Page 16 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

VIVIAN

M onte Carlo pulses like a lover in silk sheets—tempting, untrustworthy, and far too good at hiding knives in lace. The trick is remembering the lace is always bait—and the knives are always aimed at you.

The street market sprawls in layers of scent and sound—spices, citrus, and the sharp bite of brine that stings the back of my throat.

Colors bloom in every direction: ripe produce stacked high, tapestries fluttering like flags of forgotten kingdoms, jeweled glass bottles catching slivers of sun.

Buskers fill the corners with violin strings and soft flamenco echoes.

A woman argues in French over the price of lavender soap.

And through it all, I move unnoticed. A soul wrapped in linen and shadow.

A parade of tourists flows around me, their gazes sliding past like water over polished stone.

Perfect.

I drift through the market like smoke—ungraspable, shifting with the breeze—trailing my decoy coat just enough to catch the eye without holding it.

Just long enough to plant a hook in the subconscious—so when they lose me, they’ll want to find me twice as bad.

Loose ponytail, aviators reflecting fractured sunlight, messenger bag worn like a second skin.

Every detail was curated to be forgettable.

I blend into the scene, my presence as unobtrusive as the street musicians strumming near the olive trees on the corner.

I’ve run this play more times than I can count—distract, dissolve, disappear. But today?

Today I’m the spark before the fire. It’s about provocation, not disappearance.

My tail hooks me near a stand of colorful embroidered kaftans—his movement precise, measured.

Civilian clothes hang comfortably on his frame, but they can't hide the tension riding his spine or the practiced scan of his eyes. He checks corners without turning his head, maintains distance without losing contact. A shadow with discipline—close enough to strike, far enough to let me wonder when. Every step is an echo of muscle memory drilled into him by years of black ops conditioning. He doesn’t flinch when a child darts in front of him, doesn’t pause to sample the dried fruit offered by a vendor. His focus is unwavering.

He’s good. Cerberus good. But I test him anyway. If he passes, I’ll know how fast I need to burn this bridge. If he fails, he’ll never see me coming.

I slip behind a spice vendor draped in burlap sacks of turmeric and anise, letting the scent cloud his sightline.

I double back toward the rotisserie stall, blending with a trio of tourists snapping selfies.

My movement is casual, but calculated—angles tight, tempo irregular, like a jazz riff designed to trip him up.

He follows. Steady. Controlled. His gaze never lingers, but I feel it trace the hem of my coat with sniper precision. Someone trained by MI-6 or the CIA—or someone who wants me to think they were.

I buy time with a handful of dried figs, lifting them from a crate while the vendor barks in Arabic-accented French.

I act distracted, digging in my pocket with exaggerated irritation.

The euros slip through my fingers and clatters to the ground.

I curse in English—not loud enough to draw attention, but just enough to sound authentic.

I crouch to retrieve them, shifting my weight slowly as I scan the reflection in a chrome hubcap beside me.

He's still there. Watching, waiting. Waiting is its own kind of threat—it leaves space for the imagination to sharpen the blade.

I count to three, turn the frustration on my face into a mask of haste, and pivot north. I slip through a narrow alleyway laced with laundry lines, scooter grease, and the hint of someone's burnt meal. Heat bounces off the walls. A moped backfires, but I don’t flinch. I just vanish.

The metal rungs of the fire escape are hot under my palms, sun-scorched and weathered by salt air.

I scale the ladder like it’s muscle memory—because it is—and take position on a semi-flat terracotta rooftop overlooking the market below.

I move without hesitation, boots finding rhythm on cracked tiles, breath controlled, muscle memory.

At the top, the Mediterranean sun slams against my back, searing through the thin fabric of my linen shirt like a punishment.

Heat rises off the tiles in shimmering waves, baking the surrounding air.

I crouch behind a low roof-garden wall, knees brushing dried rosemary and chipped terracotta planters. Heart pounding, pulse steady.

I press low against the sun-warmed lip of the rooftop, the edge rough beneath my palms as I scan the crowd below.

Heat warps the air, making bodies ripple like watercolors.

But I don’t blink. I breathe slowly. Steady.

One breath. Two. My pupils narrow behind tinted lenses, filtering chaos into clarity.

From up here, every movement writes its own confession—posture, pace, the way a gaze skims or lingers.

And then I see him.

My tail—moving like he’s just another shopper meandering through the sunlit chaos. But I recognize the rhythm. The pattern. He scans discreetly, eyes flicking past stalls and canopies without stopping, subtly angling for high visibility points. A hunter in cargo shorts.

He emerges from the alley as if he belongs there, swagger woven into muscle memory.

That maddening, easy gait. Casual purposes threaded with too much precision.

Not too fast, not too slow. Eyes forward, hands relaxed at his sides, each footfall placed with surgical intent.

The walk you only learn after years of being taught that presence is as much a weapon as a sidearm.

He thinks he’s invisible, and he thinks I don’t see him.

I scan the rooftops, the alley shadows, the reflection in a polished fruit cart mirror—subtle, patient sweeps. Only one tail so far, but that means nothing. Professionals travel in layers. The obvious one is bait. The real danger is the one I haven’t spotted yet.

If they’re well-trained, there are more. There should always be more.

And then?—

My breath catches, sharp and involuntary.

Across the square—thirty meters, maybe less—a figure moves with a stride that sucker-punches my memory. Dark jacket. Easy gait. That posture, that exact weight distribution in the step. The same tilt of the head that used to mean he was scanning exits.

Wolfe.

It couldn't be. It shouldn't be. Not after Prague. I’d seen the signet ring, but had dismissed it. It’s hard to believe that it could really be him after the fire, the blood and the grave buried with his name.

Until I saw that signet ring, I had every reason to believe he was dust. Ash.

A ghost I’d finally learned to stop missing.

But how that man walks? My head says it’s a shadow.

My gut screams it’s him. That’s the problem with ghosts—once you’ve loved one, you recognize them in every silhouette.

It detonates every fragment of instinct I’ve tried to kill.

Something primal locks onto it—bone-deep recognition.

Muscle memory doesn’t lie. My body reacts before my mind catches up, a jolt straight to the sternum that tastes like memory and warning all at once.

It knows what betrayal looks like in motion.

And yet, a part of me clings to disbelief. Because if Wolfe’s still alive… it means everything that happened in Prague was a lie.

Including him. Including us.

I blink and he’s gone—vanished behind a curtain of swaying textiles or into the crowd. My pulse spikes, not from exertion but from disappointment so sharp it feels like whiplash.

It’s just a man. Similar build. Similar walk. But not Wolfe.

No scar beneath the jawline. And the moment I second-guess, I know—I wanted it to be him. Needed it, even. Because as much as I hate him, I still want answers. Closure. Maybe revenge. Maybe more.

But it's not him. And that realization cuts deeper than it should. I curse myself for hoping. Hope is the most dangerous habit I’ve never been able to break.

For the half-second I let my guard slip and my heart accelerate.

For believing, even briefly, that maybe—just maybe—he’d show his face. That he’d dare.

After watching my tail pause at the edge of the market—scanning with increasing frustration before vanishing down another side alley—I feel the shift. He thinks he’s lost me. Believes I’ve disappeared.

Good.

The game was never about evasion. It was about assessment. And now that I’ve seen enough—his rhythm, his failure to notice my disappearance, the way he missed my rooftop angle—it’s time to end the charade.

I rise slowly from my crouch behind the low wall edging the flat-topped roof, muscles stretching tight, nerves still buzzing from the jolt of mistaking Wolfe. Below, the market hums on, oblivious to the tension coiling just above its sunbaked awnings.

Enough games. I’m done being the bait. Time to return to Opus Noir. Back to Cerberus. Back to Logan. The crowd feels different now—like the air’s holding its breath for something ugly.

Out of the corner of my eye, two shadows peel from the stalls behind me—smooth, coordinated, their angles wrong and timing too perfect to be accidental. I pivot on instinct, my hand going to the grip of my weapon, but the first attacker is already moving fast and deliberate.

A shock baton crackles to life mid-swing, arcing toward my ribs with the hiss of electricity and intent.

The charge spits heat into the air, raising the hair on my arms before it ever touches me.

I drop low, rolling into the motion, the baton missing by inches as I hiss between my teeth and drive my knee upward into the attacker's thigh.

Bone meets resistance—a grunt escapes him—but before I can capitalize, the second shadow is already there.