"We let her lead us," Jagger replies. "If she's Silent, she'll go straight to the facility. We follow at a distance. Learn what we can."
"And if she makes us?"
"Then we improvise. We're good at improvising."
The plane shudders as we hit turbulence, then steadies. Outside the window, clouds part to reveal the Singapore skyline, glittering towers rising from the tropical haze. Beautiful and deadly, like everything in this world. Like everyone on this mission.
Asher catches my eye. He doesn't smile. Doesn't need to. The look on his face says everything.
I'm with you. Whatever happens. All the way to the end.
I nod once. He nods back.
The wheels touch down, and the plane shudders with the force of landing.
Singapore.
Chapter Twelve: Asher
We'reinanindustrialunit on the outskirts of Singapore, the kind of place that gets rented by the week and paid for in cash. Concrete floors, metal walls, no windows, a single bare bulb casting harsh shadows across the faces of everyone gathered around the makeshift planning table. The air conditioning rattles and groans, fighting a losing battle against the tropical humidity that seeps through every crack.
Weapons spread across every surface. Rifles, handguns, suppressors, flash bangs, combat knives, zip ties, medical kits. Enough firepower to start a small war. Which, in a way, is exactly what we're doing.
Jinx is beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush when he reaches for a magazine. The contact is grounding. A reminder of what we have. What we're fighting for.
"Extraction logistics." Jagger pulls up a map on his tablet. The facility is marked in red, a sprawling compound that looks like a hospital from the outside. Clean lines, manicured grounds, a sign out front that probably says something comforting about children's health. The children's wing is highlighted in yellow, tucked into the eastern corner of the compound. "Once we have the kids, we need to move fast. Every minute we're inside increases the chance of reinforcements. Local police response time is eight minutes. Private security backup is twelve. We need to be gone before either arrives."
"How are we getting them out of the country?" Marlee asks. She's field-stripping a rifle, her fingers moving on autopilot, her eyes never leaving Jagger's face. "Forty? That's not exactly a subtle number. Even in a city this size, that many kids moving at once is going to draw attention."
"Private medical charter. Seletar Airport, north side of the island. Small airfield, minimal security, mostly used for corporate flights and medical evacuations." Jagger zooms in on a cluster of hangars near the end of a single runway. "The plane's already on the ground. A modified 737 with medical facilities. Registered to a Swiss rehabilitation foundation called the Keller Institute. The foundation doesn't actually exist, but the paperwork does. Letterhead, board members, a decade of tax filings. Completely bulletproof."
"And the story?"
"We're transferring patients from a local facility to a specialized treatment center in Geneva. Standard medical evacuation protocol. The paperwork shows these children were admitted toa private hospital here six months ago for various neurological conditions. Now they're being moved to a facility better equipped to handle their needs."
Marlee's hands pause on the rifle. "Forged documents for forty-ish children. That's not small-time work."
"Jonah's contact. The journalist. She has connections in customs, in medical licensing, in a dozen different government agencies. People who owe her favors and don't ask questions." Jagger pulls up another image. A woman with sharp features, gray-streaked hair, eyes that have seen too much. "Her name is Song. She's been building this network for fifteen years, waiting for a chance to use it against the people who took her daughter. Tonight's that chance."
"Her daughter?"
"One of the first to test the updated pits. Before they called it the Foundry. Before they had protocols." Jagger's voice goes flat. "Song never found out what happened to her. Never got a body to bury. She's been hunting them ever since."
The room goes quiet. Everyone here knows that kind of loss. Everyone here understands what drives a person to spend fifteen years building an underground network just for one night of vengeance.
"And if customs decides to look too closely?" Jinx asks.
"They won't. The foundation has a history. Legitimate transfers, real patients, clean records going back a decade. It's designed specifically for situations like this. The kids will be sedated for transport. Medical necessity, documented by physicians on the foundation's payroll. Anyone who checks will see unconscious children being moved for treatment, not trafficking victims being smuggled out of the country."
The irony isn't lost on any of us. Using the Silent's own methods against them. Forged paperwork, shell organizations, sedated children moved across borders without questions. The only difference is the destination.
"Ground transport?" Jace asks. He's sitting apart from the group, sharpening a knife with slow strokes. The rasp of metal on stone is almost meditative, a counterpoint to the tension humming through the room.
"Two vans staged three blocks from the facility. Unmarked, medical plates, tinted windows. We load the kids, drive to Seletar, transfer to the plane. Wheels up within ninety minutes of breach. Once we're in international airspace, we're untouchable."
"And on the other end?"
"Elliot." Jagger's expression softens, just slightly. The only crack in his professionalism. "He’s setting up a reception facility outside Geneva, an old boarding school that's been converted for our purposes. Medical staff, therapists, security, everythingthese kids will need when they wake up. It's isolated, defensible, and completely off the grid."
