Page 133 of Anchor
She moved with stiffness, discomfort riding her posture like a second shadow. Reid knew that walk. She always tried to look taller when she was hiding something.
Vos was broader and slower, walking like his inner ear was still recalibrating. But everything in his bearing reeked of control.
“Vos,” Reid muttered. “Plastic surgery doesn’t hide evil.”
Kieran didn’t answer. He just tapped the screen, and the video shifted to a wide angle.
The two of them entering a sleek black town car. Vos climbed in first. Heather followed, favoring her left side.
The license plates pinged. The voice from the comm feed whispered into the room like a ghost, “Confirmed. Stride profile, posture match, height within two centimeters of pre-op estimates.”
The timestamp read four days ago.
“They were seen again at Letnany Airfield,” Kieran said. “Boarded a private charter to Montenegro.”
“Alone?” Reid asked.
“Just them. But someone paid in cash. Local team confirms the pilot isn’t local. And the driver didn’t speak Czech. We suspect it was his enforcer, Scour.”
The next image showed the plane lifting off in the dull gray light. Its sleek wings caught the fog above the airstrip.
Kieran finally spoke again, low. “We put a tracker on the undercarriage. The Montenegro team is ready.”
“That won’t matter unless we’re ready here. If they want Claire, they’ll come for her.” Reid chewed his lip, jaw tightening as he thought about the future they’d barely had time to imagine. He sat straighter, ignoring the burn in his side. “They’re not finished,” he said. “But neither am I.”
He turned to the screen again. “Send that footage to Lincoln. I want Tree Town One watching that frame like it’s oxygen.”
Kieran gave him a quiet nod.
“They changed their faces,” Reid noted. “How do I tell Claire?”
After a stretch of silence, Kieran finally exhaled. "You don’t.” Then he added gently, "Not yet."
Reid gave him a sharp look.
"She’s already dealing with a high-risk pregnancy," Kieran continued. "Tuck’s got her on a tight watch. You drop this on her now, she’ll either shut down or do something reckless. You know her better than I do."
“I do,” Reid cut in. “That’s why I can’t lie to her.”
“You’re not lying,” Kieran said. “You’re triaging.”
Reid looked back at the screen, at the image of Heather boarding the car. The tilt of her chin. The way Vos moved like he was still rehearsing his own gravity. "You think I should keep it from her.”
“I think you should buy us forty-eight hours,” Kieran answered. “Let Tree Town One deploy and get feet on the ground. Let Lincoln lock down the maternity wing. Let Tuck get her through her next scan without a panic spike. Then we tell her, together.”
Reid’s hand curled around the arm of the chair. “She’s going to ask me,” he argued. “Claire always knows when something’s coming.”
“Then don’t lie,” Kieran said. “Just… hold the storm until we know which direction it’s blowing.”
Reid’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to the timestamp again. He hated that Kieran was right. He hated that, somewhere in Montenegro, Vos was building the next phase of a war that had never ended. And Claire, the woman who’d already bled enough for a dozen wars, was about to be in the crosshairs again.
Kieran’s voice broke through one more time, softer now. “She’s strong. But right now, you’re her shield. Hold the line.”
Reid nodded once. “Forty-eight hours,” he said. “Then we tell her everything.”
REHAB SUITE – 1104 HOURS
Claire lay working in bed. She slammed her laptop shut, her heart hammering. The file was buried behind three layers of clearance. It sat in a standard backup partition, mislabeled. But she knew Kieran’s naming conventions too well. She found the Prague footage. And worse, an internal memo from Ian:“Planned OB-GYN extraction likely. Pediatric support confirmed.”
