Page 21 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

LOGAN

V ivian sits at the edge of the safehouse kitchen, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her shoulders are stiff, too stiff, like she's holding herself together by sheer force of will.

There's a tremor in the set of her jaw—controlled, but not invisible. She's trying to stay armored, but I can see the cracks. Not fear, exactly. Anticipation. Distrust. And something else—a glimmer of retreat in her eyes, like she’s already rehearsing an exit strategy. Her thumb scrapes once along the inside of her elbow, like she’s checking for a pressure point she can use if she has to move fast.

That’s what gets to me.

That quicksilver flicker in her eyes—the one that says she’s already judged the battlefield and found me suspect. It’s not loud. Not a blow. It’s the soft slide of a scalpel under skin.

I’ve spent years learning how to read the tells, to map out risk and betrayal in split seconds.

But seeing that doubt directed at me? It hits with a precision I didn't expect. Not because I think she’s wrong to question it—but because I know exactly how it feels to look at someone you once trusted and wonder what truth they’re hiding.

Back in Prague, I wore that look. Somewhere outside, a delivery van rattles past, its diesel growl cutting through the memory for half a second before I’m back there in the dust. Back when the dust never settled, and the dead didn’t stay buried.

And now? It’s like watching that same shadow rise in her.

Not the steel, not the edge—I’ve seen her wield both like weapons. But that look, like she’s already bracing for the blade to come from me, not the enemy. It guts me in a way I'm not ready for. Makes my protectiveness twist into something sharper. Something closer to guilt.

The moment she looks at me like that—like I might be next on her list of betrayals—I realize just how high the stakes have become. Not just the mission. Not just the op. But her. Us. Whatever fragile thing we’ve been rebuilding since Monte Carlo.

In her eyes, I see the weight of every man who’s ever lied to her, used her, made her doubt every promise and motive.

I see what it costs her to question me—and it damn near guts me.

I want to protect her from whatever’s coming next.

But more than that, I want her to believe I’ll still be standing here when the smoke clears.

That I’ll still be on her side, even when the rest of the world isn’t.

I’ve seen her in firefights, seen her outnumbered and outgunned—but this?

This kind of quiet is worse. It means she’s already calculating what she’ll do if I turn out to be one more man she can’t trust. Her eyes are wide, sharp.

Watching me. I look at her. Really look.

She's still flushed from earlier, her hair a wild halo around her face, but the softness is gone. Replaced by steel. And fear.

"The tracker pinged before we got it out and into the containment box," I admit. "That’s all, but that’s enough."

"Fuck."

Yeah. That about covers it. But the words feel thin—like armor stretched too tight.

I glance at her again, catch the tremor in her exhale, the way her hands clench and unclench in her lap.

There’s a storm brewing under that calm exterior, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t know if I’m her shelter or the next threat.

The tension between us draws tighter, thick enough to cut—like wire pulled taut between opposing forces, waiting to snap.

And in the silence that follows, I realize this isn’t just about the op anymore.

It’s about trust. About history. About what we’re becoming—and what might break us before we even get there. .. what it'll cost me if it does.

We’re in the SUV within moments, burner comms reactivated, safehouse protocols cleared.

Tires crunch over loose gravel as we pull away, the safehouse shrinking in the side mirror until it’s nothing but a dark smudge in the glare.

The vehicle smells faintly of worn leather and clean linen—like sun-warmed cotton and old books, something comforting and familiar, a stark contrast to the antiseptic quiet of the safehouse.

The engine hums low beneath the hood, but inside me, everything thrums too loud—heartbeat, breath, the tick of paranoia whispering that we’re already behind the eight ball.

My hands grip the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring me. Each knuckle strains beneath skin, and the tension in my spine hasn’t released since we hit the road. Adrenaline’s fading, but what replaces it isn’t calm. It’s calculation. Cold and wound tight, like a spring loaded past its limits.

Vivian doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move much either. She’s angled toward the window like she’s willing herself somewhere else. Arms crossed, jaw locked. Her profile is all hard lines—elegant and razor-edged—and the sun catches her lashes, making them glint like tempered gold.

She’s too still, and that kind of stillness isn’t peace. It’s preparation. She’s not shutting down—she’s sharpening. Her fingers drum once against her bicep, then still—like she’s decided patience will cut sharper than any blade right now.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye.

There’s a faint tremor in her left hand.

Barely there, but I catch it. Could be tension.

Could be restraint. Could be both. I want to say something—to crack the silence with some scrap of reassurance—but the words don’t come.

Not when I know I’m holding pieces back, too.

Then there’s the guilt. Sharp and silent. Because I can feel her drifting, just a little, like she’s shifting weight toward the exit. Like she’s already built three contingencies for leaving me behind if I turn out to be one more bad bet.

I hate that.

Instead of speaking, I watch the mirrors.

Scan every car behind us. Every shadow that lingers too long in an alley.

The city’s gold-edged now—sunlight slipping low, the sky bleeding orange—but it feels like the closing of a trap.

My brain tallies blind spots, fallback routes, burner caches within a twenty-kilometer radius.

A black sedan lingers two car-lengths back longer than I like before peeling away at the next roundabout.

She shifts in her seat. The soft sound of her jacket moving is loud in the silence.

"You’re grinding your teeth again," she says, voice flat.

Still not looking at me. Her gaze stays locked on the windshield, as if she focuses hard enough, the road ahead might offer answers the rest of us can’t.

.. or won't. The set of her shoulders is too rigid to be calm—more like armor braced for impact.

And beneath that quiet? I feel a pull toward something darker. A decision forming. Or a defense.

I almost reply. Almost explain. But I don’t. Because if I open my mouth right now, I’m not sure what’s going to come out—strategy, frustration, or the truth that doesn’t belong between operatives mid-op.

So I keep my mouth shut.

And in the silence, I wonder if this is how the unraveling begins—quiet, subtle, a thread pulled loose by silence and suspicion. Trust doesn’t implode. It erodes. One unspoken doubt at a time.

The safehouse fades in the rearview mirror. We drive toward something darker. I don’t speak on the drive back. Neither does she. The silence isn’t comfort—it’s tension, honed to a razor’s edge.

At Cerberus HQ, Fitz is already waiting.

The air in here is colder, recycled, carrying the faint tang of electronics and coffee gone stale.

The war room hums with pressure. Stark lighting, gleaming monitors, digital maps crawling with overlays.

A stark contrast to the glittering nightlife of the club below.

Three analysts cluster around the table.

Fitz leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight.

I step forward and pass over the containment box with the kind of deliberate calm that comes from years of training, even though every nerve under my skin is vibrating like a live wire.

My fingers brush Fitz’s for half a second during the transfer—steady, clinical—and then it’s out of my hands.

The weight of it isn’t physical. It never is.

The real weight comes after, when you wait to see what fresh hell it unleashes.

"Found it embedded under her scapula," I say. "She didn’t know it was there."

"Says who? Vivian? Not the most reliable source of truth these days."

Before I can react, Vivian's hand cracks across the Scotsman's cheek. Fitz doesn't flinch, and I hold my breath until a slow grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Good lass." He takes the box, pops it open, and passes it to the tech, then looks at me. "You two get jumped again?"

"Four-man team. Ghost-trained. Not ours."

Vivian mutters, "I could’ve handled it."

I shoot her a look. "Right. Because taking on a four-man kill team with nothing but sarcasm and a bruise counts as handling it. What was the plan—disarm them with sass and hope for the best? You nearly got a baton to the temple."

"And yet—here I stand."

"Children," Fitz snaps, not looking up. "Save the foreplay for somewhere else."

The tech, a wiry young woman with a Cerberus patch on her sleeve, slides the tracker under the scan reader. The room stills.

"Well?" I prompt.

She exhales. "Not new. Old-gen Russian base, but it’s been gutted and reprogrammed. I’ve seen this signature before. It’s not a brand—it’s a method. Someone custom-builds these. Limited runs. Deep pockets."

Vivian’s brows furrow. "Limited runs—like state-funded black market labs?"

"Worse," Fitz says. "Like boutique merc groups with their own R&D departments."

The display blinks. A symbol flashes.

Wolfe.

I go still. My grip on the table tightens until my knuckles blanch. The room feels narrower, like the walls just leaned in.

"Pull that again," I say.

The tech nods, enlarges the image. It’s buried in the metadata—a half-scrubbed cipher, fragmented and faint. But I know that signature.