Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kain
The forest is too still.
It’s the kind of unnatural silence that descends when predators are near—when the prey animals sense danger and freeze, hoping to go unnoticed.
I stand at a secluded section of Moonvale’s border where thick trees give way to pack territory, completely alone and waiting for the Covenant operatives I was ordered to give access to.
They’re close; I can tell from the quiet woods even though I can’t see or smell them yet.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I try to ignore the tension coiling in my gut. I wipe it away gently. The makeup artists Darius hired did incredible work this morning, transforming me into a corpse that hasn’t realized it’s dead yet. Sunken eyes ringed with purple and black bruising. Hollow cheeks. Skin with a grayish pallor that makes it look like the poison is eating me from the inside out.
The makeup is waterproof, but I still have to be careful. One wrong move and I might smudge the illusion.
I check my watch. 9:58 a.m.
My heart pounds against my ribs, but I force my breathing to stay shallow and ragged. Sick. Dying. That’s how I need them to see me.
At exactly ten o’clock, the operatives pop into view, dressed head to toe in tactical black—combat boots, Kevlar vests, weapons strapped to thighs and across backs. They look exactly like a SWAT team about to run a raid.
I recognize a few faces from my years in captivity—operatives who’d been there longer than me, the ones we called “seniors” because they’d survived enough missions to earn the title.
There’s one handler, too, but it’s not Rick.
Confusion sweeps over me, but I maintain my cover, letting out a wet cough that sounds like my lungs are drowning.
Why isn’t Rick here?
This handler is older, maybe mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of cold eyes I’ve seen on men who enjoy causing pain. He’s dressed like the others but carries himself differently. Authority radiates from him.
The senior operative leading the group is 252—I know him only by his operative number. He reaches me first. His lips curl into a mocking smile as he takes in my appearance.
“Wow,” he says, looking me up and down. “You don’t look too good, 621.”
“Where’s Rick?” I croak, acting like I’m on my last leg but really fishing for information. “He promised I’d get the antidote.”
A quick count tells me there’s only twenty men. Surely they don’t think twenty operatives will be enough to take down Moonvale, right? Even in a sneak attack, Violet, as a hybrid, would be hard to capture, not to mention Darius and Ethan.
252 chuckles, the sound harsh and amused. “Oh, he told you he’d bring you one?” He exchanges glances with the handler,who smirks. “Maybe after the operation is over and we go back. How long do you have left? A week? A few days?”
I let my shoulders slump. “Days. Maybe.”
“Well then.” 252 steps closer, close enough that I can smell the forest on his clothes. “You’re being punished for failing your mission and costing us the manpower to come here. So, be patient, 621.”
The lie is obvious. They have no intention of giving me anything.
I nod weakly, playing the desperate operative willing to cling to any scrap of hope. “I have everything ready. The security feeds, the vehicles, the route.”
“Show me.”
I pull out the tablet I prepared in advance and show them the live feed of Moonvale headquarters. The lobby bustles with activity—people at desks, walking between cubicles, the normal rhythm of a workday. On the third floor, in what appears to be the Luna’s office, a woman sits at a desk, reviewing documents.
Violet.
Except it’s not. It’s a female soldier named Maya who is roughly Violet’s height and build, wearing a wig and makeup that transform her into a convincing double from the camera’s distance.
252 studies the feed, his eyes sharp. “Security?”
