I woke up.
The ceiling above my bed replaced the cracked plaster of the hall. The projector was gone, and the smell of blood replaced by the neutral air of my apartment. I stayed still for a moment while the dream’s details settled into place, not fading like most dreams but aligning themselves into the clear, ordered memory they had always been.
After a moment, I lifted a hand and ran my thumb slowly along the inside of my lower teeth, checking the edge of the molars out of habit.
They were still sharp enough.
Across the room, my phone lit up, and I knew what would be there: messages, reports, fragments of information on whatever we’d find when we got to the compound.
I dressed, then drove out to the coordinates Killian had sent the night before. The place sat well off the road, tucked between a stand of tall pines and a stretch of scrub sloping down toward a dry creek bed. It was the kind of property that passed as a holiday rental if you didn’t look too closely—wooden structure, wide porch, a roof pitched steep enough to shed winter snow, the boards weathered but maintained. Whoever had taken this over from the government had thrown money at it.
I killed the engine a short distance away and sat for a moment, studying the angles. One main structure. Two windows were visible from the drive. A side door, half hidden by the porch rail. No secondary vehicles except the van parked near the steps.
Caleb’s hi-tech comms room on wheels.
I stepped out of the truck and drew my gun automatically. The air smelled of pine and cold earth. Gravel crunched under my boots as I walked the perimeter instead of heading straight for the door.
Habit. Procedure. Survival.
Not ready to see Caleb yet.
The boards along the side of the cabin were old but solid. No fresh tool marks. No broken locks. The windows reflected the trees behind me, dark glass giving nothing away from the inside. I paused at each corner and listened, letting the quiet settle long enough to separate natural sounds from anything mechanical or human.
Wind in the trees. A distant bird. Nothing else.
I circled the property once more, slower this time, checking lines of sight and cover points out of habit. Whoever Killian had used to source the place had done their job well. The tree line gave privacy. The slope behind the cabin meant anyone approaching from the rear would have to climb exposed ground. The only real vulnerability was the front approach, which meant if someone came for us, they’d likely come loud.
Satisfied, I lowered the gun but didn’t holster it.
Caleb was inside.
Now I needed to see what he’d do when I walked through the door.
He was sitting at a table, laptop open in front of him, headphones resting around his neck. Cargo pants. Olive T-shirt. An M17 riding high on his right hip, the military issue version of the SIG P320. Kydex holster. Strong-side carry, about three o’clock. The grip angled forward for a fast draw. He hadn’t touched it when I walked in.
“Novak,” he said, inclining his head in acknowledgment.
“The perimeter is secure,” I said.
“I know. You tested and tripped every single sensor.”
He pushed his chair back and crossed into the kitchen, a small but functional setup tucked along the back wall.
He opened the refrigerator.
It was fully stocked with food and drinks and I guessed the hardware available to us would be just as comprehensive.
Caleb grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and leaned back against the counter while he drank. “Two bedrooms upstairs,” he said, voice steady. “Comms are in the basement.”
He lowered the bottle and finally looked at me.
We stared at each other across the small kitchen.
My attention dropped to his mouth without permission. My body reacted immediately, a familiar mechanical response that had started happening every time Caleb Shaw entered my field of vision.
See Caleb.
Get hard.
