I don’t let myself think she’s dead.
Thinking that would make me careless.
As long as there’s no body, no confirmation, no proof—I operate on one truth only.
Lena Hart survives.
The watch on my wrist reads 4:37. I’ve got fifty-three minutes before I’m due at the safehouse. River made that very clear—Golden Team didn’t run late, and apparently neither did Delta Five.
I drop to the floor and start moving.
Pushups. Planks. Squats. Burpees.
Pain is useful. Pain keeps the memories in line.
By the time sweat drips down my spine, the storm inside my chest has settled into something manageable—tight, coiled, ready.
I shower quickly, using only cold water, and pull on jeans, boots, and a black hoodie. Same uniform I’ve worn across three continents and more bad decisions than I care to count.
On the way out, I hesitate—just for a second—then open the locked drawer beside the bed.
Inside is a folded photograph. Creased. Soft at the edges.
Lena Hart, smiling into the camera like she knows a secret no one else does. Wind in her hair, notebook tucked under her arm, eyes sharp and alive.
“You should’ve walked away,” I tell the picture quietly.
She didn’t.
And people like Lena don’t break quietly in the dark. They endure. They adapt. They wait.
She never did.
That was Lena—too brave, too stubborn, too unwilling to look the other way when evil wore a suit and called itself inevitable.
I lock the drawer and leave.
The Golden Teamsafehouse in Carlsbad looks like any other coastal home—stucco, clean lines, nothing that screamsblack-ops murder familyto the neighbors. That’s the point.
Inside, it smells like coffee and gun oil. Familiar. Dangerous. Almost comforting.
Cyclone’s already there, fingers flying across his laptop, light reflecting off his glasses. Gideon leans against the counter, built like a tank and twice as patient. Faron paces near the window, restless energy rolling off him.
River looks up when I enter, that assessing gaze never missing a thing.
“Morning, Pierce.”
“Morning.”
I take the corner chair again. Same place as last time. Same distance from everyone else. Close enough to move if things go sideways. Far enough not to pretend I belong.
River clicks a remote, and the wall screen lights up.
Maps. Names. Redacted files stacked on top of each other like tombstones.
“The Ascendancy,” he says. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
“No,” I reply. “I don’t do exaggeration.”
