Page 14 of Echo: Line
"Then you'll have to help me." He looks at me one more time, and there's something there beyond the desperation, beyond the pain. Trust. He's trusting me with his life after knowing me for five minutes, and I'm about to trust him with mine.
The moment stretches. Decision point. Call in the team and follow orders, or trust my instincts about a man I just met who might be the most dangerous person I've ever encountered or might be the only honest one.
I holster my Glock and move to his side. "Lean on me. We go on three."
"You're sure?"
"No." I slide my arm around his waist, feeling him flinch as I touch his injured side. "But I'm sure about them."
5
ALEX
The back door slams open and we burst into twilight. The temperature drop hits first—mountain air cold enough to sting my lungs. Then the rounds crack past us, supersonic snaps that punch through the space where my head was a split second ago. They had shooters positioned exactly where I thought they would.
"Move!" I shove Ward right as bark explodes from the doorframe. Splinters spray across my face. We dive behind the woodpile, and the impact drives what little air I have left from my lungs. The wound in my side screams. Fresh warmth spreads across my shirt—the bleeding's worse now.
Wood chips rain down as bullets chew through our cover. The smell of cordite and pine sap mingles with the copper tang of my own blood. Ward lands beside me, breath coming in sharp gasps. Her eyes are wide but focused. Not frozen. Good.
"They're covering every exit!" She has to shout over the gunfire.
"I know." My training takes over, sorting threats by priority even as my vision wavers. I scan the tree line. Three shooters visible—two o'clock, ten o'clock, and one directly behind at six. Probably more in reserve. Professional spacing, overlappingfields of fire. They're not trying to kill us yet. If they were, we'd already be dead. They're herding us. Trying to pin us in place. "Back inside. Now!"
The rounds intensify as we scramble back through the door. Dirt kicks up where we were just crouched, puffs of dust that catch the dying light. My legs threaten to give out on the threshold. I catch myself on the doorframe, leaving a blood smear on the wood.
Inside isn't much better. The sound of heavy footsteps followed. Professional stack formation. Probably four to six operators. All armed. All trained. All here to make sure neither of us leaves this cabin breathing.
I need the northwest corner. The crawlspace I spotted when I first arrived. Our only real exit.
"Stay low!" I pull Ward toward the kitchen, using furniture for cover. A round punches through the couch where she was standing. Stuffing explodes into the air. Another through the wall—drywall dust and insulation filling the cabin with a choking haze. We drop behind the counter hard enough to rattle dishes in the cabinets above us.
The particle board won't stop rifle rounds, but it blocks line of sight. That's all that matters right now. Line of sight means they can't acquire a target. Can't acquire means we stay alive another thirty seconds.
Ward's shoulder presses against mine in the cramped space. Her heart hammers—I can feel it through both our jackets. But her hands are steady when she brings up her Glock, scanning for targets through the settling dust. FBI training showing through the fear.
She doesn't argue. Doesn't freeze. Goes where I pull her and comes up ready to fight. Competent enough to keep herself alive. Maybe competent enough to keep us both alive if I can stay upright long enough.
The pain in my side is white-hot now, adrenaline only doing so much to keep the damage at bay. I lost too much blood during the escape. Used up reserves I didn't have just getting here. Every movement pulls at injuries that should have put me down hours ago.
Can't think about that. Tactical assessment only. Front and back exits covered. They're using hammer-and-anvil, trying to pin us in place until they can overwhelm our position.
"Hidden exit," I tell Ward. The words come out steadier than they should. "Northwest corner, under the floorboards."
"What?" She's pressed against the counter next to me, close enough that I can feel her breathing. Fast but controlled. Scared but functional.
"Saw it when I got here. Old root cellar access, maybe a crawlspace. Worth a shot." Years of operational experience taught me to recognize the signs—disturbed floorboards, uneven gaps. This cabin has them. "We go fast, we go together, and we don't stop moving."
"You can barely stand."
"I'll stand long enough." I check my pistol. Twelve rounds left. Not enough for a sustained firefight, but enough to create an opening. "You trust me?"
"No." But she meets my eyes when she says it. "But I trust them less."
Fair enough.
Boot strikes on the front porch. They're stacking up for entry. Three seconds, maybe four before they breach.
"When they come through that door, put rounds center mass. Don't aim for headshots—body armor won’t stop them but the impact will slow them down." I shift position. My vision swims. "On my mark, we move for the northwest corner. Don't look back. Don't hesitate."
