Page 58 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

“Move.”

I take the tree line at a dead sprint. The adrenaline floods my system, pushing an entirely different kind of urgency through my blood. I track the crush of foliage and the broken branches marking Ivy’s path south. I cover the quarter mile in brutal time, breaking through the edge of the forest and hitting the edge of the south airfield tarmac.

A twin-engine plane sits idling on the runway. Bronco stands by the boarding stairs, checking his watch.

I scan the tarmac, checking the hangars and sweeping the shadows.

Ivy isn’t there.

I walk across the concrete with my gun still drawn, the cold reality setting into my bones.

“Where is she?”

“Who? I’ve been waiting for ten minutes. Nobody’s shown up but you.”

I stop. The world goes completely silent. The wind. The idling engines. Everything simply drops away.

She bypassed the airfield and took a divergent path through the trees, abandoning the extraction entirely.

The HSM is gone.

I stand on the tarmac, staring into the dark tree line. The operational logic snaps together. The variables align, pointing to the ugliest, most terrifying conclusion possible.

She played me.

The devastating confession on the deck. The unbelievable, visceral heat of the collision. The way she surrendered to the moment while secretly holding onto the ultimate exit strategy. She ran the long con. She got me to completely drop my guard. The Architect’s ambush provided the perfect cover to disappear with the only thing keeping her alive.

I lower my weapon. A cold, jagged fracture breaks through the dead center of my chest.

She took the drive.

17

The Ghost Move

IVY

The trees tearat the heavy nylon of my jacket. I do not stop running.

Behind me, the chaotic rattle of automatic weapons fire rips through the humid air. Eight guns. Two men. He stayed on the road to hold the line so I could escape.

I breach the edge of the ridge. The south airfield stretches out below, black asphalt fracturing the moonlight. A twin-engine plane idles near the far hangar. A man stands beside the wing, watching the tree line. Hutch’s contact. The final link in the extraction chain.

I grip the Glock tight enough to whiten my knuckles. The hard drive burns heavy and cold against my ribs inside the jacket pocket.

The Architect gave us the name to force us to run.

If the road was compromised, the airfield is compromised. The plane is a cage. If I hand the drive to Hutch’s contact, the data vanishes right back into the Architect’s web.

I pivot left. I turn my back on the airfield.

The adrenaline demands a new sequence. Find an exit. Build it right now, in the dark. I have a weapon, the HSM, and asuffocating fear that the man holding the line on the road dies because of me.

The coastline is a jagged drop into the black sea. I scramble down the slick rocks, tearing the skin on my palms, kept upright only by the violent hum of adrenaline. I need an unmonitored route. Something disconnected from the government, disconnected from the safe house, built on the fly out of raw necessity. Something untraceable. Unpredictable.

A rusted corrugated tin shack sits at the edge of the waterline. I press my back against the damp shadows as a low-profile speedboat cuts through the dark water, easing toward the dilapidated wooden pier.

A man throws a mooring line around a post but leaves the outboard engine running. It vibrates with a throaty, irregular roar. A quick turnaround. He’s stopping to grab whatever he needs before heading back out.