Page 43 of Legacy's Destiny

The weight of his words settled between them as he continued. “Ranger’s on point. He’ll see anything before it happens. Once we hit the canopy, we’ll all check our weapons. I’ll loan you my .45. Your 9mm washed away when you went under.”

Echo’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Think I can handle that big of a weapon after my dip in the flood waters?”

Deacon shook his head, his voice breaking as he remembered what had happened. “I do.”

“What are you thinking about?” she asked quietly.

“When we pulled you out of the water. It hit me hard.” His grip on her hand tightened slightly, a brief but grounding reassurance. “It’s amazing you survived.”

Echo gazed up at him. He wondered if she could see the concern and worry he still felt from that day. He gently squeezed her hand, his thumb gliding over her knuckles. The connection felt like an anchor, grounding him.

Deacon’s gaze softened as he glanced at her again, taking in the determination etched into her expression. Damp from the humidity clinging to the air, her braid rested against her back like a rope. The rugged beauty of the granite peaks framed her profile, the jagged rocks stretching endlessly around them, bathed in the light of a clear sky.

They continued walking, the sound of their boots striking the stone merged with the sounds of the wilderness. The wind gusted across the bare ridge, bringing the faint sound of thunder from the distance and the looming promise of another storm.

Deacon pushed his team hard, balancing the urgency of their mission with Echo’s physical limitations. The oppressive jungle canopy closed in around them, the dense foliage dripping from the lingering monsoon rains. Mud clung to their boots like lead, and every step felt like a battle against the earth. The air was thick with humidity, and the acrid tang of damp vegetation filled their lungs.

“Click, how much longer?” Deacon barked into his comm device, his tone sharp as he checked his watch.

“Ronan and the team just boarded the helicopter,” Click’s voice crackled back. “They’ll be airborne and heading your way in three or four minutes. That gives you thirty-four minutes to reach the landing zone.”

“I copy,” Deacon replied, his eyes flicking to his GPS as they advanced through the muck. “We’ll make it,” he assured him, though the tension in his voice betrayed the stakes.

“It’s only about half a mile from here,” Echo added, her voice steady despite the strain. The reassurance seemed to bolster her resolve, and she quickened her pace.

They pushed forward for another five minutes, the jungle’s relentless sucking muck never easing. Then, Ranger’s hand shot up, a silent signal that froze everyone in their tracks. He dropped to the ground in one fluid motion, and the rest of the team followed suit. Echo mimicked their movements with practiced precision.

“What is it?” Deacon asked, his voice low over the comms.

“Four—no, five hostiles,” Ranger reported, his voice calm and measured. “All armed. They’re heading this way.”

Deacon’s eyes flicked to Echo, calculating. “Can we skirt them?”

Ranger’s voice came through after a pause. “We can try. They’re moving south. We could head northeast.”

“Then let’s try.” Deacon grasped Echo’s hand, pulling her silently through the dense undergrowth. The thick jungle swallowed their movements as they veered north, the team falling into formation behind them.

Once they were deep enough to conceal themselves from the approaching hostiles, Deacon paused. He reached into his vest, pulling out his .45, and handed it to Echo, their eyes meeting briefly. She nodded, her grip firm on the weapon. No words were necessary; she understood the gravity of the situation.

Deacon lifted his M4 to ready position, his senses heightened. The team mirrored his movements, their rifles raised, eyes scanning the dense jungle as they moved northeast. The damp forest floor muffled the sounds of their footsteps, but the tension was electric, each member hyper-aware of their surroundings.

Then, the sharp crack of gunfire shattered the jungle’s oppressive quiet. Instinctively, all six of them dropped to the ground.

“Status!” Deacon demanded, his voice low but urgent.

“Clear,” came the responses, one by one. He glanced at Echo, who nodded quickly, signaling she was unharmed.

“Where the fuck is he?” Deacon muttered, his gaze darting to Ranger. The other man shrugged, his expression taut.

Ace’s voice came through the comms. “Trying to get eyes now, Cap. Hold.” The seconds dragged, every sound amplified in the tense silence—the drip of water from the leaves echoed along with every faint rustle of the jungle floor. Then Ace’s whisper cut through. “I’ve got one in my sights, Cap. Permission to engage?”

“Where are the others?” Deacon asked, unwilling to spark a firefight without knowing the full threat.

There was a long pause before Ace came back. “Two between you and Ranger. Two between Echo and Bandit. Two more between Bandit and Rip. I’ve got mine dead to rights. They’re moving straight for us, walking in a line like they’re herding pigs to slaughter.”

Deacon ground his teeth, his mind racing. “Hold fire until we’re sure we can take them all. They’re going to get close—damn close.”

Bandit gave a thumbs-up from his position, and Rip’s voice came through the comms, laced with grim amusement. “You want me to give ’em a little welcoming surprise?”

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