Vivian met his eyes, voice low. “We save who we can. Now we burn the rest down.”
Blake nodded once, grim. “Thirteen has intel and a move he wants to make. Claims he has names—real proof of a covert operation that will burn the FBI and show how they worked with Laurel Tide instead of against them.”
“We can use that.” Vivian paced, biting her nail, a plan forming in her mind. Not great, but possible. But a lot of things would have to fall into place to make it work.
“But if Laurel Tide figures out he’s compromised, they’ll erase him and, if they discover who Mara is?” Blake went still. “Certain people in the agency would use a child to keep him quiet, and Laurel Tide would happily eliminate both of them to remove the problem.”
Vivian’s breath snagged. The child’s small hand in hers, the thin blanket, the hollow patience in the girl’s eyes—everything clicked into place like a gun chamber finding its round.
Blake’s tone softened until it was nearly a confession. “He told us the truth at the hospital elevator—he’s trying to save her the only way he can. Mara’s mother managed to get a message to Thirteen; she was killed before he could get them both out, but she managed to send a message before she died.” When Laurel Tide brought in the missionary contractors, he took advantage of the situation by positioning himself to work directly with the militia.”
Vivian shook her head. “I won’t accept that there is no way out of this. Set a meeting with Thirteen. I have an idea. But you won’t like it.”
Blake raised a brow at her. “Why not?”
“Because it’ll cost us everything.”
The roadto the lighthouse crawled along the edge of the cliffs, a vein of cracked asphalt cutting through fog and scrub. The wind off the sea came in sharp, salted gusts that rattled the vehicle’s frame. Every so often, the beam from the lighthouse swept the road ahead—a skeletal hand reaching through the mist—and then vanished again, leaving only darkness.
Blake’s grip tightened on the wheel. Each rotation of the wipers matched the slow, deliberate pulse of his heartbeat. He’d been underwater long enough after the fall to feel death’s fingers on his throat, but now it was this—the silence beside Vivian—that suffocated him.
She hadn’t spoken since they left the safehouse. Didn’t need to. The air between them was loaded with the kind of understanding you didn’t earn easily, one built through blood and near misses. Every time he glanced over, the dim light from the dashboard caught on her cheekbones and the sharp line of her mouth. Her eyes stayed forward, fixed on the horizon as if the world might crumble if she looked away.
He wanted to tell her how hard it had been to leave her on that ship, to jump knowing she might think he’d died. The decision had ripped something out of him. But he’d done it anyway. Because if it came down to her or him, there’d never been a question. He’d drown a thousand times over before he let them touch her.
Now she was alive, sitting within arm’s reach, and he couldn’t even say her name without feeling the edge of it in his chest.
The car Thirteen’s men had given him jolted as the tires hit gravel. The lighthouse rose ahead, tall and ominous.
Vivian’s voice broke the silence, low and certain. “We’re early.”
“Good,” he said. “I hate walking into someone else’s schedule.”
He killed the headlights and coasted behind a row of derelict fuel tanks. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, drowned out by the hiss of wind and waves. He opened his door, the cold slamming into him, sharp enough to bite bone.
Vivian was already out, her movements efficient, silent. She slung the rifle over her shoulder and scanned the cliffs with the same focus he’d seen her use dissecting intel, the world reduced to angles and shadows. She wasn’t afraid. That was what scared him most.
Blake checked his weapon from their stash at his place, slid a fresh magazine into place, and motioned for her to follow. They stayed low, moving between rocks slick with sea spray. The air carried the copper tang of salt and rust, the odor of burned fuel.
Halfway to the lighthouse, he stopped. Movement—small, quick—near the entrance. Three figures, maybe four, cutting through the fog with the stealth of people who’d done this too many times before.
He crouched behind a drift of stone and lifted his binoculars. The silhouettes were too disciplined for freelancers. The way they communicated—hand signals, not shouts—told him everything. Agency-trained or contractor elite.
Vivian shifted beside him. “We go around back.”
He shook his head. “They’re flanking both sides. This isn’t a meet. It’s a setup.”
She looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You think Thirteen sold us out?”
He wanted to say no. That trust still meant something. But he’d seen too many good men twisted by fear, by leverage, by the illusion that one small betrayal could save someone they loved.“I would if they discovered Mara’s relationship to him, and it’s his way out of all this.”
Viv’s hair whipped loose in the wind, eyes glinting like broken glass. She didn’t look away. “Then we make it our setup,” she said.
He almost smiled.
They moved again, circling the base of the lighthouse. The ground was slick, the stone steps treacherous. The door at the bottom hung half open, a faint glow spilling through the gap. Blake raised a hand, signaling stop. Vivian ignored it, creeping closer.
“Viv,” he hissed.
