Kade takes the tablet, his green eyes flashing behind his visor. We don’t need GPS, General. We have the Anchor.
Croft nods sharply. "Godspeed, Alpha. Luna."
We board the bomber. The interior is stripped bare, just a long, dimly lit cargo hold with a row of harnesses attached to the floor. We strap in, the heavy nylon webbing biting into our bruised ribs and aching muscles.
The engines roar, and the bomber screams down the runway, lifting into the freezing night sky.
The flight to Siberia takes three hours. No one speaks. The only sound is the hum of the engines and the ragged breathing of the wolves. I sit beside Kade, my hand resting on his armored knee. Through the merge, our minds are a quiet, steady hum of tactical preparation and profound, unshakeable love.
If the magic dies in
