Victor Lang
The getaway van rattled through Virginia’s backroads, its suspension groaning under the weight of mercs and gear. Harlan drove, his knuckles white on the wheel, his suit stained with sweat and blood from the loft’s collapse. The deputy director; my deputy, my mole, glanced back, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and loyalty. “Lang, you’re hit. We need to..”
“Drive,” I snapped, my voice a rasp through the pain in my leg where Elena’s bullet had grazed deeper than I’d let on. The loft’s explosion had singed my skin, cracked a rib, but the adrenaline was a fire keeping me upright. The black-site breach had been flawless: Harlan’s keycard, his override codes, the decoy transport torched to cover my exit. Montoya was dead, her loyalists scattered, but Harlan was my ace, buried deep
