Page 6

"Killion happened." His voice goes flat, emotion cauterized by old pain.

"Budapest, three years ago. Extraction went wrong.

Or so I thought." His finger traces the woman's face on the screen, a gesture so tender it feels obscene coming from hands I've seen kill without hesitation.

"Now I find her name in Harlow's files. Connected to program I never heard of. "

"She's alive?" I ask, understanding dawning like a knife to the gut.

"Perhaps." His expression shutters closed again, the moment of vulnerability sealed behind steel doors. "Or her name is being used for something else. Either way, answers are at Black Sea facility."

"What exactly is this 'Vahnya Initiative'?" I press, studying the grainy photo of his wife.

Volkov's jaw tightens as he pulls up more intercepted files. "Based on these communications, appears to be chemical enhancement program. Pharmaceutical cocktails, genetic targeting, combat conditioning. Creating perfect assets who never question, never fail, never break."

"You're talking about brainwashing? Mind control?"

"More sophisticated. Neurochemical manipulation.

" His fingers bring up fragmented documents with chemical formulas and medical jargon.

"Drugs that restructure synaptic pathways, create completely loyal operatives.

" His voice remains clinical, but his eyes burn with something raw.

"And Vahnya—my Vahnya—is listed as 'primary architect. '"

"You think they're using your wife as some kind of... blueprint?"

"If she is still alive," he says, voice hollow, "they are using more than her name. Harlow's files mention 'continued extraction procedures.' Blood samples. Tissue. DNA sequencing. I don’t know full scope. I’ve been searching for her for three years. Now, is close to finding."

The implications hit me like a sledgehammer.

Not sci-fi super-soldiers, but something worse because it's real—human experimentation disguised as national security.

The kind of black-ops horror story that governments deny until the evidence is overwhelming, then excuse as necessary for freedom, democracy, whatever bullshit justifies treating people like lab rats.

I absorb this, recalibrating everything I thought I knew. Personal vendettas masked as professional missions. Old wounds disguised as tactical objectives. The lines between handler and asset, predator and prey, ally and enemy blurring until they're meaningless.

"If your wife is there—if she's alive—what's your plan?" I ask.

Volkov's expression hardens. "Extract her if possible. Kill her if necessary."

"Jesus."

"Vahnya would rather die than be used this way." Something flickers across his face—a ghost of what might have been tenderness in another life. "But first, we document everything. The program. Harlow's involvement. Every dark corner of this operation."

"Why? So you can sell it to the highest bidder?"

"So no one can hide from what they've done," he corrects. "Including Killion."

"We're going to the Black Sea," I state rather than ask.

"Is possible.” Volkov's answer is uncertain, his brow furrowing. “Need confirmation before we leave safehouse.”

“What kind of confirmation?"

He points to another intercepted communication, this one featuring details that make my blood run cold. "Black Sea facility," Volkov says, tapping the screen. "According to this, Harlow has accelerated timeline. Moving all evidence tonight."

My world tilts sideways, reality reshuffling itself like a deck of cards in the hands of a rigged-game dealer.

"They're consolidating," I realize aloud, scanning the encrypted message. "Cleaning house before anyone else can follow Vahnya's trail."

"Or preparing to sell entire operation," Volkov adds, ever the optimist. "Private military contractors pay premium for programmable assets with no oversight."

I stare at the screen, at the clinical language discussing human beings like they're software to be patched or hardware to be upgraded. People whose minds have been hollowed out and refilled with whatever the fuck Harlow decided they should be.

People like me.

"I need a gun," I say, voice steady despite the storm raging behind my ribs. "And a plan."

Volkov raises an eyebrow. "Does this plan involve calling Killion? Because would be mistake."

"Who said anything about Killion?" I meet his gaze, something cold and focused crystallizing in my chest where panic should be. "We handle this ourselves."

Volkov snorts, loading a fresh magazine into his weapon with practiced efficiency. "You trust me now? After everything?"

"Trust is a luxury we can't afford," I shoot back. "But right now, the enemy of my enemy is the closest thing to an ally I've got."

Because here's the thing about being underestimated your whole life, about being the pretty face no one takes seriously, about being written off as the expendable asset: people never see you coming until you're already at their throat.

And I've been sharpening my teeth for years.