The bunker smelled like old coffee, colder steel, and the kind of betrayal that makes your bones feel heavier.
The monitors hummed in front of them, scrolling with financial records—wire transfers, offshore shells, crypto wallets looping back into themselves like a snake eating its tail. Elias stood over them, posture straight, jaw locked so hard it could've cracked glass.
Nadia didn't pace. Nadia never paced. She stood beside him, arms crossed, face carved into that calm, lethal stillness she'd honed since age sixteen.
When she finally spoke, it was flat, surgical:
"He's been on Viper's payroll since before Hoyt's campaign."
Elias exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled. "He stood at Gregory's funeral. Looked me in the eye."
"Traitors always look you in the eye," she said. "Makes them feel cleaner."
Elias dragged a hand down his face. His wedding band glinted under bunker lights. Nadia glanced at it—only once—then looked away like the thought annoyed her.
She tapped the monitor again, pulling up a set of transactions. "These dates match Viper's first coded disruptions. Harrow didn't just join them—he was embedded."
Elias swallowed the anger rising in his throat, choosing silence instead. Nadia knew him well enough to read silence the way most people read text. She didn't comment.
Not yet.
A feed beeped.
A satellite image sharpened.
A black sedan.
Three Shield Corps vehicles behind it.
One private airstrip ahead.
"He's running," Elias said.
"Of course he's running," Nadia replied. "Rodents scatter when the floor shakes."
He was already moving toward the door.
"Get tactical gear," he said.
Nadia grabbed his wrist before he could reach the door panel. Not gently. Never gently. "You're the President now. You don't chase fugitives."
He turned to her fully, and the bunker suddenly felt too damn small.
"And before I was President," Elias said quietly, "I was a soldier."
Nadia's gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—to his scars. His stance. His control. Then back up.
"And after?"
The question wasn't political. It was personal, and dangerous.
Elias responded honestly. "After, I'll still be the man who doesn't send others where he wouldn't go."
Her eyes flickered. She wouldn't give him something pure, not admiration. What about respect? Yes. Respect like a blade sheathed but reachable.
"Fine," she replied. "If you get shot, Emma will know it was your fault."
He almost smiled. "Deal."
Yet, she didn't smile.
She was already preparing to kill someone.
***
FLASHBACK — 15 YEARS AGO
Shots ripped through the alley, damaging the walls and shaking the glass under Elias Ward's feet. At twenty-six, he was worn out, and holding the line with three bleeding, wounded men. Their radios were silent, they were low on ammo, and the enemy was advancing, much like wolves.
He had accepted the situation with a soldier's grim practicality. If this was where he died, then so be it.
Then a shadow dropped from the rooftop above.
Her landing was unreal, with a smooth knee bend that became a fluid rise. Wearing all black with no markings, her hair in a tight braid, and a rifle on her back, she resembled a phantom from another conflict.
Her voice cut through the chaos with crisp authority. "Get up."
Elias blinked, taken aback not by her presence, but by the calm certainty in her tone. "Who the hell are you?"
"The person keeping you alive," she replied, already moving toward the wounded. "Move, Captain."
There was no hesitation in her movements. She hauled two injured soldiers with a strength that made no sense for her size, all while returning fire with flawless control. She spoke rapid commands into a small encrypted device, switching languages with the precision of a blade—Russian, then another dialect Elias didn't recognize.
She wasn't Cascadian or American. She wasn't military. She was something else entirely.
Elias matched her pace, naturally guarding her from the side. Even while under fire, he saw her skillful rifle use. The same discipline he valued, but infused with a coldness he'd never seen on a battlefield.
She pushed him toward the helicopter before he could object. He grabbed her wrist impulsively.
"What's your name?"
She tilted her head with a look that blended irritation and curiosity. "Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know who I'm thanking."
For a moment, her expression softened, a nearly human smile gracing her lips. "Make sure you don't get shot next time, Captain," he said with a hint of sarcasm.
***
BACK TO PRESENT — THE AIRSTRIP
As Elias tightened the straps of his tactical vest, the memory dissolved like smoke. With a familiarity etched by fifteen years of unspoken memories, Nadia watched him. Her gaze lingered, finding every scar and old habit, remembering the man who once shattered her detachment.
The convoy rolled across the dark terrain toward the private airstrip, its engines cutting through the night. In the distance, the runway lights glowed faintly, reflecting off the sleek outline of Harrow's jet as it prepared for takeoff.
When the vehicles stopped, Elias stepped out first. He moved with the steady, intimidating calm of a man who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. Nadia followed, her steps softer but no less controlled.
Shield Corps agents shouted for Harrow to surrender, their voices echoing in the tense silence, but only the jet's engine's growing roar answered them. Nadia moved past the others and headed straight for the estate's side office, the memory of her past actions a whisper in the air, as she dismantled the thermite-rigged safe with practiced movements.
Inside the safe was a fireproof-wrapped hard drive.
Nadia connected it to her tablet, and the audio logs began to play.
Harrow's voice emerged, cold and businesslike:"The speech is scheduled for eleven forty. He'll be exposed for eight seconds."
Elias felt his heartbeat slow as the truth settled over him. Harrow had coordinated every piece of Hoyt's assassination.
Nadia opened a second encrypted folder. The moment she saw the contents, the color left her face.
SUBJECT 17
STATUS: ESCAPED
PRIORITY: RECAPTURE
MOSCOW FACILITY: THE BOY IS UNACCOUNTED FOR
Elias stepped closer. "Nadia… what is Subject—"
"Not here." Her voice trembled beneath its steel. "We don't discuss this here."
She pulled the drive free and pushed it into his hand. "We need to move."
They sprinted back toward the convoy.
***
Harrow's sedan was already a streak of metal and desperation racing toward the Cascadia border. Drone cameras tracked him; agents relayed positions; the air vibrated with the urgency of a man who knew his life was measured in seconds.
Beckett's voice came through the comm channel, calm to the point of arrogance.
"I'm in position. Give the order."
"No," Elias answered, his tone sharp and unmistakably final. "We take him alive. He knows who leads Viper."
There was a long pause—longer than protocol allowed.
Finally: "…Copy that."
The world narrowed to engine noise, radio chatter, and adrenaline-saturated silence. Nadia's hand clutched Elias's arm with the kind of tension she rarely showed.
Then a gunshot cut through the night.
The drone feed jolted as Harrow's car veered violently, rolled twice, and crashed against a concrete barrier. Blood splattered the rear window in a sickening arc.
"Harrow down!" someone called.
Elias stared at the wreckage, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Status?"
Beckett's voice returned, smooth as polished stone. "He resisted. I had no choice."
Nadia leaned closer, her breath brushing Elias's cheek as she whispered, "He's lying. And you know it."
Elias didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Gazing upon the mangled metal, he felt the shudder of realization wash over him—that he'd lost the one man who could reveal Viper's true leadership.
And worse: Beckett had taken that choice away from him.