No wind.
No birds.
No movement that wasn’t intentional.
Havoc’s voice came low through comms. “Thermals confirm. Three heat signatures. Spacing is deliberate.”
Trigger added, “They’re not rushing. They’re expecting resistance.”
Good.
Let them expect it.
I lifted my fist, holding the team in place, eyes scanning the tree line through night optics. Shapes moved between trunks—slow, confident. Too confident.
These men had done this before.
But not like this.
Saint murmured, “They’re reacting to the lodge’s signal bleed exactly the way we predicted. Keller’s conditioning models are still guiding them.”
“He thinks he’s still in control,” I said.
Behind me, inside the lodge, Nora sat with Sheriff Tate, watching feeds on Saint’s secondary tablet. I could feel her presence even from here—like an anchor pulling me back every time instinct screamed to charge.
“Wolf,” she said softly through the open comm line. “They’ve stopped.”
So I’d heard it too.
Three figures halted at the edge of the clearing.
One of them stepped forward.
Taller than the others.
Slower.
Unarmed—deliberately.
I knew without seeing his face.
“Keller,” I muttered.
Trigger shifted beside me. “You want me to—?”
“No,” I said. “He wants an audience.”
The man lifted his chin.
And spoke.
His voice carried effortlessly through the trees, calm and cultured, the kind that once belonged behind lecterns and academic panels.
“Wolf Maddox,” Keller called. “Still doing what you were trained to do, I see. Shielding. Intervening. Protecting what you believe is fragile.”
My jaw tightened.
He smiled faintly. I could hear it in his voice.
