Blood and Vows.

Chapter 6 — The Hunt Begins

The rain came down in heavy sheets that night, slicking the streets of Washington until they gleamed like rivers of oil. Colonel James Stevens pulled his collar higher as he crossed the plaza in front of headquarters. The air was sharp, metallic, the kind that carried the echo of gunfire in memory.

He hated rain. It blurred edges, muffled footsteps, drowned out danger. And worse—it reminded him of nights long ago when he had delivered bad news to families, rain soaking the envelopes in his hands. Tonight, though, the storm felt different. It felt like a warning.

Inside, the building was quieter than usual. The security guards avoided his eyes as he passed. Two analysts stopped talking the moment he stepped into the elevator. The silence wasn’t about respect—it was suspicion. Alex’s name was already a shadow on every tongue.

Stevens moved through the halls, his boots echoing against linoleum, his jaw set hard enough to c***k. He had seen rumors destroy careers faster than bullets, and tonight, he was about to find out if one of his best agents was about to be burned alive.

Detective Mason was waiting in one of the small interrogation rooms on the lower floor. The kind of room that made people confess even when they had nothing to say—fluorescent lights buzzing, no windows, no clocks, just white walls and cold steel chairs. The smell of stale coffee clung to the air like regret.

Mason was tall, all edges and angles, with eyes that had forgotten warmth years ago. He rose as Stevens entered, his handshake absent, his voice clipped.

“Colonel. Appreciate you coming down.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Stevens replied, lowering himself into the chair across the table. His voice was gravel, controlled. “Let’s get to it.”

Mason slid a laptop across the table, already open. The frozen still on the screen made Stevens’s gut twist.

Alex.

Her face caught in the blue glow of Jacob’s monitor. Fingers flying across the keyboard. Tension in her jaw.

“What is this?” Stevens demanded, though the answer was obvious.

“Surveillance feed,” Mason said flatly. He pressed play.

The video rolled. Alex, sitting at Jacob’s desk, typing rapidly. The timestamp: the night before the explosion. She looked determined, focused, like a soldier executing orders. There was no sound, but the silence was worse.

Stevens leaned closer, eyes narrowing. He knew Alex’s habits—every twitch, every glance. Something about the footage itched at him. But Mason’s words cut through before he could place it.

“No signs of forced entry,” Mason explained. “No alarms triggered. Access codes were valid. And you’ll notice—no hesitation. She knew what she was doing.”

Stevens shook his head sharply. “Agents share workstations all the time. Jacob could’ve asked her to—”

“Asked her?” Mason snorted. “Colonel, the system logged the leak during this session. Classified files were copied to an untraceable drive. We’re not looking at favors between colleagues. We’re looking at betrayal.”

The word landed like a slap.

“Bullshit,” Stevens snapped. His fists curled against the table. “I’ve known Alex for years. She’s risked her life more times than I can count. You don’t get to slap a label on her because of one damn video.”

Mason’s brows lifted, his tone icy. “Risked her life? Or covered her tracks? Think about it, Stevens. She appears out of nowhere in Jacob’s life, suddenly she’s at the center of his assignments, and now—conveniently—he’s dead, and she’s the only one left standing.”

Stevens’s throat tightened. The detective’s voice was poison, seeping into cracks he didn’t want to admit existed.

Mason clicked again. A second clip appeared. Another angle, hallway cam. Alex entering Jacob’s office alone, late at night, her stride sharp, purposeful. No hesitation. No glances over her shoulder.

“She doesn’t look lost to me,” Mason said. “She looks like someone on a mission.”

Stevens’s jaw worked, but words failed him. The Alex in the video didn’t look like the woman who had once carried a wounded child for five miles through jungle heat. She didn’t look like the woman who had held the line when every other agent had broken. She looked like a traitor.

His memory fought back: Alex in Syria, standing her ground against gunfire; Alex in Moscow, bluffing her way past armed guards with a smile and steel nerves; Alex, always first in, last out. She had never once turned her back on the mission. Never once turned her back on him.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Stevens said, his voice low. “Somebody planted this.”

“Planted?” Mason’s laugh was short and humorless. “We deal in evidence, Colonel, not feelings. And the evidence says Alex Walker sold us out.”

“She’s being set up,” Stevens shot back. “Jacob—”

Mason’s gaze sharpened. “Jacob’s dead. Convenient, isn’t it? No witness, no one to contradict her. You’re too close, Stevens. You can’t see it.”

Stevens leaned forward, his voice cold steel. “No, Mason. You can’t see it. Alex is the best damn field agent we’ve got, and you’re about to hang her because it makes for a clean report.”

The detective didn’t blink. “Clean report or not, orders have already been signed. The manhunt is active. Every federal unit, every freelance tracker with clearance—they’re hunting her now. She’s not a suspect anymore. She’s a target.”

Stevens froze. The word landed heavy.

Target.

He pictured Alex, alone, still reeling from Jacob’s death, still bleeding from wounds deeper than skin, and now—every badge, every mercenary, every hungry hunter would be closing in. Not to question her. Not to bring her in. To put her down.

“She won’t last a week,” Mason said, voice almost casual. “You know how this goes. Once the dogs are loose, they’ll tear her apart.”

Stevens pushed his chair back violently, the legs screeching against the tile. He stood, towering over the detective, his voice sharp enough to cut.

“You listen to me, Mason. Alex Walker isn’t prey. She’s a fighter. She’s smarter than you, tougher than you, and if she’s running, she has her reasons. And if you’re wrong—if this is a setup—you’ll spend the rest of your life choking on the blood you spilled.”

Mason didn’t flinch. His expression was carved from stone. “Then I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

The rain hit Stevens like bullets when he stepped outside. It plastered his gray hair to his forehead, soaked his coat until it weighed him down. But he didn’t move. He stood there, staring into the storm, his fists clenched so tight his nails bit his palms.

The manhunt had begun.

He could feel it in the air, in the whispers that chased him down the hallways, in the way Mason had spoken Alex’s name like a death sentence. The machine was awake now, gears grinding, hounds unleashed.

If he didn’t move first, she was finished.

He pictured her face—haunted, furious, stubborn as hell. He had promised her once that he would always have her back. Now, with the whole world calling her traitor, he had to decide if he still meant it.

Thunder cracked overhead, splitting the sky. Stevens pulled his coat tighter and stepped into the rain.

The hunt had begun. And so had his war.