approaching the front gate. Black SUVs. No plates. Four of them."
I look down at the man beneath me. He smiles. A bloody, broken expression. "Too late," he whispers.
I jerk my knife across his throat.
I stand, wiping the blade on my jeans. The snow falls harder, turning red around my boots.
"Austin," I key my mic. "Extraction team. Do not let them breach the gate."
"Copy that." The racking of shotguns echoes in the background. "Get back here, T."
"I’m coming."
I look down at the clubhouse. A fortress in the trees. Alexandria waits in the basement, and these bastards are at my gate.
I don't just run; I descend like an avalanche. I hit the tree line as the first black SUV breaches the perimeter fence. I don’t wait for them to exit. I shoulder my rifle, tracking the lead driver throughthe thermal scope.Crack.The windshield spiders as the vehicle veers into a snowbank.
I’m a ghost in the trees, a predator in my own woods. I flank the second vehicle as three mercenaries spill out, weapons raised toward the clubhouse. They never see me coming. I slide the Ka-Bar from my hip, taking the first one from behind, my hand covering his scream as I open his throat. The others turn, but I’m already moving—a blur of leather and lethal intent. I drop the second with two precise rounds to the chest before the third can even find his sight.
The air is thick with the scent of cordite and iron. I hear Logan’s roar from the porch, the heavy rhythmic thrum of his shotgun joining the chorus of death.
A fourth SUV skids into the clearing, the tires kicking up a spray of red-stained slush. I don't wait for the doors to open. I sprint, my boots hammering the frozen earth. One merc spills out, reaching for a grenade. I hit him at full speed, my shoulder caving in his chest before I drive my thumb into his eye socket.
I spin, catching the second one's wrist. The bone snaps with a wet, splintering pop. I wrench the pistol from his grip and fire point-blank, the heat of the muzzle flash singeing my hair. A third man lunges with a combat blade. I don't flinch. I take the edge across my shoulder, the sting only fueling the fire in my gut.
I grab his head and slam it against the steel frame of the vehicle. Again. And again. My knuckles shred against his teeth and the metal, the skin peeling back, but the adrenaline is a shield. I don't stop until his skull gives way. I don't stop until the only thing left of his face is a memory of my rage.
I don't stop until the last heat signature in the yard goes cold. I won’t just burn the world for her. I’ll tear it apart with my bare hands until there’s no one left to even remember her name.
9
ALEXANDRIA
The silence in the Vault is a leaden weight, pressing against my eardrums with a frequency that vibrates through my very marrow. It is far worse than the roar of gunfire that tore through the mountain twenty minutes ago.
I sit on the edge of the narrow cot, my knuckles white as I grip the hunting knife Tristan pressed into my palm. The Vault isn't truly silent, and that’s what makes it haunting. From behind the heavy, reinforced steel partition at the back of the bunker, I can hear the soft, rhythmic creak of a rocking chair and the low, melodic hum of Savannah Gunnar’s voice. She’s singing a lullaby to Rhett, her son with the President.
Savannah had stepped out into the common area earlier to check my splint. Her eyes were kind but sharp—the look of a woman who has survived her own hell and come out wearing the President’s ring. Now, she’s back with her child, and the weight of Logan’s protection over this room is a physical, suffocating thing. Logan isn't just defending a clubhouse; he’s defending his legacy. But it’s not Logan I’m waiting for. My gut coils with a primal, jagged fear. If that door opens and it isn’t Tristan, I’mnot just fighting for my life; I’m the last line of defense for the woman and child behind that partition. I won't go down screaming. I’ll go down biting.
The heavy clank of the deadbolt sliding back echoes like a gunshot.