Page 87 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

I look out through the open cabin doorway as the second Black Hawk lifts off the tarmac. Dust and rain swirl into the air as the transport bird rises over the loading ramp.

Inside the transport helicopter's window, Andrea's face is pressed against the glass. She catches my eyes and waves through the rain, a final goodbye as the aircraft pivots south.

I lift my hand from the open doorway and wave back until the transport bird disappears into the low clouds heading toward Chiang Mai.

Down on the rain-slicked dock, Deputy Marshal Okafor and her team stay behind, moving along the overhang with flash cameras and white spray cans to document the scene and catalog the evidence.

Dax pulls me closer against his side, his thumb tracing a soothing arc over the silver space blanket draped around my waist. The turbine engines roar as the Black Hawk lifts off the concrete, banking high above the jungle canopy.

I lean my head against his shoulder, letting the solid warmth of his body anchor me against the vibration of the rotor blades.

My old life vanished the moment armed men stormed my performance in Bangkok—a night that feels like a lifetime ago. But as the dark jungle retreats below us, I look up at Dax and realize with quiet certainty that he is where my future begins.

21

The Grace

LILY

The rotor wash of the QRF Black Hawk is deafening, vibrating through the metal deck and into my bones.

We sit shoulder-to-shoulder in the canvas jump seats, surrounded by Task Force 9 operators and tactical gear. Dax hasn't let go of my hand since we cleared the loading dock.

His grip is bruising, his knuckles white, anchoring me to the physical world while adrenaline drains slowly out of my body. Across the cabin, Cipher stays bent over a glowing monitor while Rook and Bronco check their gear. The door operator is still scanning the dark jungle below, but Dax is sitting right here with me, breathing in shallow pulls.

For the first time since the lights went out in the Solarium, I am safe. I lean my head against his uninjured shoulder, close my eyes, and let the bone-deep fatigue take over.

The Black Hawk touches down on a private tarmac in Chiang Rai an hour later. Dax never lets go of my hand as Task Force 9 guides us into an armored SUV, transferring us to a secluded hotel room where the door locks out the world.

I turn on the shower in the bathroom, stepping beneath the steaming spray.

The water runs brown, then pink, then clear.

I stand beneath the shower head with my palms flat against the tile and watch the jungle drain from my body.

The mud from the loading dock.

The blood from the shoulder laceration.

The soot from the burning facility.

The invisible residue of zip ties, hoods, diesel exhaust, and captive bodies.

The water is hot. The first hot water I've touched since Bangkok, a lifetime and a nightmare ago. The pressure is good—strong enough to feel like absolution, steady enough to feel like grace.

My throat is bare.

I touch the hollow below my throat where the compass hung. The silver casing that held my father's last gift, the USB drive that mapped a trafficking network. It's gone now—surrendered to Deputy Marshal Okafor on the dock, sealed in an evidence bag heading to a federal lab.

The absence is a phantom weight against my skin.

If you're ever lost, it will point you in the right direction.

It did. It led me to Andrea. It served its purpose.

I let the water run for a few more minutes, soaking in the heat before shutting off the faucet. Wrapping myself in a plush hotel bathrobe, I step out into the bedroom.

Dax is sitting on the edge of the bed.