Matthew's voice cut through the static in my head, quiet and certain. A statement of fact delivered in the same tone he might use to announce that the coffee was ready.
I didn't respond immediately. Couldn't. My mouth was dry, and my hands trembled just enough to shake the headset's image.
Finally, I found my voice. "I'll believe it when I stop looking over my shoulder."
Somehow, watching Hoyle disappear into federal custody didn't feel like an ending. It was like the moment between lightning and thunder—the pause before you find out how close the strike had been.
I pulled off the night vision headset and immediately regretted it. The sudden return of natural darkness left me blinking, pupils struggling to adjust. The world was too quiet without the headset's electronic hum.
Michael and Marcus climbed back up the slope with the same fluid coordination they'd used going down, but something had changed in their posture. The sharp edge of operational focus had softened into something more familiar—brothers again, rather than tactical assets. Michael's gear hung looser on his frame, and Marcus had his tablet tucked under one arm instead of clutched in both hands.
"Clean op," Michael announced as he reached our position. No pride in his voice. It was merely a professional assessment delivered with the flat tone of someone checking items off a list. "No shots fired. All subjects in custody."
Danny Ho's voice crackled through the comm units, coordinating extraction and evidence collection. James still hunched over his equipment, fingers dancing across multiple keyboards as he tracked the digital evidence of Hoyle's empire crumbling in real time.
Matthew's hand settled on my shoulder and stayed there. Not gripping or squeezing—present and warm through the layers of tactical gear. "You can stop holding your breath now," he said quietly. "You're allowed to breathe."
For the first time in months, I exhaled fully. The breath that came out felt like I'd held it trapped in my lungs since Vienna, or possibly further back. Maybe I hadn't truly exhaled since the first time I'd heard Hoyle's name.
I turned toward Matthew. "We ended the game." A beat of silence. "Or at least flipped the board."
The latter was more honest. Hoyle was done, his network dismantled, and his assets would soon scatter or be captured. There would be others. Men like him didn't operate in isolation, and power vacuums had a way of attracting the worst kinds of ambition. The game, where human lives became currency and information became weapons, would continue with new players and different rules.
For now, though, for tonight, we'd won.
Matthew's thumb brushed against my collarbone through the fabric of my jacket, and I leaned into the contact without thinking about it. Below us, the compound continued its transformation from fortress to crime scene, but up here on the ridge, surrounded by people who'd chosen to stand with us when standing alone would have been safer, I knew we could stop running.
At least for a while.
Chapter twenty-three
Matthew
Iwoke to the absence of warmth beside me, sheets already cold where Dorian's body should have been. The digital clock glowed 6:23 AM in aggressive red digits—too early for him to be up unless something was wrong.
The refrigerator's rattle carried through the thin walls, joined by the barely audible sound of the television. I found him on the couch, back rigid, hands clasped between his knees.
The TV screen flickered with silent footage—federal buildings, courthouse steps, men in expensive suits led away in handcuffs. Breaking News banners crawled across the bottom of the screen.
"How long have you been up?"
He gestured toward the television without turning around. "Long enough."
I settled into my reading chair, the leather exhaling under my weight. Whatever happened overnight and drew him from bed before dawn was playing out in real time on the morning news. Federal operations. The kind of coordinated arrests that meant months of preparation and sealed indictments finally seeing daylight.
Onscreen, the broadcast switched between file photos. First was Hoyle's face centered among a constellation of co-conspirators. Some looked familiar from the intelligence files Dorian had shown me weeks ago.
Then the grid dissolved.
Dorian's face filled the screen.
Not recent. I suspected it was at least a four or five-year-old shot. He was clean-shaven, with shorter hair and a neutral expression. The caption beneath read:Sources confirm whistleblower known internally as M. Raines believed to be alive.
Dorian tensed. I wanted to reach for him and offer some physical comfort, but he was in a volatile mood. It might be safest to hold back.
M. Raines. He'd explained that was his Budapest cover name.
I moved to the kitchen, giving Dorian space while I processed what I'd seen. It was all legalistic. No raid or tactical teams. No dramatic showdown with bullets and federal marshals kicking down doors at dawn.
