Page 64 of Echo: Burn
"Give me your thigh," I order.
She doesn't argue. I inject her first, watching for signs of the antidote taking effect. Her breathing steadies. The coughing eases. Then Odin, who also feels the effects of the atropine.
Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant Hart.
I do my own injection, feeling the atropine burning through my system. Within seconds, my vision clears. The respiratory distress eases.
We're alive. Trapped, but alive.
"Tommy's going to kill me for collapsing my own tunnel," I mutter.
"Only if we survive long enough for him to be angry." Willa manages a weak smile. "How long until backup?"
I check my chronometer. "Fifteen minutes. Maybe less if they heard the explosion."
"And if the mercenaries are still out there when backup arrives?"
"Then Stryker and Mercer are walking into the same ambush we did." I pull out my backup comm unit, praying it survived the explosion. "Tommy, this is Kane. If you can hear this, do not approach the cabin. Repeat, do not approach. It's compromised. Multiple hostiles. Chemical weapons deployed. We're alive but trapped. Need extraction from secondary position."
Static. Then, blessedly: "Copy, Kane. Stryker and Mercer are en route. ETA twelve minutes. Hang tight."
Relief floods through me. We're not dead yet.
Willa leans against the rock wall, Odin pressed against her side. "When we get out of here," she says quietly, "I want to know everything. About Yemen. About my father. About what the Committee is planning. No more secrets."
"Deal." I settle beside her, checking my wounds. The ribs are still bleeding but manageable. "And Willa? What you did tonight—holding that position, keeping your head, saving us both with that atropine—that was good work. Real operator-level work."
She meets my eyes. "Am I part of the team now?"
"You were always part of the team." I pull her close, careful of injuries. "You just had to prove it to yourself."
We sit in darkness, listening to the settling rock, waiting for extraction. Above us, the cabin is compromised. My cover position is burned. The Committee knows we're here.
But we're alive. And we've got twelve minutes until backup arrives.
Twelve minutes to catch our breath before the real war begins.
Because if Karina Miles is right—if the Committee is planning to attack the inauguration with chemical weapons—we're running out of time.
The next seventy-two hours will determine whether we stop them or die trying.
And failure isn't an option.
Not when thousands of lives hang in the balance.
Not when everything we've been fighting for comes down to one final operation.
My comm crackles. "Kane, Stryker here. We're approaching your position. Give me a sitrep."
"Tunnel collapsed. We're sealed in about ninety meters from the entrance. Hostiles may still be present. Chemical weapons have been deployed. Approach with caution."
"Copy. ETA eight minutes."
Eight minutes until extraction. Then we get back to base and figure out our next move—because what we learned tonight changes everything.
That the cabin isn't safe anymore. That the Committee is willing to use chemical weapons. That they're closer than we thought.
And that our window to stop them is closing fast.
