“We’re not going to get separated.”
“Hope for the best. Plan for the worst.”
He stirs the soup. The smell of processed chicken and salt fills the small room. It shouldn’t smell good, but my stomach growls, a traitorous reminder that I’m still alive.
“Dawn,” he says. “Six AM. We start with breaking holds.”
“You really think I can learn to fight in a day?”
“I think you can learn to survive.” He sets a bowl in front of me. “There’s a difference.”
He stands while he eats, leaning against the counter, guarding the dark windows. He’s feeding me, protecting me, and planning for my survival, but he won’t look at me.
I eat the soup. I’ll need the strength. Because tomorrow, I’m not just going to learn how to survive.
I’m going to make him look at me.
FOUR
“The Sentinel”
HALO
I don’t need an alarm.My internal clock wakes me at 0555.
The cabin is freezing. The fire in the woodstove died hours ago, leaving the air heavy with the scent of cold ash and damp timber. I lie still on the hard floor, listening.
Wind in the eaves. The settling groan of the roof. And the rhythmic, soft sound of Cassie breathing on the couch across the room.
I turn my head.
She’s curled into a ball under the scratchy wool blanket, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her hair is a chaotic halo against the gray fabric, catching the first pale light filtering through the dirty window.
She looks peaceful. Soft. Harmless.
She is a Level 5 Extinction Event.
I push the thought away. It’s a mission parameter, not a definition of the woman.
I sit. My wound aches—a dull throb from the grazing shot in DC, aggravated by sleeping on the floor. I ignore it. Pain is just data.
I check my weapon. Chambered. Stand. My boots make no sound on the floorboards. I move to the couch and look down at her.
In her sleep, the worry lines on her forehead are gone. She looks like someone who should be worrying about billable hours and coffee orders, not kill teams and AI surveillance.
For a second, the urge to let her sleep is overwhelming. Let her have one more hour of being Cassie Brennan before I turn her into a fugitive.
Compassion gets people killed.
“Up,” I say.
She shifts. Groans. Burrows deeper into the blanket.
“Cassie. Up.”
She blinks open one eye. Green. Groggy. “What time is it?”
“0600. Training starts now.”
