Page 34 of Oath

I moved.

Ducked low, rolled into the next alcove, and came up with the backup piece in my hand. The Glock barked once. Twice.

The corridor lit up as a flashbang hit the far end. Not mine.

Shit.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

I dropped flat and covered my face just as it went off. White-hot light. Pressure wave. My ears rang like church bells in a storm.

Footsteps followed.

Heavy. Purposeful. Not like the previous crew—these weren’t operators. These werecleaners.

I pulled my knees under me, pressed back against the wall, eyes still swimming.

Then I saw the silhouette.

Not armor.

A coat. Long, black. Military cut.

He didn’t move like a soldier. He moved like a man who owned the floor under him.

A voice followed.

“Captain.”

Not a question.

Not a command.

Just… acknowledgement.

I forced myself to my feet. Slow. Deliberate.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked, voice rough.

The man stepped closer. He wore gloves. No insignia. No rank. Just the coat and the weight behind his stare.

“Vega,” he said.

Bullshit.

Vega wasn’t a person. Wasn’t a name.

That’s what we’d always told ourselves. It was an operation, a protocol. A codename. Something someone could deny in court.

But this guy—he was walking like someone who didn’t need court.

“You’re late,” I said, flexing my hand. The bleeding hadn’t stopped.

He gave the faintest smile. Not warm. Not cold. Clinical.

“We’re never late. We arrive when the math says we’re needed.”

I didn’t like that phrasing. Themath.That wasn’t military talk. That was something else. Something that felt—performative.