Page 25 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

LOGAN

T he mountain road is a narrow ribbon of asphalt twisting between jagged rock and black pine, the smell of resin and cool mountain air filtering in through the vents.

Out here, there’s no guardrail between us and a hundred-foot drop—just jagged stone waiting to turn metal and bone into shrapnel.

Gravel crunches under the tires when I edge too close to the shoulder.

The low growl of the engine vibrates through the wheel, each gear shift a pulse under my palms.

I keep the SUV’s speed just shy of reckless, the weight of the intel sitting in my chest heavier than the engine’s hum. Vivian’s quiet beside me, her gaze fixed out the passenger window, but I can feel the tension bleeding off her in sharp, silent waves, like static before a storm.

I check the mirror again, scanning for anything out of rhythm with the sweep of rock and pine.

I manage to avoid the rumble strip, making its telltale sound, keeping the tires tight to the center without drifting over it.

A sudden gleam slices through the curve of glass—deliberate, too steady to be sunlight off a stray bumper—and my gut locks down.

It's the same black sedan I clocked idling near the villa’s outer gate, now hugging the turns with the confidence of locals or professionals.

It's two car lengths back, low profile, holding disciplined spacing like they’ve trained for this on this road.

In my head, the calculus runs hot and fast: distance, cover, terrain, speed, exit points.

The glint off their windshield isn’t random—it’s the predator’s glimmer when it’s found the herd’s straggler.

Every option was assessed, discarded, or banked in a heartbeat.

We’ve got company, and they’re patient enough to be dangerous.

“Logan...” she starts, turning toward me.

“Don’t move,” I cut in.

My voice is low, calm—the calm that means danger just walked in and shut the door.

Without taking my eyes off the road, I ease my right hand from the wheel just enough to reach down toward the holster wedged between the seat and console, fingers curling around the familiar grip.

The cool polymer meets my palm, the solid weight a quiet reassurance that if this tail makes a move, I’m ready to answer it.

Her brow furrows. “What...”

The first muzzle flash blooms in the mirror, flaring bright against the shadowed backdrop of the pines.

The crack of the shot splits the silence of the hills like a whip, deafening in its closeness.

Safety glass explodes inward under a short, violent burst of automatic fire, stinging my neck and cheek with glittering shards as the rear window spiderwebs in an instant.

The acrid ghost of gunpowder lingers, threading through the pine-scented air and coating my tongue in metallic adrenaline. It blends with the faint scent of pine drifting in through the cracked window and the metallic dryness of adrenaline coating my mouth.

Vivian jerks at the sound, half-turning toward it, eyes wide—scared, but not—her breathing quick and controlled, a soldier’s response to chaos.

I catch that flash of tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers brace against the seat, and know she’s present in the moment even if her pulse is racing.

I’ve already slammed the accelerator down, the tires spitting gravel as the engine roars and the SUV lunges forward, pinning us both to the seats.

“Seatbelt. Now.”

She snaps it into place, eyes flicking from me to the mirror and back. “How many?”

“As far as I can tell, two in the car behind us, maybe three. Passengers leaning out with a rifle. They’re not here to talk.”

She lets out a sharp, steadying breath, a hint of defiance threading through it. “Then let’s make them sweat and bleed for every miserable inch they think they can take.”

I catch the words and the tone, and despite the chaos, there’s a flicker in my chest—part wariness, part respect.

She’s rattled, but that iron edge in her tone tells me she’s still thinking, still in the fight.

I glance her way just long enough to register the set of her jaw, the deliberate way she breathes through the tension, and it hits me.

This woman doesn’t just survive the fire; she turns it back on whoever set it.

The next turn looms—sharp, blind, the kind that can make or break the chase.

I crank the wheel hard, pushing us in hot enough that the tires let out a tortured scream against the asphalt, the sound vibrating through the steering column into my arms. The centrifugal pull shoves us toward the passenger side as the SUV grips and sways.

In the mirror, the sedan fishtails, its rear end sliding wide, but the driver corrects fast and keeps on us.

No rookie behind that wheel. Another shot hammers into the rear panel with a deep, ugly thud, the metal reverberating up through the chassis and into my bones, the whole vehicle shuddering like it’s been punched by a giant’s fist.

Vivian twists sharply in her seat, scanning the road ahead and behind, eyes narrowed against the glare of the oncoming curve. Her voice carries both a challenge and urgency. “Have you got a fallback plan, or are we just winging this on adrenaline and bad ideas?”

“Cache in three clicks," I tell her. The cache is Cerberus' nearest prepped drop point; stocked with gear and supplies I planted months ago in case a run like this ever went bad.

My gaze is welded to the narrowing ribbon of road ahead, every curve and drop a potential kill zone.

“We have to survive the stretch between here and there—breathing, moving, and preferably not full of holes,” I say.

The road straightens for a stretch, which is both a blessing and a curse—it gives me speed, but it gives them a clear shot too. The sedan edges closer.

Then I hear it. Not the gunfire. Not the tires.

A shout. Male. Deep voice, cutting through the wind and the engine noise as their window drops lower.

“Vivian!”

Vivian goes rigid as she recognizes the voice.

The name hangs there like a lit fuse, each syllable spitting sparks in my head, burning down toward an explosion I can feel in my bones. Every heartbeat is a fuse shortening, the promise of something dangerous and irreversible waiting at the end.

Her real name. The one buried so deep it can't even be found in MI-6 files without the right clearance. A jolt of cold goes through me, sharper than the night air. My mind rifles through possibilities—compromised intel, ghosts from her past, an inside leak—but none of them make me like our odds.

My jaw locks. “Don’t freeze on me,” I bark, sharper than I intend.

She blinks once, sharp, and for an instant the mask slips—panic flaring bright in her eyes before she wrestles it down. Her breath catches, the smallest tremor tightening her shoulders, and I catch every micro-shift. “He said...”

“I heard.”

The sedan snarls up alongside us on the left, engine noise rising, passenger braced in the open window with a compact submachine gun that catches the light in a deadly glint.

Time stretches to a knife-edge, every sound sharpening—the rush of wind through the cabin, the ragged thump of my pulse in my ears—as every muscle in my body goes cold and precise.

My world compresses to angles, trajectories, and the fraction of a second between their trigger squeeze and my counter, the air itself thick with the charge of what’s about to happen.

“Down!” I shout, slamming my arm across Vivian’s chest, forcing her lower in the seat.

The short, violent burst of automatic fire shreds the side mirror and chews into the panel above her head, shards of glass biting into my forearm.

I bring the Glock up, my arm braced against the seat frame as I send two sharp rounds into the shooter’s door—metal dimpling under the impact—before they can duck back.

The sound is a flat, deafening crack in the confined space of the cab. I wrench the wheel hard, the steering column shuddering in my grip, shoving our SUV toward their vehicle and forcing them into the guardrail’s unforgiving steel.

The scream of metal-on-metal reverberates through my bones, the smell of scorched rubber briefly filling the air as their tires skid. They lose momentum, dropping back just far enough for me to slam my foot down and drive the accelerator to the floor, the engine snarling like it shares my intent.

“Who the hell knows you’re alive?” I demand, keeping my eyes on the road.

Her voice is tight. “No one.”

Not what I needed to hear—like being handed a live grenade with the pin already gone. The words hit harder than the last round, tightening the knot twists in my gut and pushing my focus onto a razor's edge.

Gunfire erupts again, this time from the rear.

One round smashes into the tailgate. Another tears into me.

The impact is a hammer strike beneath my ribs—no slow-motion dramatics, just the violent jolt of bone and flesh colliding with steel.

White-hot pain detonates in my side, instinct screaming to fold in on myself, but training slams down harder. Hold the line; keep the wheel steady.

The burn comes quickly, savage, and wet.

Heat spreads beneath my shirt in a flooding rush, sticky and relentless, as if someone pressed a branding iron deep into my skin and left it there.

My grip locks down until my knuckles ache, every tendon straining to keep control.

Breath comes ragged, shallow, but my foot stays welded to the gas.

Speed is the only shield we have, the only thing holding the next bullet at bay.

Vivian’s head snaps toward me. “Logan...”

“Stay down,” I growl.

My voice is controlled, final.

“You’re bleeding,” she observes in an entirely clinical assessment. Her voice is level, but her eyes keep flicking to the spreading red like she’s cataloging every drop.

“Not the first time.”