I clean the wound with antiseptic wipes from the kit. Diego hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. His eyes stay fixed on Thorne’s silhouette in the driver’s seat, watching. Assessing.
Thorne takes the curve without slowing.
I press gauze against Diego’s wound and tape it in place. My hands are steadier than they should be—adrenaline, maybe, or just the necessity of having something to do.
“The evidence we found,” I say. “Phoenix is building something in Nevada. Some kind of … I don’t even know what to call it. Biological computing. Organic processors.”
“That’s why Ghost sent me. Whatever they’re doing out there, it’s Phase Three. The endgame. And you two are the only ones who’ve gotten inside a facility and lived to talk about it.”
Diego and I exchange a look. The weight of that statement settles over us like a shroud.
“Thirty-seven days,” Diego says. “That’s what the documents said. Thirty-seven days until Nevada goes operational.”
“Then we have thirty-seven days to stop it.” Thorne takes another turn, heading west. “Ghost wants you in Seattle. Full debrief. Planning session. The whole team.”
The SUV eats up the dark miles. Mountains loom on either side, black shapes against a sky full of stars. No headlights behind us. No drone whine.
For now, we’re clear.
The safe house is a cabin tucked into a hollow between two ridges—the kind of place that doesn’t exist on any map. Thorne pulls the SUV into a garage that looks like a shed from the outside but has reinforced walls and a steel door that seals behind us.
“Four hours,” he says, killing the engine. “Rest. Eat. I’ll keep watch. Then we drive.”
Inside, the cabin is spartan but functional. A wood stove provides heat. A cache of supplies that could keep someone alive for weeks. A communications setup that looks jury-rigged but probably works better than anything you could buy retail.
Diego sinks onto the couch, one hand pressed against his bandaged side. The blood loss isn’t serious, but he’s tired. We both are. The kind of tired that goes deeper than muscles and bones.
I sit beside him. Close enough that our shoulders touch.
Thorne moves through the cabin, checking windows, testing locks, doing whatever operators do when they secure a position. Then he settles into a chair by the door, weapon across his lap.
“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll wake you if anything moves.”
Diego’s eyes are already closing. But his hand finds mine, threads his fingers through my fingers, holds on.
“Seattle,” I say quietly. “We’re really going to Seattle.”
“We’re really going.” His voice is rough with exhaustion. “The team. Backup. Resources. We stop running and start fighting.”
“And if we can’t stop it? Phoenix? Nevada? Whatever they’re building?”
His grip tightens. In the dim light, his eyes find mine.
“Then we go down swinging.” He pulls my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles. “But we’re not going to lose. Not anymore. Not after everything we’ve survived to get here.”
I lean against him, careful of his wounded side. His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer.
Across the room, Thorne watches the door. Silent. Vigilant. A stranger with pale eyes and a debt to settle.
Outside, the mountains hold their breath. Phoenix’s drones search empty forests for targets that have already slipped away. Thirty-seven days tick down toward something none of us fully understand.
But for now, in this cabin that doesn’t exist, I close my eyes and let myself believe we might actually win.
Diego’s breathing steadies. Slows. Sleep claiming him despite everything.
I follow him into the dark.
When I wake, gray light is filtering through the cabin’s windows, and Thorne is brewing coffee.
