Page 26 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)
It’s not entirely true, but I’m sure as hell not handing her panic an engraved invitation to take over; the last thing we need is fear playing backseat driver.
Her hand hovers near my armrest, like she’s fighting the urge to take the wheel herself. “You’re pale.”
“I’m busy.”
The next bend brings us into shadow, the pines closing in overhead.
I use it—kill the lights, drop our speed by a hair, then take a sharp cut onto an unmarked service road.
Gravel spits from under the tires as we disappear into the dark, the smell of dust and pine sap filling the cab through the broken windows.
The sedan barrels past the turn, brake lights flaring a fraction too late, tires shrieking in protest as the driver realizes the mistake.
Momentum carries them into the curve, committed before they’ve had time to recover, the long black shape swaying dangerously toward the guardrail as they overshoot and vanish from sight.
Their driver took the turn too hot, momentum carrying them past the apex before they could correct—a mistake I’m willing to bet we won’t get twice.
For a heartbeat, all I hear is the fading roar of their engine swallowed by the bend.
I push the SUV deeper into the trees, letting the shadows swallow us as branches scrape along the sides and the suspension groans over ruts and roots.
Each jolt sends a fresh throb through my side, but I keep the pace steady, eyes cutting between the narrow track ahead and the mirrors.
The forest thickens until, at last, the trees part into a small clearing.
Relief is a brief, cold thing when I see the cache exactly where I left it—steel storage unit half-buried in the slope, edges softened by moss and dirt, camouflaged under a deliberate scatter of brush and fallen pine boughs.
I ease the SUV to a stop, the engine’s rumble tapering into silence as I twist the key and feel the sudden stillness settle around us. The gearshift slides into park with a solid, mechanical click that seems far too loud in the hush of the clearing, my pulse still pounding in my ears.
Vivian’s already reaching for me. “Let me see...”
“Get the door,” I order, nodding toward the cache.
My voice is steel—tempered and unyielding—because if I let even a hint of strain creep in, the fire tearing through my side will take over, and I can’t afford the weakness or the pause it would bring.
She hesitates just long enough to level me with a glare that promises this conversation isn’t over, then shoves the brush aside, pine needles scattering under her feet.
I give her the code. Her fingers are quick and sure on the keypad, each press a muted beep in the quiet clearing.
The lock clicks with a metallic finality.
She swings the door open to reveal exactly what I stashed here months ago—boxes of ammo stacked tight, a med kit sealed and ready, bottles of water glinting in the low light, and the compact shape of comms gear nestled in its case.
By the time she turns, I’m half out of the driver’s seat, one hand clamped hard over the wound, warm blood seeping between my fingers.
The world lists a fraction, the edges of my vision tightening, but I lock my jaw, ride out the sway in my balance, and keep moving with the stubborn precision of a man refusing to go down here and now.
“Sit. Down. Now.” Her voice has gone full command, sharp enough to cut.
I drop heavily onto the tailgate; the jolt sending a sharp pull through my side that has my jaw locking down hard. Warmth spreads under my palm where the fabric is already soaked through, sticking to my skin.
Vivian’s in front of me in an instant, tearing into the med kit with a speed that borders on feral—but her movements are measured, controlled.
No wasted motion, no wild-eyed panic. It’s that precision, that rare edge of calm in the middle of the storm, that makes me let her get close enough to lay hands on me.
When the antiseptic hits, I hiss through my teeth. “You enjoying this?”
Her gaze flicks up, dark and hot. “You take a bullet for me, you get to complain. Otherwise, shut up and hold still.”
“Not in my nature.”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
She works in silence for a few beats, her focus absolute, the steady pressure on the wound as unrelenting as the look in her eyes.
The faint rustle of gauze and the muted crinkle of packaging fill the air between us.
When she winds the bandage, her movements are crisp, efficient—yet under that discipline, I catch the subtle tremor she’s trying to bury, the one that tells me exactly how close she came to losing me out there.
“Your name,” I say quietly.
Her fingers still for a fraction of a second before she resumes. “We’ll talk when you’re not leaking all over the place.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding onto my lap, Logan. You’re not fine.”
The edge in her voice isn’t anger—it’s fear, coiled tight and buried under layers of steel, the fear that doesn’t make her retreat—it makes her reload, giving her words a lethal precision.
When she finishes, she sits back just enough to meet my eyes. “Whoever that was, they knew more than they should. About me. About before. And now they know you’ll take a bullet for me.”
“Good,” I say.
Her eyebrow arches. “Good?”
“They now know exactly what they’re up against.”
The silence between us is taut as a drawn wire, vibrating with words unsaid and truths neither of us is willing to touch yet.
It’s the kind of quiet that hums in the bones, heavy with what we’re both carrying.
But there’s no luxury in prying it open now—not with the echo of her name still hanging in the air like smoke and the hot, unignorable weight of fresh blood between us, binding and dividing us in the same breath.
Far off, an engine growls—a low, throaty sound that threads through the stillness like a warning.
It’s faint at first, almost lost beneath the whisper of wind through pine, but it grows steadily, a predator closing distance.
Vivian’s head snaps toward the noise, eyes narrowing as her body goes tense, the shift in her breathing telegraphing she’s already bracing for impact.
My hand goes automatically to my weapon, fingers curling around the grip, the familiar weight sliding into my palm as my pulse kicks hard in my chest.
“Guess they found the turn,” I say.
She exhales through her nose, steadying herself. “Then we finish this here.”
I shake my head once. “No. We move. The cache has a dirt track out the other side. They don’t know it’s here. We use it.”
Her eyes lock onto mine for a long beat, searching for something—resolve, a plan, maybe proof I’m not about to bleed out on her. Then she gives a short, decisive nod, the kind that carries its own weight of trust and challenge all at once.
“Lead the way,” she says, her voice low, threaded with an alloy of determination and an undercurrent I can’t yet place—something that pulls and warns in the same breath.
I brace a hand against the cold metal, I grab the supplies we’ll need and push off the tailgate with a slow, deliberate movement that sends a sharp lance of pain through my side, hot enough to blur my vision for a beat.
My feet hit the ground solid, the loamy scent of damp earth rising as I straighten.
Every step toward the hidden track is measured, my weight kept low, ears tuned to the whisper of night and the distant growl of engines hunting us.
Behind us, headlights slice into the night, spearing through the trees in jagged flashes as the road curves.
The beams bounce over the terrain, a reminder with every sweep that they’re closing in.
Ahead, the track narrows into a dark ribbon threading through the pines, each shadow concealing either safety or an ambush.
If I’m right, it’s the road to the next safehouse.
If I’m wrong, we’re not just lost; we’re delivering ourselves, gift-wrapped, into the hands of whoever’s hunting us, and they’ll be waiting with muzzles up and the patience to let us walk right into the kill box.