Page 61 of Lone Wolf

We ascend the main staircase slowly, weapons ready. The second floor shows signs of life—clothes hanging to dry, a forgotten hairbrush, the scent of perfume mixed with disinfectant.

“Contact,” I whisper, as a door opens at the end of the hall. A man emerges, rubbing his eyes. He spots us immediately, reaching too late for a weapon. Lyssa’s silenced pistol fires once, and he drops.

“Engage!” she hisses.

Because more doors are opening along the corridor—shouts sounding as guards respond too late to what they see—and the air fills with the muffled sound of silenced weapons. I move with practiced efficiency, no hesitation in my movements, no doubt, no fear. This is what I was trained for.

But it’s different now. I’m not Grandmother’s creation anymore. I’m not killing because I wasorderedto or because I need an outlet for my rage. I’m here by choice, protecting the innocent, fighting alongside people I’ve chosen to trust.

Fighting alongside Sunny, who moves right beside me. We’ve trained enough that I can anticipate her movements, covering her blind spots as she covers mine.

“Three more coming from the west corridor,” Zach warns.

“We’ve got them,” Sunny responds, and we break off from the group. There are three guards at the other end of the hallway, just as Zach said, and they haven’t seen us yet. We make quick work of them and then regroup with Lyssa and Zach, who have secured the rest of the section.

“Beta team reports perimeter secure,” Lyssa informs us. “Alpha has joined them to handle extraction preparations.”

“The women?” Sunny asks, urgency in her voice.

“Heat signatures suggest they’re behind that door,” Zach says, indicating a set of double doors at the end of the hall.

The door has a heavy-duty electronic lock with a keypad—more security than the others we’ve encountered. Zach works on bypassing it while the rest of us take up defensive positions. “Got it,” Zach announces as the lock disengages.

We stack up on either side of the door—Lyssa and Zach on one side, Sunny and me on the other, while Elijah watches our six.

Lyssa gives the signal, and we breach.

The room beyond is large and open—once a ballroom or entertainment area, now converted into a communal living space. Mattresses line the walls. Tables and chairs cluster in the center. In the dim light, I make out figures moving toward the far side of the room.

Women—nine or ten of them—huddle together, fear evident in their posture. They’re dressed in a strange mix of lingerie and casual clothing, some clutching blankets or small personal items. They’re moving in an organized evacuation toward a door at the far end of the room, guided by one woman in particular.

“We’re here to help,” Lyssa announces, dropping her gun down in a clear indication that she won’t fire. “We’re getting you out of here.”

But the women hesitate, wary of any promises. The woman by the door continues ushering them through—it looks like she’s shepherding them into a panic room. When she turns to face us, placing herself between us and the others who are uncertain where to go—with her or us—it’s a clear protective gesture. She has a hardened look about her. Her dark hair is pulled back, her face thin but strong. And there’s something in her stance, in the determined look on her face, that feels familiar.

“That’s far enough,” she calls, her voice steady. “Who are you people?”

I lower my weapon slightly, too, so that she doesn’t feel threatened. “We’re here to help,” I echo. “We’re going to get you to safety.”

The woman studies us skeptically, takes a breath to answer, but before she can, Sunny is moving forward with her gun dropped to her side, her eyes wide and shocked.

One name escapes her in a whisper. “Mari?”

CHAPTER 23

Sunny

The name catchesin my throat as I stare at the woman standing protectively in front of the other captives.

Am I going crazy? Am I losing control again, seeing what I want to see instead of…

The woman stares back, focus sharpening as she really looks at me. Recognition dawns on her face—the slight parting of her lips, the widening of her eyes.

“Sunny?”

Time freezes. The mission, the room, everything falls away as we stare at each other across a chasm of years and trauma and impossible odds.

“It’s me,” I say, my voice breaking. “Yeah. It’s me, Sunny.”

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