Page 31 of Legacy's Destiny

“There’s a village not far away. About ten miles east.” Click’s voice cut in through the comms. “I’m already working on an exit strategy. Let her know the information she recovered has been sent out.”

Deacon tightened his hold on Echo, pulling her closer to shield her from the relentless rain. She shivered against him, her frailty a knife to his chest. “Did you hear that?” he murmured,his lips close to her ear. “The information on the device—it’s been delivered. You did it.”

She coughed weakly, her face pressing against his chest. “I’m cold,” she murmured, her words barely audible.

“I know,” he replied, his voice thick. “We’re getting you out of here. Just hang on.”

Ace jumped, his rifle lifting into his shoulder in a fluid motion. The crack of a distant branch snapping echoed through the torrential downpour, lightning illuminating the drenched jungle in brief flashes. Ace’s movement activated the entire team. They moved without thought. Deacon, Ranger, Bandit, and Rip spun in unison, weapons raised to shoulder level, eyes scanning the dense foliage for threats. The rain lashed at them, soaking their gear and making visibility nearly impossible.

“Ace, move forward!” Deacon barked, his voice cutting through the storm like a whip.

Ace advanced, his boots squelching in the mud. “Stop where you are!” Ace yelled, his tone sharp and commanding.

Bandit echoed the command in Laotian, his voice steady despite the chaos. The rain fell in relentless sheets, hammering the leaves and creating streams of water that snaked through the uneven ground. Deacon’s sharp gaze caught movement—a shadow separating itself from the trees.

The figure emerged through the rain. The man was soaked to the bone, his clothes clinging to his wiry frame. Slowly, palms out, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Lightning struck again, briefly illuminating his face. He looked gaunt but determined, his expression unreadable beneath the curtain of water streaming down his face.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” the man called out in English, his words laced with a faint British accent. “You’re going to be swept away. The flood waters are coming fast.”

Deacon hesitated for a fraction of a second, his training warring with the instincts screaming at him to lower his weapon. Finally, he nodded, lowering his rifle slightly, though the others maintained their aim. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice firm.

The man took another cautious step forward, water splashing around his ankles. “My name is Father Ralph Clarkson. I’ve been in this country for almost twelve years. I’m with a mission group.” He eyed them carefully. “What are you doing here?”

Deacon swiped rain from his face with a gloved hand, the leather slick against his skin. “We’re trying to get out,” he said bluntly. “One of us is injured. Do you know of a safe place for us to stay?”

Ralph pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, his features etched with concern. “We have room, but we need to move—and move now. The water is rising, and it’ll sweep through here like a freight train.”

Deacon turned to Bandit. “Can she move?”

Bandit sighed. “She’ll have to be carried.”

Deacon’s jaw tightened as he turned to Ranger. “Find two poles we can use.”

Ralph pointed to the east, his hand trembling slightly. “There’s a bamboo grove over there.”

Ranger nodded, yanking his machete from his pack in one swift motion. Deacon glanced at Rip, who silently fell into step behind him, their movements taking them out of view in moments. In the chaos of the storm, the team’s coordination was like clockwork, each member instinctively knowing their role.

Bandit crouched beside Echo, who lay still beneath the poncho. He quickly pulled another from his pack, ready to thread it through the bamboo to create a makeshift stretcher. Deacon joined him and rummaged through his pack for his extraponcho, their hands moving quickly yet steadily despite the slippery conditions.

Ralph stepped closer, his expression darkening as he surveyed the scene. “People who don’t understand this country—and its dangers—shouldn’t be here,” he said, his tone accusatory.

Deacon’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “And people who don’t know what they’re talking about shouldn’t make assumptions.” He met Ralph’s gaze, his own cold and unyielding. He didn’t owe this man an explanation.

Ralph crossed his arms, the rain plastering his shirt to his chest. “Are you mercenaries?” Bandit snorted a laugh, but Ralph’s eyes shifted to Echo. His expression softened as he took in her pale face, half-covered by the poncho. “What happened to her?”

Deacon glanced at Bandit, who waited for his approval before answering. “She drowned. We brought her back. There was a flash flood—one of our team diverted the water, and we managed to pull her out.”

Ralph’s brows shot up. “Diverted with an explosion? I thought I heard one. That’s why I came down this far. I was hoping a plane or helicopter hadn’t crashed.”

Deacon gave a curt nod, refocusing on his team as Ranger and Rip returned with two long bamboo poles. The mud clung to their boots with every step, the sound nearly drowned out by the roaring storm. Bandit and Deacon worked swiftly, threading the ponchos through the poles to form a stretcher. Ralph lingered nearby, his concern shifting to frustration. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t harm me or the people I’m with?”

Deacon’s eyes narrowed. “The only thing I can give you is my word. We’re here for a mission. It’s done. We’re waiting for extraction. We won’t bring trouble to your camp.”

Ralph studied him for a long moment, the tension between them palpable. Finally, he nodded. “Follow me.”

The trek through the jungle was brutal. The rain had turned the trail into a muddy mess, each step a battle against the drenched earth. Tree roots jutted from the ground like jagged teeth, threatening to trip them at every turn. Ranger slipped, landing hard on a rock that tore his knee open. He swore under his breath but pushed forward without hesitation. Deacon’s hands burned as blisters formed on his palms; the wet leather did little to stop the friction, yet his grip on the bamboo poles never faltered.

Ace and Rip alternated between point and rear guard, their eyes constantly scanning the dense underbrush for threats. The jungle was deadly. The sound of rain blending with the rustle of leaves and the distant roar of the swollen flood water testified to its brutality.

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