Page 5 of Echo: Burn
Automatic weapons. Multiple shooters. Coordinated attack.
My hands lock on the steering wheel. Every self-defense lesson Dad drilled into me floods back. Get behind cover. Stay low. Never freeze.
Except there's no cover. Just my veterinary truck and Odin barking his warning too late because we're already in the kill zone.
The nearest gunman turns toward my headlights. I see him clearly for a split second—tactical gear, night vision goggles pushed up, weapon coming level with my windshield.
I slam the accelerator to the floor.
The truck surges forward like a wounded animal, engine roaring, tires screaming for traction on ice. The world narrows to a tunnel. Target ahead. No time to think. Only react. Dad's voice cuts through my terror:‘Sometimes the only way out is through, baby girl. You hesitate, you die.’
I don't hesitate.
The impact hits like a sledgehammer to my chest. The gunman's body crumples against the grille, then disappears under the bumper with a sickening crunch that vibrates through the steering column into my hands. His weapon sparks off the hood in a shower of orange light before spinning away into darkness.
The truck lurches, suspension compressing, then bouncing as the wheels roll over something that used to be human.
I just killed a man.
My stomach heaves. I swallow bile and keep my foot down. More muzzle flashes erupt from my left. Bullets punch through metal with sounds like hammers on steel. One takes out the side mirror in an explosion of glass. Another sparks off the door frame inches from my head.
The passenger door rips open.
A man rolls inside—controlled chaos, all blood and lethal focus. He moves like water despite the wound, bringing the smell of gunpowder and cordite into the cab. Blood streams from a gash on his temple, painting half his face crimson. He slams the door shut even as his other hand comes up with a pistol, tracking targets through the rear window.
"Drive. Now." His voice cuts clean through Odin's barking. "They're Committee—same people hunting you and the dog."
The words hit like ice water. Committee. The name from the anonymous threats, whispered like it should mean something. The name that made the sheriff tell me to forget what I'd seen. Some mysterious, nefarious group I still don't understand.
Bullets punch through the tailgate. One stars the rear window. Odin snarls at the stranger, teeth bared, but the man ignores the threat entirely, focused on the real danger behind us.
“Who the fuck are you?” I all but scream.
"Kane. Hard left!" he barks. "Now!"
I wrench the wheel. The truck fishtails, back end sliding on ice in a stomach-dropping spin. For a horrible second we're perpendicular to the road, completely exposed. Then the tires bite and we lurch forward. Another bullet takes out what's left of the side mirror.
"They're flanking," he says, voice flat with assessment. "Two vehicles converging. You've got maybe thirty seconds before they box you in."
"Tell me where to go!" My voice comes out higher than I want.
"Next right. The gap in the trees. Kill your lights when I say."
I see the turn—barely visible through the white-out, more instinct than actual road.
"Lights. Now."
I kill them. The world goes black except for the faint glow of the instrument panel. We plunge into darkness at forty miles an hour on ice with armed men behind us.
"Keep straight. Trust the wheel." Kane's voice is steady, calm, like he does this every day. "They'll lose you in the storm."
I grip the wheel tighter, feeling for the road through vibration and prayer. The truck slides, catches, slides again. Headlights sweep through the trees behind me, searching. Missing us by yards.
"There." Kane points ahead where I see nothing but white. "The passage. Aim between those two pines."
I look at the gap he's indicating. My heart stops. "That's not wide enough..."
"It is. I've done it a dozen times. Thread the needle or they catch us in thirty seconds. Your call, Doc."
