Page 99 of Anchor
Terry flinched. “Yes.”
Ian’s fists curled against the table.
Killian’s voice was low, lethal. “Start from the beginning.”
Terry looked between them. “Vos was my friend before everything. Before Chase. Before Ann Arbor even broke ground. I knew him back when he was still with the Agency.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you and he were embedded this whole time?”
Terry nodded. “Before the first brick. Vos knew Chase would expand. Knew you’d need someone local. I was already in the pipeline. I didn’t need convincing.”
Ian’s stare was ice. “So, while we built this team—my team—you were setting the stage for him?”
“I was laying the wiring,” Terry said flatly. “Comms redundancies. Shadow protocols. Medical access. Vos planned for years, and I believed in him. Even after you got him turned in the first exchange, I thought… I thought he’d be a ghost. But when he came back from the Russian prisons, he wasn’t broken. He was clear, like pain had burned the doubt out of him.”
As Ian stood slowly, the air shifted. “You talk about him like he’s a cause. You think what they did to Vos gives him the right to dismantle everything we built? You think it justifies the burn lists? The dead teams? Joe Bowman?”
Terry looked down. “Joe was… different.”
“He was ours,” Ian snapped. “And Vos signed his death order.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed.
Terry whispered, “I didn’t know it would go that far.”
Ian’s voice turned to steel. “It always goes that far.”
Killian stepped forward, breaking the stillness. “You’re done, Terry. Whatever you think you were protecting, he used you. And now he’s coming.”
Ian leaned down, eyes level. “You’re going to tell us everything. Every relay. Every dead drop. Every mole still inside this building. And if you don’t…” his voice dropped to a razor’sedge, “…we’ll turn you into the very thing Vos tried to create. Only you’ll be the one locked behind the glass.”
Ian turned and walked out. Killian followed, the door locking behind them with a hiss that sounded permanent. Inside, Terry sat alone. And this time, he felt it.
OR 3 – 0603 HOURS
Inside the OR, everything remained quiet. The smell of blood hit like a wave—metallic, sharp, unrelenting. Monitors were stilled. A clock on the wall marked each passing second like a threat.
Tuck Hanlon remained elbow-deep in Reid’s chest, sweat dripping down his brow as he manually compressed his nephew’s heart. His jaw was locked. His grip never faltered.
“Come on, kid,” he muttered with each squeeze. “Stay with me.”
Foley and Beth packed the abdominal cavity with lap pads, trying to contain the internal bleeding. Nothing held for long. They both barked orders while their surgical seconds swabbed blood away from Reid’s exposed organs. Pete Walter was at the head, forcing blood into his leaking body, incapable of responding.
Beth ordered, “We need more ice now.”
Ice was packed beneath Reid’s arms, along his groin, under his neck. A mountain of it, meant to slow the metabolic collapse. The floor was covered with a bloody slush. His body trembled in contradiction: organs frozen, heart failing, and Tuck, sleevessoaked, wrapped in warm blankets, holding the only rhythm keeping Reid technically alive.
“No bypass,” Beth said quickly.
“He won’t tolerate ECMO either,” Foley added.
Pete shook his head. “Heart’s too weak. Bleed’s too hot.”
“Neuro pressure still spiking,” Foley reported. “Burr hole’s not venting fast enough.”
Beth turned to the tech. “Administer twenty more of mannitol. Then Lasix. Keep the vent setting as shallow as possible.”
The door swung open again.
