Chapter 179: 179
"We still have one more window."
Their heads snapped towards him, wide-eyed.
"Once Command scrubs this mission from existence, Marcus and Richard are officially dead. Nile’s missing, and everything gets ’sealed.’ No one’s going to touch this again. It’ll disappear." He let out a long breath. "The clock’s ticking. But we can’t move too fast, we’re buried with them."
Winter’s gaze never left Bale. His mind, racing at a thousand miles per hour, tried to latch onto something solid. Something they could use.
Ima was the first to speak. She paused mid-pace, her eyes meeting Bale’s before shifting to Winter. "We can’t go back now. We’re compromised. We’ll need clearance codes, untraceable gear. We need to wipe every trace of our activity before we even think about re-entering Sector 9."
She turned to Winter, her expression sharpened by the sense of finality in the room. "That’s the only way. Any slip-up and Command’ll smell us coming. And you know what happens when they do that."
He did. They already rushed into something and got their asses handed to them. It would be foolish to rush back in, even though it hurt to stay still.
"We’re not going back for intel. We’re going back for them." Winter said quietly.
His eyes, darkened with something between resignation and relentless drive, met Ima’s. "Marcus. Richard. They’re not dead until we say they are. And Nile—he’s ours too."
Bale absorbed the words, eyes narrowing as he scanned Winter’s face. He could see it clearly. The hunger for redemption. For retribution.
Ima’s breathing slowed, the hesitation lingering in her throat. "You’re not wrong," she muttered, her mind already working through the logistics in the background, calculating the risks. "But don’t forget, going back means every single move will be under surveillance. Every slip, every breach—we can’t afford it."
Bale nodded once. "She’s right. But I’m not letting them burn this. Not without a fight." His voice was a low growl now, one that didn’t need the validation of a decision. "We’ll get the clearance codes, the gear. We’ll wipe our tracks. But we have one shot at this. So don’t fuck it up."
Winter stood a little straighter. "You make it sound like we have a choice," he murmured.
"No," Bale answered, his voice dark. "We don’t."
Ima gave a brief nod, signaling her readiness.
Winter’s gaze softened just a fraction. In some deep corner of his mind, he was glad that she hadn’t been the one stuck down there with that thing.
"Alright, let’s get out of here. Remember, we didn’t have this conversation. We reconvene in three days." Bale announced.
Winter nodded, walking over to Harlow and assisting him in getting up.
"You can give the excuse of falling debris from the main base clipping your side," Ima suggested softly.
"Yeah," Harlow grunted, standing on his feet.
They quickly dispersed after that, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves.
They didn’t get a break. Not in this world.
The walk back was silent. No one spoke. Harlow was dropped off at the infirmary, and Bale’s men posted discreetly for protection.
Ima went in another direction, needing space or a punching bag.
Winter climbed the stairs two at a time, muscles aching with every step. The familiar sound of faulty corridor lights flickering above his apartment corridors used to be annoying.
Now it was the only normal thing left.
He tapped in the override for his wing—Command hadn’t locked him out yet—and made his way through the stairwell instead of the lift. Some small part of him didn’t want to be tracked. Some bigger part needed the climb to feel something.
The apartment door was slightly ajar.
That stopped him cold.
Winter stepped closer, hand on his sidearm out of instinct, pulse starting to thrum against his ribs. The hallway was too quiet. The kind of quiet that came after something.
Something inside him twisted.
"Zara?" he called.
No answer.
He pushed the door open with a slow creak.
The light inside flickered once, then steadied.
He moved farther in. The air felt... wrong. Not hostile. Not dangerous.
The room was empty.
Not just silent—empty.
The bathroom light was off. The bedroom door slightly ajar. No movement.
"Leo?"
The bed was still unmade, shit scattered about like Zara was going to pop out and scold him for being late.
But there was no Zara.
No Leo.
The bedroom was cold. The crib was still there—the emergency bag was still in its easy-to-access corner.
Winter stood in the centre of the room, fists clenched at his sides, trying to force his lungs to fill.
There was no blood. No signs of forced entry.
No struggle.
Which was worse.
She’d left willingly.
Or she’d been convinced to.
A cold sweat broke across his back. Winter stumbled back a step, like the air had been sucked from his lungs.
She wouldn’t leave without telling him.
She never did.
His chest tightened as he turned, eyes scanning for a note, a message, anything—but there was nothing.
He tried to run scenarios. Rationalize. Rebuild.
Had someone from Command found out? Had they realised that Zara had seen something, heard something? Had someone gotten to her?
His eyes darted to the side drawer. Zara always kept her ID card there. An old habit. He opened it—there it was.
She hadn’t taken it.
You can’t go anywhere without your ID. Not unless you ran the base.
Winter backed away from the drawer, pulse beginning to thrum in his ears.
Who?
Only a handful of people had that kind of pull. That kind of leverage.
He didn’t need to think long.
Adrian.
The same man who’d asked one too many casual questions about Zara and Leo. The bastard who had set his sights on their little unit for a hot minute.
He forced himself to breathe through his nose.
Don’t spiral.
But the room was closing in. Walls too tight. Air too thin.
He moved back into the door.
The adrenaline from the mission hadn’t burned off—it was re-routing now, re-focusing, sinking claws into this new uncertainty and twisting it into something jagged.
His fingers curled into fists again.
If Adrian had touched them—
He swallowed hard, throat dry.
Fuck the damned world, there’d be hell to pay.
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