The cabin door opened slowly, and through the tactical team's long-range optics relayed to the command post's monitors, Wren watched a man emerge into the frozen morning light — older than his photograph had suggested, gray-haired and weathered, moving with the careful, deliberate control of someone who understood exactly how precarious his position had become.
"Hands visible," Vasquez's voice carried across the broadcast, calm and measured. "Slowly. That's it. Keep moving forward."
The surrender, when it finally happened, unfolded with none of the violence Wren had braced for through weeks of anxious anticipation — Kane kneeling voluntarily in the snow, hands laced behind his head, the tactical team securing him with a professional efficiency that felt, after everything, almost anticlim
