Chapter 231
Raven
Nash opened the drive.
The holographic display bloomed into the air, and I watched Ahab's face transform.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered.
Numbers and coordinates filled the space: molecular formulas for Synthesis-47, neural mapping data for the clones, GPS tags for forty-seven operational sites across six continents.
"Seattle Port," I pointed to a cluster. "Container Bay Seven. Codename Thanatos-9-9-Echo. That's his primary West Coast hub."
"Bangkok." Nash highlighted another. "Lotus Pharmaceuticals Import-Export. Production facility disguised as a shipping company."
"Monthly output?" Ahab's voice was hoarse.
"Fifty thousand clone units." I met his eyes. "That's not counting the accelerated aging process or the failed experiments."
His hand shook as he reached for his phone. "I need to make some calls."
"Make them all," Nash said. "We've got seventy-two hours before this whole thing goes live. After that, The Surgeon either dies or disappears forever."
Ahab nodded, already dialing. As he paced away, speaking in rapid-fire military jargon, I felt the weight of what we'd done settle over me.
We'd just declared war on one of the most dangerous men alive.
Good.
Nash's fingers threaded through mine. "You okay?"
"Better than okay." I turned to face him, letting him see the fire in my eyes. "I'm going to destroy him, Nash. For Valerie. For every kid he's ever touched. For—"
My words cut off as my fingers drummed against the armrest. Three long taps, one short.
Tap tap tap. Tap.
It was unconscious. A nervous habit from my past life, something I'd done a thousand times while waiting for targets to appear in my scope.
I didn't even realize I was doing it until I saw Ahab freeze mid-sentence.
His phone dropped from his hand.
"What?" I asked, suddenly cold. "What's wrong?"
He was staring at my fingers like they'd transformed into snakes. "That rhythm."
"What rhythm?"
"Three-one." His voice cracked. "That's... my wife used to do that. When she was putting Valerie to sleep. Humming three notes, then one." He crossed the room in two strides, crouching before me. "And Valerie—my daughter—when she was nervous, she'd tap it out. Just like you did. Exactly like you did."
My heart stopped.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
"I..." My mouth went dry. "I didn't—it's just—"
Tell him. Tell him you're Valerie. Tell him you're his daughter.
But the words stuck in my throat. Because how could I explain? How could I tell this man that his four-year-old daughter had been murdered, her body stolen by an ancient killer's consciousness, only to be reborn in the body of another dead girl seventeen years later?
He'd think I was insane.
Or worse—he'd believe me and hate what I'd become.
Ahab's eyes searched mine, desperate and terrified. "Raven?"
"It's just a coincidence," I forced out, my voice cracking. "A nervous habit. I—"
"God, I'm sorry. You're seventeen," he said suddenly, something breaking in his expression. "Of course. You're seventeen. Valerie would be twenty now. If she..." He stood, running a hand through his gray hair. "I'm sorry. I'm seeing ghosts where there aren't any."
I'm right here. I'm RIGHT HERE.
But I couldn't say it. Not yet. Not when we were about to walk into hell with The Surgeon. Not when everything was so fragile and dangerous.
After, I promised myself. After we end him. After the dust settles. Then I'll tell him everything.
The silence stretched too long.
Nash, bless him, seemed to sense my spiraling panic. "You know," he said casually, "I've noticed you two have a lot in common. The way you analyze tactical situations. That dry sense of humor. Even the way you both take your coffee—black, two sugars, stirred counterclockwise."
Since when do I—
Oh God, I do.
Ahab managed a weak smile. "Stockholm Syndrome. Spend enough time around soldiers, you start thinking like one."
"Or," Nash continued, his voice light but his hand squeezing mine hard enough to hurt, "maybe it's just a natural connection. Some people click, right?" He glanced at me, then back at Ahab. "Actually, you know what? You two are so in sync, why not make it official?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Godfather-goddaughter." Nash's grin was pure mischief. "I mean, she clearly respects you more than most authority figures. And you've already got that protective dad energy going—"
"Nash, what are you—"
"I think it's a great idea," Ahab said suddenly.
We both turned to stare at him.
His smile was genuine now, warm despite the grief still lingering in his eyes. "Seriously. Raven, you remind me so much of what Valerie might have been. Smart, fierce, terrifyingly competent." He held out his hand. "If you're willing, I'd be honored to be your godfather. Even if it's just... symbolic."
It's not just symbolic. I'm your daughter. Your actual daughter.
But looking at his hopeful, broken expression, I realized Nash had given me something precious: a way to keep Ahab in my life without the impossible explanations.
For now.
"I'd like that," I whispered, taking his hand.
His grip was warm and strong and right, and for a moment, I let myself imagine a world where I could tell him the truth. Where he'd pull me into his arms and whisper, Welcome home, baby girl.
Instead, I squeezed once and let go.
"Okay," Ahab said, his voice rough with emotion he was clearly fighting to contain. "Okay. Good. That's... that's good." He cleared his throat. "Now let's get back to work. We've got a monster to kill and only three days to do it."
As he turned back to his tactical displays, Nash leaned close to my ear.
"You okay?" he murmured.
No. Yes. I don't know.
"Later," I breathed back. "Ask me later."