“Mark the corridor,” I say.
Miles highlights the eastern access vein—narrow, angular, buried under layers of false redundancy.
A corridor Malenkov trusts because it looks brutal to breach.
“Jase,” I say. “You’re with me.”
“Always,” he answers.
The vehicle slows. Stops.
We don’t rush.
Doors open one by one, controlled, silent. Delta Five melts into the trees like we’ve always belonged here. No wasted movement. No wasted breath.
I take point.
Pain lives in the back of my mind where it belongs. Fear stays buried. Anger is cold and focused.
This isn’t about vengeance.
It’s about retrieval.
Lena’s voice lowers. “You’re green across all known sensors. Jonah just forced another hunter redeploy. Please stay safe.”
“I will, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“Time check,” I say.
“T-minus eight minutes until Malenkov realizes what he actually exposed.”
Plenty.
We move.
The eastern approach isn’t obvious unless you know whatyou’re looking for—rock that doesn’t quite match, vegetation that grows wrong. I stop and crouch, brushing fingers over stone.
Hollow.
“Miles,” I murmur. “Confirm.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re on it.”
I set the charge myself.
Not because I have to—but because I want Malenkov to feel the precision of this moment. The difference between destruction and intent.
We clear back.
The blast is muted. Surgical.
Stone gives way.
Air rushes out—cold, recycled, carrying the faint metallic scent of captivity.
My chest tightens.
They’re close.
