He looked down at me, eyes dark with conflict. “You already have.”
“Then stop trying to protect me from the fight I started.”
The silence that followed wasn’t angry—it was heavy. Acceptance and fear tangled in the same breath. Then, finally, he nodded once. “You stay close. You follow orders. If I say move, you move.”
“Deal,” I said, and for the first time that morning, I let myself smile.
Gage leaned in from the doorway, smirking. “Glad that’s settled. Now if you two are done with your domestic standoff, can someone help me find my sidearm? I swear it was right here—”
Oliver tossed it to him from across the room without looking up. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly charming,” Gage corrected, holstering it.
Cyclone shut his tablet with a sharp click. “We’ve got a forty-eight-hour window before Grand’s next move. We hit the docks, gather intel, and cut off his escape. If we’re lucky, we’ll cripple Hydra’s shipping network before he relocates again.”
River loaded his rifle. “Lucky’s not our thing. We make our own.”
Beckett grabbed his pack and turned back to me one last time. His hand brushed my cheek, thumb lingering just long enough to make my pulse skip. “You ready?”
I looked him square in the eyes. “Always.”
And this time, he didn’t argue.
The Team filed out into the pale morning light—boots on gravel, metal glinting in the sun. The air carried that charged stillness before a storm, the kind you only feel right before everything changes.
As the door closed behind us, I glanced back once at the small, scarred table where we’d found a few hours of peace. The coffee was still half-full, steam fading fast.
I whispered under my breath, more to myself than anyone else, “Let this be the last time we have to run.”
But deep down, I already knew—Hydra wasn’t finished. And neither were we.
75
Beckett
The flight to Tunisia was quiet—too quiet.
We’d loaded into a gray cargo bird that smelled like engine oil and dust, flying low under radar, no lights, no insignia. Cyclone sat strapped in beside the comms gear, eyes flicking between screens that cast his face in blue. River and Oliver were opposite me, checking rifles in near silence. Even Gage had gone still, tapping a rhythm on his thigh like he was daring the silence to blink first.
Elara sat to my right, headphones around her neck, watching the darkness beyond the porthole. She hadn’t said a word since takeoff, but I didn’t need her to. The tension in her jaw said enough. She was ready—and she was scared. Not of dying. Of losing.
Cyclone broke the silence first. “Transmission pings confirmed. Grand’s lieutenant—Codename ‘Viktor’—is running the Tunisian port. It’s not just a hub, it’s an export facility for the trafficking network. They’ve disguised everything as humanitarian shipments—containers marked for medical relief, school supplies, reconstruction materials.”
“Classic Hydra,” River muttered. “Hide monsters in charity.”
Cyclone nodded grimly. “Satellite feed shows the compound’s protected by a private militia. They’re expecting trouble, but not us.”
Gage leaned back, smirking. “Good. I hate disappointing people.”
Elara turned toward Cyclone. “What about Grand?”
“His signal went dark five hours ago. My guess? He’s not here. He’s waiting to see who survives this round before he shows his face again.”
I checked my rifle, then met Elara’s gaze. “He’s watching. He always is.”
She didn’t flinch. “Then let him watch us burn his empire.”
The cargo bay went still again. Even Cyclone’s fingers paused on the keyboard. That fire in her voice—it wasn’t bravado. It was truth.
