Page 34 of Code Name: Hunter (Club Opus Noir #2)

LOGAN

T he world tilts as consciousness slams back into me, the metallic tang of betrayal still on my tongue.

My head pounds, muscles sluggish from the sleeping draught.

Across from me, Archer groans and pushes upright, Darius swearing under his breath as he shakes off the fog.

We’ve been played—and we all know by whom.

Before we can curse her name, my comm crackles. Fitz’s Scottish clipped brogue cuts through the haze: “Hunter, confirm—are you receiving? Wolfe’s alive."

"I know."

"You know? I know it seemed like it from the Brussels intel, but dammit, Logan, if you're withholding intel to try and protect Vivian..."

"I wasn't..."

"Bullshit!"

"Fine. That was part of it, but we weren't absolutely certain..."

"Well, we are now, and he and his band of merry men are heading for the Cloister of the Black Madonna. You’ve got minutes, not hours.

He needs to be stopped. And before you think clipping him ends it—intel says the Choir’s got other irons in the fire.

Klein’s already shifting assets. You take Wolfe down, you’d better be ready for the blowback. ”

"I'm not sure taking out Wolfe is going to fix the problem."

"Probably not, but it'll put one helluva dent in the Iron Choir's plans. Iron Choir...bah. Where do these arrogant arseholes come up with these names?"

I smiled. Even in a temper, Fitz always manages to make light of peripheral things.

"We've got bigger fish to fry. Vivian has gone ahead..."

"To meet him? Do you think she's still in league with him?"

"Not a chance. Vivian thinks she has to handle it herself."

"Ahh, daft woman. Get a collar around her neck, a ring around her finger, and then get her brought to heel."

This time I laugh. "Yes, because that has worked so well for you and JJ."

"JJ has yet to blow up the world. You bastards have no idea how many times I've saved you all."

He's only partially joking. I look up to Archer and Darius, who are fully awake and ready to go. Darius holds out a pack to me.

"Fitz, I need to go. That collar and ring won't do me much good if she's dead."

"Aye, lad. Go get your girl and kill that bastard Wolfe."

"Will do.”

We’re moving before the last syllable leaves my mouth and I end the call.

The hangar is a blur of motion—gear slung over shoulders, weapons checked, the bitter sting of icy wind sweeping through the air.

Archer and Darius fall in beside me, their silence carrying the same urgency pounding in my chest. Outside, the night bites hard; the mountains loom black against a spill of stars.

The path to the Cloister of the Black Madonna is no easy approach.

It’s a jagged ribbon of rock and ice clinging to the mountainside, half-buried under drifts that swallow a man to the knee.

Every step is a fight—crampons biting, balance shifting with the weight of our packs, lungs pulling in air so cold it sears.

Wind howls through the passes, needling exposed skin, tugging at our hoods as if trying to push us back.

The only thing I can take any solace in is knowing Wolfe and his men are out there in the same biting wind and knee--deep drifts, every step slowed by the cold, every breath burning as much as ours.

We push on, the beam of Archer’s headlamp cutting narrow tunnels of light through the swirling snow. Somewhere above, hidden by the sheer face, waits the cloister... and Wolfe. The thought of Vivian ahead of us, alone in that ruin, keeps my boots moving and my jaw set tight.

We crest a snowbank and the scene below snaps into focus—Wolfe’s men spilling from the cloister in staggered clumps, retreat in their posture. No orders, no discipline, just the raw panic of an operation unraveling.

Archer and Darius exchange a look, then we break from cover in a low rush, rifles coming up. The first burst drops two of them before they even realize we’re here. Muzzle flash stutters against the dark, the sharp reports swallowed by the wind and the stone walls.

One tries to turn his weapon on us; Darius puts him down with a clean shot.

Another lurches for the archway, and Archer takes him through the shoulder, the force spinning him into the snow.

The air is thick with the acrid bite of spent powder and the metallic sting of blood, boots punching deep prints into the drift as we advance.

The last of Wolfe’s men drops to the snow with Archer’s round through his chest, his rifle clattering against the frozen ground.

The air smells of gunpowder and cold iron, the echoes still bouncing between the stone walls of the cloister.

My pulse is a hammer in my ears, but my focus is razor sharp.

The gunfight is short, brutal, efficient and over in seconds, but it’s enough to clear the yard and leave nothing between me and Wolfe.

"Archer, Darius, find Vivian. Now." My voice cuts through the night with the precision of a drawn rapier. Archer is already moving, his breath a plume in the frigid air. Darius gives a single nod before following, their boots crunching hard and fast as they vanish through the archway.

I don’t wait to see if they find her. I trust that they won't fail me and that they'll keep Vivian safe. My eyes are on the shadow slipping through the far opening—Wolfe. Trailing blood from his sleeve, but his stride is still long and relatively sure. He’s running for the ridgeline.

Not tonight, not with the cold taste of unfinished business still sharp in my mouth and the image of Vivian alone in those ruins burning behind my eyes.

I break into a sprint, my boots eating up the distance.

The terrain is treacherous—snow-covered stone, uneven ground—but I’ve hunted in worse.

The wind claws at my face, snatching at my breath as I push harder.

He glances back once, just long enough to register that I’m closing in, then pivots into the ruins of a side chapel.

I follow him in; the world narrowing to the crunch of snow underfoot and the rasp of air in my lungs. The shadows inside are thicker, the moonlight bleeding in through broken stained glass, painting fractured shards of pale moonlight across the stone floor.

Wolfe stands in the middle of the chapel, posture taut and gaze fixed on me with the unblinking focus of a hunter who’s been shadowing my trail and instantly registers the moment I cross into his domain.

I don’t slow. We collide in a tangle of fists, elbows, and breathless curses, both of us still gripping our weapons but neither with the time or distance to aim. The clash drives us back a step, each of us gauging the other in that taut, dangerous space.

He jerks his chin toward the floor, voice a harsh rasp between blows. “We both know only one of us will walk away this time. What do you say we settle who the better operative is. No guns, just knives, wits and fists.”

My laugh is sharp, humorless. “You always were old school, but if you'd rather I slit your throat than put a bullet in your brain, fine by me.”

We let the pistols fall to the stone, the sound ringing like a starting bell, and close the distance. The first slash of his blade grazes my jaw, hot and shallow; the second punches into my ribs hard enough to tear the air from my lungs.

I ram my forearm into his knife arm, deflecting the edge, then drive my blade toward his temple.

He twists, steel flashing between us, and I bring a knee up viciously into his midsection, folding him enough to slam him against the wall.

The stone is rough under my palm as I press him there, our knives locked between us, edges biting at leather and skin.

He’s strong—always was—and determined enough to fight through pain.

He jerks sideways, the sudden shift tearing the blade from our bind, and drives a slash toward my side.

I catch his wrist, feel the tendons strain under my grip, and wrench hard.

We break apart for the barest instant before surging back together, knives arcing in brutal, short strokes meant to maim or kill.

Cold bites through the soles of my boots as we skid across the snow--slick stone, edges grinding against rock, our shoulders smashing together with bone--deep force.

He gets a forearm under my chin, forcing my head back, the point of his knife angling for my throat. I shove his arm wide and rip my edge across his cheek, splitting skin. Blood streaks his teeth when he grins.

"You could never own her," he rasps, his breath metallic with venom.

I plant my hand against the wall beside his head, our blades trembling inches apart, my voice low, steady, lethal. "I don’t have to. She's chosen me. She submits to me. She wears my collar and will wear my ring."

The flicker in his eyes is there for just an instant—the shift from arrogance to something meaner.

Then he lunges, knife slashing for my gut.

I trap his wrist mid-swing, twist until I feel the grind of tendon, and force the blade toward him.

He fights like a cornered animal, but he’s bleeding, slowing, his strikes losing their snap.

With a final brutal shove, I ram the blade in just below his sternum, the resistance of muscle and bone giving way with a sickening yield.

His breath catches, wet and bubbling in his chest, each inhale a struggle.

I hold the hilt steady, feeling the tremors in his body weaken, the heat of his blood seeping through my gloves until the last of his strength drains away, and the fight dies in him.

He coughs once, blood on his lips. "You think this matters?" His voice is ragged, but the malice is still there. “Klein’s already moved on to the next operative. Your girl? She’s just a lever. And Monte Carlo’s just the start.

The Choir’s in deeper than you can imagine—finance, politics, the UN. You’ll never keep up.”