The black Mustang Mach-E glided silently into the valet at the Hyatt House Nashville Downtown-Convention Center. The city lights of Broadway flickered in the distance, but the two men moved with a tired, focused efficiency. After a brief, high-security check-in involving encrypted credentials, they retreated to the upper floor Tom had secured.
Inside his suite, the adrenaline finally began to ebb, replaced by the heavy ache of the night's combat. Vlad stripped off his tactical gear, the reinforced fabric stained with soot and the grit of the Oak Hill hillside.
He stepped into the glass-walled shower, letting the near-scalding water wash away the residue of the explosion. As the steam filled the room, the water ran over a back that told a silent, violent history. His skin was a tapestry of service:
A jagged, star-shaped scar on his left shoulder from a shrapnel burst in Prague.
Parallel white lines across his lower lats—reminders of a narrow escape from a wire-trap in Singapore.
A deep indentation near his ribs where a high-caliber round had grazed the bone.
Every mark was a lesson learned in blood.
Vlad stepped out of the shower, the cool air of the room hitting his damp skin. He wrapped a heavy white towel loosely around his waist. His black hair was soaked, slicked straight back from his forehead, revealing the full intensity of his face without the distraction of his usual messy fringe.
Water droplets clung to the deep grooves of his abdominals and traced the hard lines of his chest. Even in this moment of "rest," he looked like a weapon at the ready. His muscles were still pumped from the exertion of the CQC fight, his veins standing out against his tanned, scarred forearms. He looked less like a man and more like a statue carved from dark marble.
He walked over to the mahogany desk where he had placed the silver flash drive. It sat there, cold and unassuming under the warm glow of the desk lamp.
Vlad leaned over, resting his weight on his palms as he stared at the small device. He knew the Agency's protocol: Secure, Transport, Deliver. Never peek. But the ferocity of the second wave—the Black-Ops contractors—suggested this wasn't just a standard intel haul.
His eyes, sharp and calculating even in his exhaustion, traced the light reflecting off the silver casing. He wondered if what was stored on this drive was worth the lives he had nearly lost tonight, or if it was something far more dangerous than Tom had let on.