FOURTEEN
Wren
The helicopter rideis a sensory overload of noise, vibration, and the metallic smell of blood.
Kade sits beside me, strapped into a jump seat. Pale, sweat beading on his forehead, his left arm immobilized against his chest in a temporary sling. His spine is straight. His eyes are alert. He's hurt, and he is refusing to show it.
I'm huddled next to him in the foil shock blanket someone threw over me. My hands are shaking—not fear, the crash. The adrenaline that sustained me for three days is draining away, leaving me hollow and cold.
"He's stable."
The man across from us—the one Kade called Frost—is watching me. He doesn't look like a savior. He looks like a weapon that's been used often and hard. Mid-thirties, dark eyes scanning the cabin with restless discipline, a permanent scowl set into heavily stubbled jaw. His hands rest on his rifle, scarred across the knuckles.
"He's lost a lot of blood," Frost continues, his voice rough and calm under the rotor noise. "But Bishop is too stubborn to die.He'll be fine. You, on the other hand, look like you went twelve rounds with a reaper."
I look down at myself. Sweater ruined, stiff with dried mud and blood. Jeans torn. Hands black with gun oil and the iron dust from the warmer packet.
"I feel like it."
Frost leans forward, a tattoo that looks like coordinates peeking out from his right sleeve. "Flint told me what happened in the ravine. The chemical warmer. The shotgun."
"I didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice," he corrects. "Most civilians freeze. You engaged." A small, sharp nod. "Good work."
Coming from a man who looks like he hasn't smiled since the Bush administration, the words make me straighten up.
"Did you get it?" My throat is raw. "The upload?"
Frost taps the tablet strapped to his thigh. "That's the thing about your dead man's switch—we didn't have to intercept anything. Your transmission fired on schedule. The moment your authenticated device was destroyed, the cancellation window closed permanently. The packet went out exactly as you programmed it, to all five recipients, staggered fifteen minutes apart." He holds up the tablet. "We were monitoring the federal intake channels. The moment the first packet hit the FBI, we knew."
"I built it to fire without me."
"You built it," Frost says, "before you knew you'd need to. That's the difference between a plan and luck. What you did was a plan." He sets the tablet down. "We have names, bank accounts, server locations. Black Helix's entire West Coast node is exposed. By morning, federal agencies in three countries are kicking down doors."
"So it's over?"
"Will be." He looks at Kade, then back at me. "Give it a few days. But you're safe."
Safe. The word feels foreign in my mouth.
I reach out, trembling, and take Kade's hand. He squeezes back—grip surprisingly strong despite everything.
"We're crossing the perimeter," a female voice announces over comms.
"Angel's taking us in," Frost murmurs, checking his watch. "ETA two mikes."
I look out the window as the helicopter banks. Below us, the Pacific Coast Highway is a ribbon of headlights cutting through the black of the ocean. Then we turn toward the hills, and I stop breathing.
I expected a safe house.Maybe a building.
This is a fortress.
Sprawled across thousands of acres of secluded land is a complex that rivals a military base, lit up like a city in the wilderness. A massive structure of glass and steel glows like a beacon in the dark. Beside it: a squat, reinforced concrete building bathed in harsh security floodlights.
Dominating the center is a structure the size of a football field. Through the expansive windows, I catch glimpses of a gym—mats across the center floor, a running track circling the perimeter, a climbing wall rising into the rafters like an artificial cliff face.
To the east, industrial work lights shine down on the steel skeleton of new construction, cranes and machinery casting long shadows. Further back, tucked into the hills, soft yellow lights mark housing units.
