Page 8

H argen

The truck stop sits on the edge of the highway, neon lights flickering pink and blue into the darkness.

I count fifteen vehicles in the lot—enough cover, not enough to draw attention.

The coffee in my hand tastes bitter, but I need the caffeine.

Need something to steady the tremor in my fingers that has nothing to do with the cold.

They’re going to kill our daughter.

Vanya’s words circle my mind on a loop. The words that changed everything. That led me here, to the border between Aurora territory and Syndicate hunting grounds, preparing to make the call that will either save the woman who contacted me or lead me to my death.

I finish the coffee inside the truck stop, the hot liquid doing nothing to calm my nerves. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. Too exposed in here. Too many witnesses.

I head back to my truck, settling into the driver’s seat where I can watch the access roads while I make the call.

The communication protocols I’m about to use are older than most of the Syndicate’s current operatives.

But Alastair Creed will remember them. Will understand what it means that I’m reaching out directly to him instead of going through proper channels.

It means I’m desperate enough to be either very dangerous or very useful.

My thumb hovers over the keypad. It’s been three days since I helped Lila escape and walked away from twenty years of service as her handler. Since I betrayed everything I’d sworn to uphold in the name of duty, and found myself choosing something else instead.

The numbers dial themselves—muscle memory from decades of service. Three rings. Four. On the fifth, a voice cuts through the static.

“This line is secured for emergency use only. State your authorization.”

“Theta-Seven-Alpha-Nine.” I reel off the code. “Request immediate priority contact with Command Authority Creed.”

Silence stretches between heartbeats. I know they’re checking records, identifying the name attached to the code I just submitted.

Then: “Hargen Cole is wanted for questioning. Suspected treason.”

“Tell Creed that the Rossewyn handler wants to discuss magical coercion and broken bonds.” I keep my voice steady, professional. “Tell him I have intelligence he needs. About the bloodline. About Aurora operations. About why I helped Lila Rossewyn escape.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Hold your position.”

The line goes dead, but I don’t hang up. This is the moment of truth—either Creed’s curiosity outweighs his caution, or I’m about to become a very public corpse in a very ugly truck stop.

Seven minutes. That’s how long I wait before the phone buzzes again.

“Hargen Cole.” Alastair Creed’s voice carries an edge of barely controlled violence. “You’ve got brass showing your face after what you pulled. You have exactly sixty seconds to convince me why I shouldn’t have your location triangulated and a strike team deployed.”

I take a breath. Steady. Confident. Like I’m still the loyal operative who served the Syndicate for decades.

“Because I was under magical influence, sir. The Rossewyn witch—she manipulated me through our handler bond. Forced me to help her escape, to betray my oath, to abandon my duty.” I let exhaustion bleed through my control.

“But I broke free. And I have information about Aurora Collective operations that Command needs to hear.”

“Magical coercion?” Creed’s tone is calculating now. “That’s a convenient excuse for treason.”

“Test me,” I say smoothly. “I’ll submit to any verification you require. Blood magic. Memory scanning. Neural probes. Whatever it takes to prove I’m free of her influence.”

“And in exchange?”

“I want back in. The Syndicate is my life, sir. Has been for decades. That witch stole my judgment from me, made me betray everything I believed in. I want her recaptured. I want my position restored. And I want to make sure no other handler suffers what I’ve endured.”

Silence. I can practically hear him weighing the options—the risk of trusting a known traitor against the value of a handler with intimate knowledge of Rossewyn capabilities and Aurora operations.

“You mentioned intelligence,” he says finally.

This is it. The bait Viktor prepared, carefully chosen intelligence that serves the Collective’s purposes while appearing to serve the Syndicate’s.

“Aurora has been organizing younger dragons into coordinated resistance. Viktor Parlance has been building a network of progressive dragons who want integration with human society.” I pause. “They’re planning to make their existence public. Full disclosure. Within the next six months.”

True information. Pre-approved by Viktor. The timeline is accurate, but Aurora wants the Syndicate to know this. Wants them to react predictably, to focus on the wrong threats while the Collective pursues their real objectives.

“How current is this intelligence?”

“Seventy-two hours. I maintained observation protocols even under the witch’s influence—the compulsion couldn’t override decades of training completely.”

“Stand by.”

The line goes quiet, but I can hear muffled conversation in the background. Creed’s running verification, probably cross-referencing with other intelligence sources to see if this information aligns with what they already suspect.

I try not to hold my breath while I wait for a verdict that will determine whether I live to see another sunrise.

“Cole.” Creed’s voice is crisp with decision. “Your intelligence aligns with patterns we’ve been tracking. This public revelation plan explains some recent activity.”

Relief floods through me. That intelligence will lead the Syndicate to focus on preventing Aurora’s public emergence—exactly what Viktor wants them to think is the primary threat.

“What are your orders, sir?”

“You’re coming in. Full debrief. Complete medical and psychological evaluation.

If you’re telling the truth, if your intelligence proves valuable, we’ll discuss reinstatement.

” His tone hardens. “But understand this, Cole—you’re walking into a facility full of people who consider you a traitor.

Your life expectancy is measured in hours until Command determines your value. ”

“Understood, sir.”

“Transport will reach your location in forty minutes. Come alone. Come unarmed. And Cole?” A pause that carries a world of unspoken menace. “If this is some elaborate deception, I’ll personally ensure your death takes days instead of minutes.”

The line goes dead.

I sit in my truck, breath shuddering now that the immediate crisis has passed. In forty minutes, I’ll be back in Syndicate custody. In their hands. Subject to their judgment.

But also closer to finding Vanya. Closer to discovering the truth about her message.

I tap on my screen, type a brief message using the code Viktor taught me:

Package delivered. Invoice approved. Shipment proceeding on schedule.

His reply comes within seconds:

Understood. Safe travels.

The professional courtesy masks what we both know—this might be the last communication we ever share.

If my cover fails, if the Syndicate discovers my true loyalties, Aurora will deny all knowledge of my mission.

Viktor’s reputation, the Collective’s operations, the fragile alliance we’ve built—none of it can be compromised to save one operative.

Even if that operative is walking into hell to find a woman who might be a ghost.

I pocket the phone and settle back in my seat. Then I wait, watching the horizon for headlights that will carry me back to the life I thought I’d escaped forever.

When they come—two black SUVs moving in convoy—I’m ready. Or as ready as anyone can be for voluntary capture by the organization they’ve betrayed.

The men who step out wear tactical gear and expressions carved from stone. I recognize the posture, the weapons, the barely contained violence. Syndicate enforcement. The best of the worst.

“Hargen Cole?” The team leader’s voice could etch glass.

“That’s me.”

“Hands visible. Move slowly. Any sudden movements will be interpreted as hostile action.”

I comply, stepping out of my truck with deliberate care. They surround me efficiently, professionally. These aren’t the kind of operatives who make mistakes or show mercy.

“I’m unarmed,” I tell them.

“We’ll verify that.” One of them produces a scanner, running it over my body briskly. “Clean.”

They restrain my hands behind my back with steel cuffs—no pretense of courtesy here. I’m led to the second SUV, and settled into a seat between two guards who could probably break me in half without working up a sweat.

As we pull away from the truck stop, I feel the pressure of the choice I’ve made. Each mile takes me closer to the organization that would kill me without hesitation if they discover my true loyalties.

The hum of the SUV’s engine vibrates through my bones as we speed down the highway. The night air presses against the windows, and I watch the trees blur into shadows, wondering if this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

As the guards flanking me shift in their seats, I can feel their suspicion radiating from them.

Each glance is a reminder that betrayal runs deeper than bloodlines in this world.

They know me as a traitor—a handler who turned on his own.

I brace for the consequences, knowing all too well how ruthless the Syndicate can be.

But what else can I do? My daughter is out there somewhere, and she’s in danger.

I might be walking to my death. Right now, I don’t give a damn.