The van lurches into motion, tires squealing against pavement. CJ moves to stand beside me, keeping his balance effortlessly as the vehicle weaves through what must be side streets.
“We’ve been tracking Phoenix’s kill squad through the metro system,” he explains, his voice low. “Had to neutralize two other teams converging on your position. This van has EM shielding and infrared suppression—you’re off their surveillance grid now.”
“Off the map,” Ghost adds from where he stands watching the medical team work. “You and the drive.”
My hand instinctively checks my bra where the flash drive remains secure. All of this—Cooper’s blood, the gunfire, the frantic escape—all for the data that could bring down Phoenix.
I stare at the side wound, the one I never treated, never even knew about. He must have been hit again during our mad dash through the tunnels—taking a bullet without telling me, pushing forward despite the new injury. The realization twists my heart. While I was focused on our escape, he was bleeding out from a wound I didn’t even know existed.
“Will he …” I can’t finish the question.
“Skye’s the best,” CJ answers. “But he needs surgery. We’re heading to our airstrip now.”
I nod, unable to form words as Cooper’s vital signs flash on the portable monitor. His blood pressure is dangerously low, his oxygen saturation falling despite the mask over his face. Skye presses gauze packs against the wound while Tia pushes medications through the IVs, calling out drug names and dosages in medical shorthand that sounds like a foreign language.
I want to touch him, to whisper that I’m here, that he kept his promise to get me out alive. But he’s unconscious, pale as death, sweat beading on his forehead. My mind replays our time together in flashes—the maintenance room, his hands on mybody, the way he made me feel safe even when the world was falling apart around us.
Now this. The guilt crashes over me in waves. If I hadn’t decoded Phoenix’s data, if I hadn’t insisted on taking the flash drive, if I had just stayed in my academic bubble—Cooper wouldn’t be fighting for his life.
The van weaves through side streets, avoiding main thoroughfares where Phoenix might have surveillance. Through the small window separating the driver’s compartment, I glimpse the early morning darkness giving way to predawn gray. We’ve been running for hours, though it feels like days.
When we finally slow, it’s inside a hangar, the van doors opening directly into the cavernous space. A sleek aircraft waits, its engines already humming with readiness. Everything happens with intense coordination—Cooper is transferred to a stretcher, his body covered under the sheets. A mask is placed over my face, matching those worn by the Guardian team.
“Security protocol,” Ghost explains as he guides me toward the aircraft. “Even our allies don’t know who you are.”
The plane is unlike anything I’ve seen before—clearly military in origin, but retrofitted with medical equipment that rivals any emergency room. We’re barely on board before the aircraft begins taxiing, no lights, no radio chatter, just the hum of engines accelerating to takeoff speed.
Inside, the medical team transitions Cooper to a more sophisticated setup. A new face joins them—a man with silver-streaked hair.
“Dr. Asa Khan,” Skye introduces him briefly. “Best trauma surgeon in the world.”
I’m guided to a seat and buckled in, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Cooper. The medical team surrounds him—Skye barking orders while hanging blood products, Tia calling out medications, Ryker reading out vital signs everythirty seconds, and Dr. Khan arranging surgical instruments on a sterile field with the focus of a chess master planning three moves ahead.
When they intubate Cooper, I finally break. The sight of him, my protector, my anchor through this nightmare, now breathing only because a machine forces air into his lungs, shatters something inside me. A sob escapes before I can stop it.
CJ slides into the seat beside me. “This is what we do,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man who looks like he could snap necks with his bare hands. “You saved him. Now let us take over.”
The flight passes in a blur of medical procedures and hushed conversations. I drift in and out, exhaustion claiming me in patches, only to jerk awake at every change in Cooper’s monitor sounds. When I wake fully, light streams through the small aircraft windows. Below us stretch the jagged peaks of mountains, bathed in the golden glow of sunrise.
“Cascades,” Ghost says, noticing my gaze. “We’re approaching Seattle.”
Cooper lies still on the medical gurney, but his monitors beep with a stronger, steadier rhythm. The breathing tube has been removed, replaced with a nasal cannula. Color has returned to his face—not much, but enough to suggest he’s fighting his way back.
As the aircraft begins its descent, Skye approaches, her surgical cap removed, revealing her long brown hair now damp with sweat and coming loose from its bun. Despite the exhaustion evident in the shadows under her eyes, that natural kindness remains in her expression.
“He’s stable,” she says, her voice reflecting the exhaustion of hours of intensive care. “The surgery went well. The bullet in his shoulder missed the major vessels—your field care helped with that. The side wound was trickier, but we got it under control.”
Relief floods through me so intensely that for a moment I can’t speak. I just nod, blinking back tears.
The aircraft touches down with barely a bump, taxiing directly into another hangar. When the back hatch opens, the fresh scent of pine and ocean air rushes in, so different from the recycled oxygen and antiseptic smell inside.
Ghost appears beside me as the medical team prepares to move Cooper. “Welcome to Cerberus,” he says, his normally hard expression relaxed into something almost approachable. “Phoenix can’t reach you here.”
Skye gives me a reassuring nod as she checks Cooper’s vitals one more time. “He’s in good hands,” she says quietly. “Both of you are.”
As they wheel Cooper out, I follow on shaky legs, the flash drive still secure against my heart. We made it. Against impossible odds, we survived. But as I step into the hangar and see the small army of operatives waiting for us, I realize the fight is far from over.
TWENTY-THREE
