Page 11 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

I hide the Range Rover in a copse of trees not far from the all-but-hidden drive up to the villa. I kill the engine, grab my field tablet, and jog the rest of the way. Ivy-choked walls rear out of the blackness; wrought-iron gates swing inward.

Inside the forecourt, the packed gravel grinds beneath my boots—sharp and jarring, like splintered glass underfoot—too loud. I cross to the servants’ wing. Ash stands guard, MP5 at low ready.

“Entry secure,” she reports. “But we found this.”

She hands me a micro camera no larger than a beetle, lens cracked by overpressure. “Passive lens, battery drained. Someone’s been watching but pulled the feed thirty minutes ago.”

“That lines up with her departure.” I pocket it. “Where’s Nocturne?”

Ash jerks a thumb to the interior. “Packing. She insisted on doing it herself.”

Of course, she did. “Prep exfil route bravo. We’re mobile in ten.”

I step inside. The quarters smell of dust, metal, and Vivian’s perfume—the mix tilts my senses off axis for a beat, but I recover quickly.

I shouldn’t want the scent of her clinging to dust and danger.

I shouldn’t need the visual of her sliding a weapon where a lover once kissed.

But that’s Vivian—she makes contradictions feel like absolution.

She’s crouched over an open Pelican case on the floor, dark hair spilling like ink over my still-rumpled shirt.

She pulls a pair of slim black trousers from it and steps into them like armor.

I can see hard drives glinting beside neatly rolled lingerie.

She reaches for the nearby SIG and slides it into its holster and straps it on her waistband; the grip kissing the base of her spine.

She swivels when I enter, her eyes narrowing—and damn if that spark doesn’t jump straight to my bloodstream.

Control is a live wire—buzzing, lethal, one misstep from searing through everything.

“Took you long enough,” she says, voice cool but threaded with relief she pretends isn’t there.

I close the distance, stopping just inside her orbit. “You’re on my clock now. We leave in eight.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Seven. I work faster under pressure.”

A grin tugs at my mouth. “Prove it. Six.”

She snaps a hard drive case shut and stands, her legs brushing mine. “What exactly am I proving tonight, Hunter? That I can follow orders, or that I can still twist them into knots?”

Heat licks low in my gut; I keep my tone flat.

“Both. Starting now, every byte and bullet you own belongs to Cerberus. I’ll inventory later, but for the moment.

..” I reach, clasp the collar of my shirt still hanging off her shoulder, and tug it into place, punctuating each word with the adjustment. “Button. Up. You are for my eyes only.”

Her lips part in a half-laugh, half-challenge, but she does it—slow, deliberate, eyes locked on mine the whole time. Small victory, large implications. Power passes hand to hand, molecule by molecule. I feel it settle inside me like a new heartbeat.

She moves with a precision that makes my packing habits look sloppy—hard drives laid beside silk, ammunition nested between lingerie. Even here, under threat, she orders her world like a puzzle only she knows how to solve.

She shoulders a backpack. “Dossier stays with me until I see Fitz’s guarantee in writing.”

“You’ll deliver the dossier,” I correct. “And you know as well as I do, Fitz’s word is iron.”

“Even iron rusts.”

“Not on my watch.” I step aside, gesturing to the door. “Ladies first.”

She strides past. I follow, scanning corners, cataloging her scent, cataloging everything. Because handler isn’t just a title—it’s the pulse between danger and surrender, a tether spun tight around every breath she takes, and every decision I can’t afford to get wrong.

We’re halfway down the corridor when a low beep chirps in my ear—Ash on the outside channel. Vivian must have comms in her ear as well because she stops immediately.

“Logan, we’ve got company. A black SUV just turned onto the access road, low beams, three souls. Could be someone lost. Not definite, but enough to spike my pulse.”

Vivian goes still beside me; I feel the calculation race through her like voltage.

“Do you think the threat is coming from inside?” I ask Vivian quietly.

She shakes her head, murmurs, “No. There’s no way they could have gotten inside, and besides, whoever they are, I don’t think they would risk a direct assault. Not yet. That would be suicidal.”

Her certainty scrapes something raw in me. Wolfe’s name drifts up like smoke I can’t wave away—acrid, insistent, and impossible to clear. They? Does she not know? Does she even suspect Wolfe could be alive?

I tap comms. “Ash, defensive positions—cover the villa from all approach angles and prepare to intercept. If they advance past the gate, disable engine blocks, non-lethal if possible.”

“Copy. Two minutes to contact.”

I glance at Vivian. “Looks like your shadows are early.”

She offers a thin smile, dark eyes bright. “Told you. I work faster under pressure.”

Thunder rumbles over the Ligurian coast, low and rolling like distant artillery, sending tremors through the mist-drenched hills above the Mediterranean.

The air is charged with static and a sharp, metallic bite.

Somewhere in the distance, lightning flashes—brief, electric punctuation to a night already wound too tight.

I press a hand to the small of her back, guiding her toward the exit. “Stay down.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” She says it lightly, but there’s a flicker behind her eyes—a split-second blink of disbelief at the demand cloaked in humor. Her eyebrows lift in mock challenge, a dance meant to disguise the quick intake of breath she doesn’t want me to hear.

Sirens—mine, not Monte Carlo’s—wail in my head, static-laced and deafening, like a high-pitched warning drilled straight into the base of my skull. This is the line between chaos and control, and I’m straddling it with a woman who could burn kingdoms to ash or raise empires from the wreckage.

Outside, Ash whistles once—sharp and low. A heartbeat later, a quiet click cuts through the dark, unmistakable in its meaning. Safeties off. Steel nerves, fingers poised. The calm before the chaos tightens, razor-fine.

I draw my Glock, chamber hot. “Let’s see if they're willing to bleed for these secrets.”

Vivian’s answering grin is all teeth. “I hope they brought a big enough bandage.”

Headlights slice across the courtyard gates, temporarily blinding us.

Game on, I think, lifting my weapon as the SUV rolls to a halt—and all my instincts scream that whatever happens next will change everything.

I brace for impact. Not from the weapons I expect—but from the ghosts I don’t.

Because somewhere in my gut, something screams this isn’t a clean op.

This is a reckoning. The SUV doors swing open.

The first man steps into the beam, the headlights etching hard shadows across his face.

But it’s the glint of silver on his hand—Wolfe’s signet ring—that hits like a gut punch.

My breath locks. The ground doesn’t tilt, but it might as well. Impossible. Unthinkable.

And yet… it’s right there. The edges of my vision contract until all I see is the glint of that ring.

Sound drops out, replaced by the heavy rush of my own pulse hammering in my ears.

A single heartbeat later, the world slams back, too loud, too real, and I’m already shifting my weight for the shot I might have to take.