Larkin looks up, eyes narrowing just slightly before she schools her expression. “Opportunity,” she shouts back. “Tide just called in from Seaborn. The pattern’s holding. Movements, supply shifts, comm blackouts—it’s lining up exactly where we thought it would.”
The words hit, and something inside me locks into place.
Mikhail.
The hours Moe’s been running processors. The map Delilah sketched without realizing what she’d built. The quiet dread that’s been humming under my skin since the SUV disappeared into the dark and Mikhail didn’t die with it. The man standing on that roof, calm as a god, while I drove her away bleeding.
“This isn’t a drill,” I say, already walking closer. “You’re sending a team out.”
“Yes,” Larkin replies. “And before you say it—”
“I’m going,” I cut in.
She scoffs, incredulous. “Absolutely not. You don’t even know this unit.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“They’ve trained for this op,” she snaps. “They’re fresh, clean, and not emotionally compromised.”
That last word lands sharp. Like a slap wrapped in professionalism. Like she wants to see if I’ll flinch.
I step up to the edge of the pad, rain whipping against my face, chopper wind tugging at my jacket hard enough to sting. “This has been my mission from the start. Mikhail doesn’t move without me knowing why, and he doesn’t get cornered without me being there to finish it.”
Larkin folds her arms, posture rigid. “You’ve been off-center for days.”
“And now I’m focused,” I fire back. “Which is more than I’ve been in days.”
Her gaze searches my face, measuring, calculating. She knows me well enough to hear the truth under the anger. This isn’t recklessness. It’s inevitability. It’s the moment the knife finally finds the hand that belongs on it.
“Tide says the window is small,” she says finally. “If we move now, we catch Mikhail mid-transition. If we wait—”
“He vanishes,” I finish. “I know.”
The rotors are a blur now, the noise deafening. One of the operators glances our way, waiting. Rain turns to mist in the wash, peppering my face and neck.
Larkin exhales sharply, rain dripping from the brim of her cap. “You’re not leading.”
“I don’t need to,” I reply. “I just need eyes on the ground.”
A beat. Then another.
Finally, she jerks her chin toward the chopper. “Gear up. But if this goes sideways, it’s on you.”
I don’t hesitate. I move past her, grabbing a helmet from the rack, muscle memory taking over as I strap in. The world narrows the way it always does before an op—sounds dull, thoughts sharpen, emotions shoved somewhere deep and locked down. Every buckle clicked into place feels like a promise. Every weapon checked feels like a prayer with teeth.
As I climb into the chopper, I catch a glimpse of the hill through the chain-link fence, rain softening the edges of everything. Delilah is still there, a small figure against the earth, phone to her ear. One hand tangled in wet grass. Head tilted like she’s listening harder than speaking. She looks alone in a way that digs something cruel under my ribs.
For a split second, guilt claws up my spine.
Then the doors slam shut, and the chopper lifts, the ground dropping away beneath us.
Mikhail is moving, and I am done letting him.
Chapter 13
Delilah Barrinheart
The call ends the way I knew it would—too fast, too careful, wrapped in half-truths and the familiar cadence of my father trying not to ask the questions he’s afraid to know the answers to.
