Then The Ascendancy had already lost.
I closed my eyes—not to sleep, but to listen.
Stone carried sound differently.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, something was moving.
8
Ronan
Wind clawed at the side of the truck as it climbed higher into the mountains, engine grinding, tires spitting gravel over the edge of a drop that disappeared into fog.
I stared out the cracked passenger window, watching the world fall away beneath us—pine forest, rusted lift cables from some abandoned ski resort, a ribbon of river glinting far below like a knife.
We were close. I could feel it in my bones.
“Elevation’s killing my knees,” Miles muttered from the back seat, boots thudding against the floorboard. “You sure this intel is solid, Pierce? Because if we drove three hours straight up a cliff for nothing, I’m filing a complaint.”
“File it with Hydra,” I said. “If you can find anyone still breathing.”
Aaron snorted softly beside him. Jase didn’t say anything—he rarely did when we were this close to an op. His silence was its own kind of hum, a low-level readiness that matched the tension in my spine.
I checked the GPS again. Cyclone’s route blinked acrossthe screen, a thin red line that ended at a dot markedBILLY GOAT FARM.
Of course.
I thumbed the comms button tucked inside my collar. “Delta Five to Cyclone. Tell me this goat farm has more than goats.”
Static crackled, then Cyclone’s dry voice filled my ear. “You’re right on top of the access road. Side note: those aren’t technically goats, they’re a crossbreed—”
“Don’t care,” I cut in.
He sighed. “Bunker entrance is three klicks above the farm, carved into the north face. You’re looking for a maintenance hatch disguised as a snow-control shed. Warm signatures inside, enough power draw to light a small city. If Lena’s there, that’s where they’d keep her.”
My fingers tightened on the GPS unit.
Lena.
For three years, her name had been a ghost under my ribs. A line I didn’t cross. A door I didn’t open.
Now the door was cracked, and every breath hurt.
We rounded a switchback. The farmhouse came into view—weather-beaten wood, sagging roof, a pen of restless animals clustered near a stone wall. A man in a wool cap looked up as our truck approached, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
“Showtime,” Aaron murmured.
Jase rested his rifle across his thighs, eyes scanning the tree line. “No overwatch,” he said quietly. “If they’re here, they’re buried deep.”
“Which is exactly how Ascendancy likes it,” Miles said. “Moles and tunnels and freaks with god complexes.”
I pushed open my door before the truck fully stopped. Cold air slammed into me, thin with altitude and carrying the metallic tang of impending snow.It was damn freezing.
The farmer watched us approach, his gaze lingering a little too long on the truck’s plates. He didn’t flinch at four heavily built men in civilian layers that still screamed military.
I forced my jaw to relax. “Dobryy vecher,” I said in rusty local dialect. “We’re lost.”
His eyes flicked to mine. Something shifted there—recognition, maybe. Or calculation.
