Page 63 of Tag
“Half a mile,” Callahan whispered from the passenger seat.
I gripped the edge of the seat, scanning the ridgelines. Moonlight painted everything silver, and the shadows were thick enough to hide an army. My pulse thudded harder with every turn in the road.
Tag leaned forward between the seats. “Pull us behind that outcrop. We go the rest of the way on foot.”
We dismounted quickly, boots sinking into the powdery dirt. The cold bit at my cheeks, the wind picking up just enough to carry the faintest echo of… an engine.
Gideon’s hand went up. “Stop.”
Faron walked closer. “Stay next to one of us.”
Gideon’s hand went up. “Stop.”
We froze.
Through the stillness, a low rumble grew louder. Headlights swept over the ridge to our right, then another pair behind them. Two SUVs, moving slow, deliberate.
Graves.
We ducked into the rocks as the vehicles rolled to a stop less than a hundred yards from the mine entrance. Doors opened, figures spilling out—shadows with rifles slung low, scanning the dark like they already knew we were here.
Tag crouched beside me, his voice a razor-edged whisper. “We can’t let them get inside first.”
“Then we go now,” I said.
He studied me for a heartbeat, then nodded. “On my mark.”
The wind shifted, carrying a sound from the other side—boots on stone. My stomach dropped. “Tag… they’ve got people coming in from the west too.”
That meant we weren’t looking at a simple standoff. We were looking at a chokehold.
Tag’s hand found my shoulder, steady and firm. “Then we break it before it closes.”
He lifted his rifle, the night holding its breath with us. And for a long, electric moment, everything was still—until the first shot cracked through the darkness and all hell broke loose.
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Tag
The first shot was ours.
The second was theirs.
After that, it was a storm.
Muzzle flashes lit the night in violent bursts, throwing jagged shadows across the mine’s entrance. Dirt and rock sprayed under the impact of rounds, the air thick with the metallic tang of gunpowder.
“Aponi—left flank!” I barked, shifting to cover her as she darted behind a pile of rusted ore carts. She moved low, fast, her pistol already spitting back at the figures spilling out from Graves’ SUVs.
Gideon’s voice came over my radio, sharp and controlled.Three down. Two still on the ridge.
“Keep them off our backs,” I ordered.
We pushed forward in short bursts, firing, ducking, moving. Graves’ men were disciplined, using the terrain to their advantage, trading ground for position. I didn’t like it.
Then I saw why.
They were falling back—not retreating—pulling us toward the mine’s mouth.
