Page 46 of Code Name: Hunter
I finish my final preparations for my trap and settle into position in the west arcade, pressing my shoulder to the coldstone. Overhead, the moon drifts behind a heavy cloud, and the cloister sinks into a dim gray half-light that seems to press in from every side, muting edges and turning every shadow into something watchful.
Footsteps crunch slowly in the snow beyond the gate, deliberate and measured, each one drawing closer. The hinges give a single protesting groan as the heavy wooden door swings inward, releasing a swirl of icy air. Wolfe steps through, his presence filling the courtyard like a shadow given form.
He’s older than the last time I saw him, but not slower. His eyes find the statue first, then sweep the courtyard, missing nothing. He’s dressed in dark mountain gear, hood back, the scar on his jaw catching a shard of moonlight. And then—God help me—he smiles.
“Really, Vivian? An MI-6 kill box? Rather predictable, don't you think? And where, I wonder, is Logan?” he says, his arrogant voice carrying just enough volume and menace to reach me.
"Neither Logan nor I considered you much of a threat, so he's making a nice pasta and decanting a wine. He was always better at knowing what I wanted or needed."
Wolfe snorts as he steps forward like a man walking into his own dining room, the predator utterly unhurried.
I keep the rifle steady on his center mass. “Keep moving.”
The shadow to his left shifts. At first I think it’s one of his men closing in on my flank—then the figure steps into the open. A woman, tall, lean, face half-hidden under a black balaclava.
She moves like someone who’s owned kill-lanes before—balanced weight, muzzle awareness, eyes never static. A faint patch on her left shoulder catches moonlight for a second before she angles away: a stylized rook in burnished steel thread. I’ve only seen that insignia once before—in the Brussels data dump on Iron Choir shell companies.
Wolfe’s smile tightens. “You’re late, Nocturne.”
The name hits like a fist to my sternum. Nocturne—the alias he once gave me when he was grooming me for his network, a whisper in the dark meant to make me feel singular, chosen.
The woman’s voice is cool. “You really should stop reusing your toys, Wolfe.” She flicks a glance at me, then back to him. “The Choir wants its debts collected, Wolfe. You’ve been spending their capital like it’s your personal war chest. That ends tonight. This one,” she tips her head toward me, “didn’t exactly work out for you. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Wolfe turns his head slightly toward her, a fractional tell that his attention is split. “Careful.”
“I am,” she says—and then the muzzle of her pistol comes up, not toward me, but toward him.
I take the opening. One shot cracks through the cloister, the sound slamming against the stone. Wolfe staggers—not down, but off balance—his gun arm dropping. Her shot follows a heartbeat later, catching him high in the shoulder. He spins toward her, teeth bared, and his nearest guard dives in, shoving him toward partial cover behind a column.
Snow erupts around me as two more of his men open up from the north arcade. I roll behind a pillar, snap off a controlled pair to drop one, then shift angles to reacquire Wolfe.
The new Nocturne doesn’t waste the distraction—she peels left, clears the tripwire I’d set, and drops another guard with a clean double-tap. She’s methodical, prioritizing lanes, and for a second I realize she’s keeping my flank clear as much as she’s cutting down his numbers.
The remainder of the men he brought with him erupt from the shadows, but they’re funneled by the choke points I built. Wolfe’s team opens fire from the east arcade, the overlapping lanes doing exactly what they’re meant to—pinning the enemy where they can’t advance or retreat without crossing open ground.
Wolfe shouts something I can’t hear over the gunfire. The new Nocturne ignores him, moving with cold precision, cutting down one of his guards before he can reach the tripwire.
The fight grinds through bursts of gunfire and brief silences; the cloister filling with muzzle-flash glare and the tang of cordite. Twice, Wolfe tries to break the funnel—first toward the east arcade, then across the open courtyard—but each time overlapping fields of fire drive him back. The Choir’s rook keeps her distance from me, but her movements complement mine with unsettling precision, as if she’s run this kill box herself in another life. When the last of his men drop or flee, the air is raw with the echo of spent rounds.
I send the abort code to the explosive devices. I can't risk them going off and catching Logan, Archer, or Darius. When the last echo fades, I see Wolfe sprinting towards an opening, blood soaking his sleeve, staining the snow. I step into the courtyard, rifle steady.
And the new Nocturne has disappeared into the night. Near the base of the Virgin’s plinth, I find a single 9mm casing—not the brass we use, but a custom matte-black round etched with that rook symbol. It’s not carelessness. It’s a calling card.
“This ends now,” I say.
Before I can get a bead on either of them, decide who is the greater threat and eliminate them, I hear rapid gunfire and raised voices. It seems my cavalry has arrived, and knowing Logan, he is pissed beyond measure.
The Virgin’s shadow, stretched long and thin by the moonlight, drapes over us as the wind rises again, bringing with it the faint, lingering echo of a bell whose chime has not sounded for centuries.
Choice. Finality. Redemption. I don’t know yet which one this night will give me—but I know I’ve stopped running from all three.
20
LOGAN
The world tilts as consciousness slams back into me, the metallic tang of betrayal still on my tongue. My head pounds, muscles sluggish from the sleeping draught. Across from me, Archer groans and pushes upright, Darius swearing under his breath as he shakes off the fog. We’ve been played—and we all know by whom.
Before we can curse her name, my comm crackles. Fitz’s Scottish clipped brogue cuts through the haze: “Hunter, confirm—are you receiving? Wolfe’s alive."
