Page 35 of Code Name: Hunter
The scream of metal-on-metal reverberates through my bones, the smell of scorched rubber briefly filling the air as their tires skid. They lose momentum, dropping back just far enough for me to slam my foot down and drive the accelerator to the floor, the engine snarling like it shares my intent.
“Who the hell knows you’re alive?” I demand, keeping my eyes on the road.
Her voice is tight. “No one.”
Not what I needed to hear—like being handed a live grenade with the pin already gone. The words hit harder than the last round, tightening the knot twists in my gut and pushing my focus onto a razor's edge.
Gunfire erupts again, this time from the rear. One round smashes into the tailgate. Another tears into me. The impact is a hammer strike beneath my ribs—no slow-motion dramatics, just the violent jolt of bone and flesh colliding with steel. White-hot pain detonates in my side, instinct screaming to fold in on myself, but training slams down harder.Hold the line; keep the wheel steady.
The burn comes quickly, savage, and wet. Heat spreads beneath my shirt in a flooding rush, sticky and relentless, as if someone pressed a branding iron deep into my skin and left it there. My grip locks down until my knuckles ache, every tendon straining to keep control. Breath comes ragged, shallow, but my foot stays welded to the gas. Speed is the only shield we have, the only thing holding the next bullet at bay.
Vivian’s head snaps toward me. “Logan...”
“Stay down,” I growl.
My voice is controlled, final.
“You’re bleeding,” she observes in an entirely clinical assessment. Her voice is level, but her eyes keep flicking to the spreading red like she’s cataloging every drop.
“Not the first time.”
It’s not entirely true, but I’m sure as hell not handing her panic an engraved invitation to take over; the last thing we need is fear playing backseat driver.
Her hand hovers near my armrest, like she’s fighting the urge to take the wheel herself. “You’re pale.”
“I’m busy.”
The next bend brings us into shadow, the pines closing in overhead. I use it—kill the lights, drop our speed by a hair, thentake a sharp cut onto an unmarked service road. Gravel spits from under the tires as we disappear into the dark, the smell of dust and pine sap filling the cab through the broken windows.
The sedan barrels past the turn, brake lights flaring a fraction too late, tires shrieking in protest as the driver realizes the mistake. Momentum carries them into the curve, committed before they’ve had time to recover, the long black shape swaying dangerously toward the guardrail as they overshoot and vanish from sight. Their driver took the turn too hot, momentum carrying them past the apex before they could correct—a mistake I’m willing to bet we won’t get twice. For a heartbeat, all I hear is the fading roar of their engine swallowed by the bend.
I push the SUV deeper into the trees, letting the shadows swallow us as branches scrape along the sides and the suspension groans over ruts and roots. Each jolt sends a fresh throb through my side, but I keep the pace steady, eyes cutting between the narrow track ahead and the mirrors. The forest thickens until, at last, the trees part into a small clearing. Relief is a brief, cold thing when I see the cache exactly where I left it—steel storage unit half-buried in the slope, edges softened by moss and dirt, camouflaged under a deliberate scatter of brush and fallen pine boughs.
I ease the SUV to a stop, the engine’s rumble tapering into silence as I twist the key and feel the sudden stillness settle around us. The gearshift slides into park with a solid, mechanical click that seems far too loud in the hush of the clearing, my pulse still pounding in my ears.
Vivian’s already reaching for me. “Let me see...”
“Get the door,” I order, nodding toward the cache.
My voice is steel—tempered and unyielding—because if I let even a hint of strain creep in, the fire tearing through my side will take over, and I can’t afford the weakness or the pause it would bring.
She hesitates just long enough to level me with a glare that promises this conversation isn’t over, then shoves the brush aside, pine needles scattering under her feet. I give her the code. Her fingers are quick and sure on the keypad, each press a muted beep in the quiet clearing. The lock clicks with a metallic finality. She swings the door open to reveal exactly what I stashed here months ago—boxes of ammo stacked tight, a med kit sealed and ready, bottles of water glinting in the low light, and the compact shape of comms gear nestled in its case.
By the time she turns, I’m half out of the driver’s seat, one hand clamped hard over the wound, warm blood seeping between my fingers. The world lists a fraction, the edges of my vision tightening, but I lock my jaw, ride out the sway in my balance, and keep moving with the stubborn precision of a man refusing to go down here and now.
“Sit. Down. Now.” Her voice has gone full command, sharp enough to cut.
I drop heavily onto the tailgate; the jolt sending a sharp pull through my side that has my jaw locking down hard. Warmth spreads under my palm where the fabric is already soaked through, sticking to my skin.
Vivian’s in front of me in an instant, tearing into the med kit with a speed that borders on feral—but her movements are measured, controlled. No wasted motion, no wild-eyed panic. It’s that precision, that rare edge of calm in the middle of the storm, that makes me let her get close enough to lay hands on me.
When the antiseptic hits, I hiss through my teeth. “You enjoying this?”
Her gaze flicks up, dark and hot. “You take a bullet for me, you get to complain. Otherwise, shut up and hold still.”
“Not in my nature.”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
