Page 8 of Jason Bourne
Nobody takes what’s mine and walks away breathing.
8
Jason
We broke into the open deck and the storm met us like a damn freight train — wind howling off the Pacific, rain slicing sideways through spotlights and rifle muzzles.
Forest carried Zoe, and Nate cleared angles with his rifle. Lane pressed her shoulder to mine, pistol steady in both hands despite the blood dripping from her temple.
The first guard came screaming out of the bridge door — a machete raised.
Lane fired once. Clean headshot. He spun mid-step, dead before he hit the deck.
“Nice,” I growled, shoving her behind a winch as bullets sparked off steel beside us.
“Better than nice — pay attention,” she snapped, eyes blazing.
Two more hostiles burst around the stack of crates. I lunged — grabbed the barrel of the first guy’s rifle, slammed it sideways. The second took a shot, grazed my arm. Didn’t matter. I buried my knife in his gut, twisted. He folded at my feet.
Lane popped up over the winch — double tap to the first guy’s skull while I still had my blade in the second. She didn’t miss. Not once.
Nate barked in my earpiece, “More incoming, bridge stairwell!”
I yanked Lane forward, spun her against my chest.Mine.Always mine.
“Stay with Zoe!” I told Forest. He dragged her behind a stack of sealed drums, covering her limp body with his own bulk.
Rain blinded me for a second — then Lane’s hand slid into mine, warm and wet and trembling with adrenaline.
We sprintedup the port stairwell — metal rattling under our boots. Two guards charged down. Lane didn’t hesitate. She launched herself off the last step — feet first, cracking her heel into the first man’s chest. He tumbled back, screaming as his spine met the rail.
I caught the second one’s wrist mid-swing — knife flashed, artery opened. He gargled, dropped.
Lane wiped her brow with the back of her wrist. The rain hid the tears I knew were there.
She muttered, “If you die now, Jason, I swear to God I’ll resurrect you and kill you myself.”
“Not planning on dying, sweetheart. Got too much to live for.”
Above,the bridge door slammed open — four shadows in tactical black, rifles raised.
“DOWN!” I roared, pulling Lane flat to the slick deck.
Nate’s rifle cracked behind us. Two hostiles crumpled, their AKs clattering down the stairwell. Forest’s voice thundered in my earpiece:“Gangplank’s clear! MOVE!”
I grabbed Lane’s wrist and ran. We bolted down the slick steps — past crates, over sprawled bodies, Zoe slumped in Forest’s arms like a ragdoll but breathing.
Bullets whined past. Something burned across my side — hot, sharp — but I didn’t stop.
At the gangplank, Max waited in the zodiac, engine idling, eyes locked on us like a lifeline.
Forest leaped first — Zoe in his arms. Nate covered him, suppressing fire rattling off the hull. The other women all jumped in seeing the other boat there to help pull them in.
Lane stumbled at the edge. Her boot slipped on the slick metal. She teetered — eyes wide — then I yanked her against me, felt her ribs slam my chest as we pitched over the side together.
Cold water swallowed the chaos. Her scream muffled in my shoulder.
Then hands grabbed us — Forest and Max hauling us into the boat, lungs burning, heart still hammering from that half-second I’d almost lost her again.
