Page 40 of Code Name: Hunter
“Dangerous habit.” Her voice is light, but there’s a tension in it, the kind you only hear if you’re listening for it.
I don’t answer. Not yet. My jaw stays tight as I weigh every angle, knowing this isn’t a conversation I can risk having here—in a cramped van where every word could be overheard through thin metal walls, caught on a hot mic, or quietly pulled from a recording later by someone I can’t see.
If I’m wrong, if it’s not her, then I’ll have accused the one person in this city I should’ve trusted without hesitation. Once spoken, that kind of doubt can’t be pulled back; it hangs in the air, poisoning everything between us.
But if I’m right? If she really is what my gut is whispering? Then I’m standing on the edge of a truth so sharp it could cut everything I thought we were to pieces—and I don’t even want to imagine what’s left when it’s done.
I file it away, tucking the suspicion into the mental vault where I keep the dangerous things—sharp, heavy, and handled with care. Watch the angles. Wait for the opening. Let the tension draw tight enough so that when the truth finally shows itself, I’m ready to strike without hesitation.
She’s still working, tracing the last data packets pushed through that hidden channel. “There—north end of the Trastevere district. Whoever’s using this backdoor was pulling files from an off-grid terminal three hours ago.”
I lean over her shoulder, scanning the coordinates. The flicker from the screen paints her cheek in pale light as I take in the location—tight, winding streets hemmed in by old stonefacades, their upper floors leaning toward each other like they’re conspiring.
By day, they choke with tourists and café chatter; by night, the crowds thin to a scatter of locals and the occasional drunk, leaving long corridors of darkness where footsteps echo and whispers carry. It’s where a handoff could happen without a soul noticing—or where someone could vanish completely if they knew the turns.
“Could be our hooded friend,” I say.
“Could be your Wolfe.”
"He was always more your Wolfe than mine."
She laughs. "If you believe that, you didn't know him nearly as well as I thought you did."
“Could be someone else entirely,” I say, ignoring the taunt in her voice.
She swivels her chair to face me. “And if it is Wolfe?”
I meet her gaze. “Then we follow the trail until it ends. And if we’re lucky, it ends with him face-down and unarmed.”
Her mouth curves, but there’s no humor in it. “You really believe in luck?”
“No. I believe in bait.”
The words hang there for a beat, weighted with more than just strategy—they carry the promise of a trap neither of us can afford to spring too soon. She knows exactly what I mean. Wolfe’s too calculating to blunder into a straightforward pursuit, but if we choose the right lure—something so tempting it cuts past his caution—he’ll have to come for it.
The real challenge will be making sure that when he finally lunges for the bait, we’re already several steps ahead—positions locked, weapons ready, contingencies in place—closing every possible gap before he even realizes the trap has sprung, leaving him no shadow, no alley, no heartbeat of opportunity to wriggle free. Not like Prague.
On the far monitor, Mancini’s figure is quickly swallowed by a surge of foot traffic, the glow of shop signs splashing color across slick cobblestones. Umbrellas bloom like dark flowers under a sudden drizzle, breaking the drone’s line of sight. A blur of headlights sweeps over the crowd, scattering shapes and shadows until the camera loses him entirely, the alley’s edge dissolving into wet light and motion.
Vivian turns back to her console, fingers flying again. “I’ll scrub the street cams near Trastevere. If he’s still moving, we’ll catch him.”
I give a slight nod, though it’s more reflex than agreement, my attention already knifing through the mental map—Wolfe’s possible return, Mancini’s involvement, the leak in MI-6’s logs, and the unnerving reality that the fingerprints on that hidden backdoor in the code feel achingly familiar. Too familiar. The recognition coils low in my gut like a live wire, impossible to ignore even as I force my expression to stay unreadable.
The fragile thread of trust between us has already been frayed to the breaking point in the past twenty-four hours, each strain leaving the weave weaker. I can’t afford to tug at it again without evidence I can stand on, without a clear picture of exactly what I’d be accusing her of—and the cost of being wrong. Could she really be workingwithWolfe?
Still, the thought won’t shake loose, gnawing at the edges of my focus like a slow leak in the hull. If she left that backdoor, was it a lifeline meant to pull her clear when the storm hit—or a key she kept in her pocket to open any door, no matter which side of the game she was on?
I watch her work, the cold glow from the monitors carving stark shadows along the sharp line of her jaw and the determined set of her mouth. Her eyes are locked on the code, movements precise and unhurried, like each keystroke is part of a larger design she’s already mapped in her head. She’s focused,relentless, a predator in her own right. And it hits me—not for the first time—that she’s been playing this game longer than me, and maybe with more pieces on the board than I can yet see.
It’s the kind of truth that doesn’t just sit in the corner and behave. It leaks into every decision, every glance, until one day it blows the hinges off the door you’ve been trying to keep shut. And I can already hear the hinges groaning.
One way or another, I’m going to rip the truth into daylight, and when that moment comes, there won’t be a corner dark enough or a lie deep enough for either of us to disappear into—no shadows left, no ground to retreat to, just the reckoning between us waiting to detonate.
17
VIVIAN
Leaving the oppressive tension of the ops van behind—still carrying the image of Mancini’s exchange and the unnerving possibility that Wolfe is alive—we return to the safehouse in a taut, unspoken agreement that this nightmare needs to end. The streets blur past in silence, both of us lost in our own calculations, until the familiar reinforced door of the safehouse closes behind us and the weight of the outside world dulls to a distant hum.
