SUV. Backseat. Armored.
Thorne’s vehicle.
Ohio, based on the flat farmland stretching to the horizon. We’ve been on the road for hours.
“He’s awake.”
Cassie’s voice, from beside me. She’s curled into the seat, a blanket pulled over her legs, watching me with tired eyes. Her hand finds mine automatically—a gesture that’s become reflex over the past week.
“How long was I out?”
“Six hours. Maybe seven.” She squeezes my fingers. “You needed it.”
From the driver’s seat, Thorne’s eyes find me in the rearview mirror. Pale. Flat. Assessing.
“Wound holding?”
I shift, testing. The movement pulls at damaged tissue, but the pain is manageable. Deep ache instead of sharp fire. “Holding.”
“Good. There’s water in the center console. Protein bars in the bag at your feet. Eat something.”
Not a suggestion. An order. Delivered in the same flat tone he used to tell us about the drone’s targeting lag.
I drink. The water is cold—Thorne must have ice packs somewhere in this mobile arsenal. It helps clear the fog. My side throbs, but the field dressing Cassie applied is doing its job.
“Where are we?”
“Just passed Columbus.” Thorne takes a curve without slowing, hands steady on the wheel. “We’ll need fuel in about an hour. There’s a truck stop outside Dayton that’s clean—no cameras, no facial recognition. We can make contact there.”
“Contact with who?”
“Ghost. Whisper. Whoever’s running your comms.” Those pale eyes find the mirror again. “You need to report what you found. And I need to know what the plan is.”
“You don’t know?”
“I know Ghost wanted you extracted. I know the Terra Alta facility was important. I know you pulled something that matters.” A pause. “I don’t know what you found. Ghost didn’t give me details—just coordinates.”
“And you came anyway?”
“Ghost called.” The simplest statement, delivered without emphasis. “I came.”
The highway stretches ahead, arrow-straight through farmland that looks like it hasn’t changed in fifty years. I study Thorne’s profile, the set of his shoulders, the way his head moves in constant small sweeps, checking mirrors, scanning the horizon. Professional. Vigilant.
But something else too. Something I didn’t notice last night in the chaos of extraction.
Exhaustion. Not physical—the man moves like a machine. But deeper. The kind of tired that settles into your bones when you’ve been running on empty for too long.
The truck stop is a sprawling concrete island in a sea of brown fields. Diesel pumps for the semis. Regular pumps for everyone else. A convenience store that looks like it hasn’t been updated since 1987.
Thorne pulls up to a pump and kills the engine. “Fuel first. Then food. Then contact.” He hands me a burner phone—not mine, one of his. “Encrypted. Bounces through six relays. Should be clean for a twenty-minute call.”
“You carry encrypted burners?”
“I carry everything.” He’s out the door, already reaching for the pump.
“He’s intense,” Cassie says, watching him through the window.
“Yes.”
