Page 60 of Echo: Burn
"Something's wrong," I say quietly.
"What?"
"I don't know yet. But my gut's telling me we're walking into something." I chamber a round. "Stay close. Stay alert. If shooting starts, you get behind cover and you don't move until I say."
"Kane...”
"Non-negotiable." I meet her eyes. "You wanted to come. Fine. But we do this my way."
She nods once. Smart enough to know when to listen.
We move through the tunnel, weapons up, every sense heightened. The cabin entrance appears ahead—concealed door built into the mountainside, invisible unless you know where to look.
I punch in the access code. The door slides open silently.
And Odin's growl cuts through the darkness like a blade.
The dog's at the cabin entrance before I process how he got here. He shouldn't be here—should be back at base with Khalid. But somehow he followed us, moved through the tunnels tracking Willa's scent, and now he's positioned between us and the cabin interior with every muscle tensed.
Not warning us away from danger.
Warning danger away from us.
"Kane." Willa's voice is barely a whisper. "He smells something."
Chemical weapons. That's what Odin's trained to detect. And right now, every line of his body is screaming alert.
I activate my comm. "Tommy, we've got a situation. Odin's alerting on chemical signatures at the cabin. Run a full sensor sweep of the area."
Static. Then: "Kane, I'm picking up multiple heat signatures inside the structure. At least six. They're not moving. They're waiting."
Ambush.
The Committee didn't just find my cabin. They turned it into a kill box.
"Abort," I order Willa. "We're pulling back...”
The first shot misses my head by inches. I grab Willa, yanking her down as automatic weapons fire erupts from the cabin. Bullets tear through wood and stone, sparking off rock, turning the tunnel into a death trap.
"Move!" I'm already returning fire, laying down suppressive bursts while Willa scrambles for cover. Odin's barking, that deep warning bay that military working dogs use when threats are imminent.
More muzzle flashes from the cabin. Professional spacing. Coordinated fire patterns. These aren't Committee regulars.
These are mercenaries. Tier One assets. The kind Protocol Seven activates when they want guaranteed results.
"Tommy, we're pinned down!" I duck as rounds punch through the tunnel wall. "How many are we looking at?"
"Eight signatures now. No—ten. They're moving into flanking positions." His voice goes tight. "Kane, you've got teams moving to cut off your retreat. They're trying to trap you in the kill zone."
"Copy that." I glance at Willa. She's pressed against the rock wall, rifle up, eyes scanning for targets. No panic. No hesitation. Just cold assessment. "Doc, you remember the drill? Cover fire on my mark. Three-round bursts. Then move."
"I remember." Her voice is steady. "On your mark."
I count down. "Three, two, one—mark!"
We break from cover simultaneously. Willa's rifle barks three times, three careful shots that make the mercenaries duck even if they don't hit. It's enough. I move to better position, laying down sustained fire that gives her time to relocate.
"Reloading!" she calls.
