Page 23 of Code Name: Hunter
She recalibrates.
She strikes back.
Fifteen seconds later, I’m dragged into the alley next to the empty building—swift, brutal, and precise. A dark, gloved hand clamps over my mouth, silencing the startled gasp I barely make. The other wrenches my weapon from its holster before I can even tense to resist. Their leg sweeps mine in a clean, practiced motion, and I hit the ground hard, my breath torn from mylungs. The takedown is fast, with no wasted movement and no hesitation.
But something doesn’t track. I know the choreography of violence—this isn’t it. No zip tie. No demand. No pain, just breath at my neck, still and silent. Like a ghost that’s waiting for me to remember its name. There’s no follow-up blow. No binding. No demand. Just weight and breath behind me—controlled, steady, familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle with confusion. The silence is deafening, not the chaos of an ambush, but the deliberate pause of someone waiting.
And that’s when it hits me.
This isn’t part of the assault.
It’s extraction.
Whoever has me isn’t here to kill me. Not yet. But in this game, mercy wears too many masks—and I’ve survived long enough to know that rescue and capture feel exactly the same at first. The only difference is what they plan to do with you once they’ve got you—and I’ve learned not to like either option.
10
LOGAN
The moment I see her, scanning the street like she thinks she’s free—I move.
She doesn’t hear me coming. I should be furious with her—but all I feel is that sick twist in my gut. Relief laced with dread. The kind that makes your pulse throb in your throat, because you know you’re about to earn every second of it in blood. One second slower, and I might have lost her. She’s already turning down the alley, her gait loosening slightly, shoulders uncoiling from the tension she wears like armor. She thinks she’s clear. Her head tilts, lips parting on what might’ve been a sigh of relief. She’s not scanning corners anymore. Doesn’t feel the eyes still tracking her—mine included. She doesn’t feel the other set either—the ones that aren’t mine—closing in with the patience that means they’ve done this before.
I grab her from behind, hand clamping around her waist and over her mouth, yanking her into the shadows before she can make a sound. She twists, wild and furious, ready to gut me—until her gaze locks with mine.
Recognition flickers. Her breath hitches. She stops fighting.
I clamp a hand around her wrist and drag her with me deeper into the alley. "Move," I growl. "Now."
Vivian doesn’t ask questions. Her breath hitches, but her feet are already moving, boots pounding against the stone beside mine. She matches my pace with ease—two professionals slipping into rhythm like we never stopped. No hesitation. No questions. Just the old cadence, like Prague never burned. We’ve barely covered ten paces when a sharp whistle cuts through the narrow alley—short, long, short. The sound ricochets off the narrow walls, warped by damp stone and the faint smell of diesel from somewhere deeper in the maze. The sound is too practiced to be local. It’s a call-and-response code—one I recognize from Cerberus protocol.
These aren’t just hired thugs. They’re trained. Disciplined. And they’re closing in.
I shove her into a recessed doorway, shielding her with my body as the first hostile rounds the corner, moving fast, eyes sweeping. He doesn't register me until I’m already on him—closing the distance in a single, silent lunge.
My fist slams into his throat mid-step, the impact precise and brutal. The cartilage in his throat collapses under my knuckles with a muted crunch; his breath dies in a strangled wheeze before his knees hit the ground. I catch him as he drops, easing his fall just enough to keep the noise down.
One down. Three to go. And this time, I’m not in the mood to leave survivors.
Two more flank the opposite side of the alley. Shadows peel off the wall like ghosts with steel in their hands.
"Stay down," I snap to Vivian, then launch into motion.
Combat becomes instinct. My world narrows to the rhythm of movement, breath, pain, and precision. Elbow to the solar plexus—he wheezes, staggering. Throat strike next, heel of my hand cracking against his windpipe. His eyes bulge. A knee to the gut folds him over, a breathless grunt escaping as he crashes to the ground.
Blood roars in my ears. I don't think—I calculate. Every angle, every shift in weight, every step is wired into my nervous system like old code resurfacing. My body doesn’t ask permission; it remembers—every brutal drill, every live op—and executes like there’s nothing else left in the world but the next target. The tang of sweat and copper laces the air. Somewhere behind me, Vivian shouts. My pulse doesn’t spike. I pivot on instinct, scanning for the next threat.
Pain flares briefly in my shoulder from a wild blow that grazes past, but I absorb it, redirect the force, and slam my elbow into the bastard’s temple. The body goes slack. I barely register the fall.
The next one lunges from the right. He’s fast. But I’m faster. One goes down hard; the other catches a boot to the gut and staggers back. I don’t give him a chance to recover—I grab the back of his neck, slam him into the brick wall hard enough to crack something. He slumps. I move to cuff him with zip ties when a shout behind me has me whirling. I scan the alley—tight quarters, too many blind corners. They chose this ground. That alone pisses me off.
Vivian's already moving. Fast. Precise. Her attacker lunges with a baton, but she twists and brings him down in a clean, brutal arc. Her knee plants in his back, and she has a blade to his throat in the time it takes to blink. For half a heartbeat, we’re back-to-back like its muscle memory—covering each other without thinking about it.
"Don’t kill him," I order.
She doesn’t look at me. "Why not?"
"Because we need to question him first."
