Page 23 of North

A branch snapped in the distance. Jack held his breath, counting heartbeats. One. Two.

There. The shadow of movement through a broken window in the concrete building ahead. His target thought he was being careful, but Jack recognized the pattern. Same as a calf about to bolt—checking the escape routes, measuring distances.

“When they’re scared, they run to what looks safe,” his dad used to say, adjusting Jack’s grip on the rope. “Your job is to know where that is before they do.”

Jack’s gaze swept the layout. Three exits. But only one offered clear sight lines and quick cover. He moved, silent as a shadow, circling wide to come in from behind. His boots found solid ground with each step, avoiding the gravel that would betray his position.

The target’s breath hitched. The guy was good, but Jack could read the tension in those controlled inhales. Like watching a calf’s ribs expand before it bolted.

“Cooper.” The voice in his earpiece belonged to his instructor. “Target’s gone dark. Three other teams have lost him. Check in.”

Jack clicked his radio once. He had this.

The early light painted everything in shades of gray, but Jack didn’t need to see. He’d mapped every angle, every shadow.

Movement. The target broke cover, sprinting for the safe exit Jack had already identified. Just like a spooked calf running for a gap in the fence.

Jack stepped out, his tranq gun already raised. “Bang,” he said softly. “You’re dead.”

The target froze, then slowly raised his hands. “How the⁠—”

“Exercise terminated.” The voice came through Jack’s earpiece as the compound lights blazed to life, harsh fluorescents shattering the predawn shadows. “All teams report to debrief.”

Jack secured his weapon, already cataloging what he’d done right, what he could improve. The target—a senior agent named Phillips—walked over, shaking his head.

“You tracked me through the whole village?”

“You telegraph your moves.” Jack shrugged. “When you’re nervous, you hesitate, overdo your steps.”

“Interesting observation.” The new voice carried authority earned through years of fieldwork. Jack turned to find a tall man in his early forties studying him with sharp eyes. His suit looked expensive, but it was his stance that broadcasted power—the kind that came from knowing other people’s secrets.

Probably one of the higher-ups, coming down from above to check on the new batch of recruits.

“Sir.” Jack straightened.

“At ease.” The man’s thin lips curved slightly. “Tom Crowley, director of Eastern Bloc operations. Walk with me, Cooper.”

They moved away from the debriefing crowd. Crowley’s shoes crunched on the gravel. “Your file says you grew up on a farm in Kansas. Team roping competitions with your father. Sorry to hear about his death.”

“Yes, sir.” The familiar ache pressed against his ribs. If he’d been home that day instead of away on spring break…

“Why’d you decide to join the CIA?”

Big question. Simple answer. “My father was a soldier. I wanted to be like him…but not in the military. Something bigger.”

“What about the family farm? Your mother, all alone⁠—”

“My sister and her husband moved in, are taking it over. There’s…there’s no room for me.”

Crowley made a humming sound. Nodded. “Their loss is our gain. Those skills—reading behavior, anticipating movements—they take years to learn.” Crowley stopped, turning to face him. “Frankly, the best handlers are born, not made. They have instincts that can’t be trained into existence.”

Jack met the director’s calculating gaze. “My father taught me that fear makes everything predictable. Animal or human—they all run the same patterns. It makes them vulnerable and easy to trap.”

“And you see those patterns.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crowley nodded slowly. “We’re expanding operations in Eastern Europe. Budapest station needs fresh blood. Someone who can spot potential assets, read people the way you do.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket. “Interested?”

Jack’s pulse quickened, but his voice stayed steady. “Very.”

“Good.” Crowley handed him the envelope. “Congratulations, Alexander Steele. Welcome to the CIA.”

Jack met his handshake, the power of it rippling through him, and took the envelope.

Alexander Steele. His new life. The name felt right somehow. A fresh start, a chance to use what his father taught him to make a difference, to be a patriot.

The sun crested the trees, painting the compound in shades of gold. Somewhere in the distance, a crow called again. Warning or welcome, he couldn’t tell.

But he was made for this.