Page 143 of Anchor
Reid didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were on Claire. “We’re not prey,” he said. “We don’t run. We hold this line.”
Claire gave a tiny nod. “And we don’t let him win.”
“No. We let him suffer.” He sat down beside her, not leaving, not sleeping, and not moving—until the threat was gone.
TACTICAL OPS ROOM – 0410 HOURS
The lights inside the ops room were dimmed to preserve night vision. The map on the table glowed faintly beneath the overhead. The northern corridor of Montenegro lay sprawled across it, marked in red zones and shaded elevation.
Reid stood with two crutches, refusing the chair. His weight was uneven, his frame still not what it once was, but his eyes burned clear. Across from him, Apex studied the same map, arms crossed.
“He’s created a tunnel,” Reid muttered. “Satellite dead zones. Two-hour gaps between patrol drones. No civilian data.”
“He’s got DARPA spinoff comms running cold up that ridge. Ghost-layer encryption. Relay said he’s never seen anything like it.”
“He’s preparing,” Reid said. “Claire’s the endgame.”
Apex nodded grimly. “And you’re still not cleared for the field.”
“I don’t need to touch ground.” Reid produced a folded sheet of notes. “I need to be in the chair behind the net.”
Apex took the list. Former tier-one names. Handwritten call signs.
“I won’t leave Claire’s side,” Reid added, “but I can still run this op. I know his patterns. I know how he breaks.”
“You’re good at vengeance,” Apex said quietly. “But don’t let it get in the way of precision.”
“It won’t,” Reid said. “I can’t lose this one. I don’t have a choice.”
Apex gave a single nod. “You built Tree Town One. You run the net, but if you set foot outside that suite…”
“I won’t.” Reid’s voice was iron. “Not until she’s safe.”
Apex turned away to patch in the first strike orders, while Reid stood a moment longer, staring at the map. “This ends with Vos dead underneath my heel.”
MONTENEGRO – HIDDEN MOUNTAIN VILLA – DAWN LOCAL TIME
The snow had started falling, late in the season. Heavy flakes drifted onto the slate roof as Vos stood beneath the low beams of the villa’s war room.
The underground clinic pulsed beneath the floors—state-of-the-art and unregistered. He’d spent years burying the facility under shell companies and fake mineral surveys. It was perfect.
Heather sat in the corner, silent, pale beneath her altered face. Her bruising had faded, but her expression was flat and unreadable.
Vos stood at the head of the table, examining the live intel feed from Denver. He tapped a screen showing a patch of scrubland just west of the Chase compound. “Two agents there,” he said. “Tree Town sweepers, but we don’t hit the perimeter.”
Heather finally spoke. “You’re still going?”
Vos turned to her. “I didn’t bury myself alive in Prague for retreat. Claire is vulnerable. The baby’s early. She’s on bedrest.We wait until they falter. They will falter. They function on emotion.”
He pointed to a blinking feed showing Claire’s vitals, obtained by a mole on a private relay, patched briefly through an old Romanian network. “They’re prepping her for C-section protocols. That means more hands, more shifts. One shadow shift, one mistake, and we enter.”
Heather's voice cracked. “You said you wouldn’t hurt her.”
Vos’s smile was thin. “I said she wouldn’t die, at least not yet.” He picked up a surgical pack on the table. Stored within it were labeled vials, sedatives, restraints. Another kit held neonate supplies.
“We take the child,” he said coldly. “And let the rest of the world believe the stress killed her.”
Heather swallowed hard but said nothing more.
