Page 15 of Echo: Line
"Got it."
The front door explodes inward. Breaching charge, overkill for a wooden door, but effective. Two operators flood through the opening, weapons up, moving with professional coordination.
I fire twice. Both rounds catch the lead operator center mass. He goes down hard, gasping, body armor keeping him alive but ribs probably broken. The second operator tracks toward my muzzle flash. Ward fires before he can acquire target. Three shots, tight grouping, exactly what you'd expect from someone who qualified regularly but didn't live in combat.
The operator staggers, returns fire. Rounds chew through the counter, missing us by inches because we're already moving.
"Go!" I grab Ward's arm, pull her toward the corner where the floorboards hide my escape route. She moves with me, stumbling over debris, keeping her weapon up and pointed at threats even while running.
More operators pour through the front door. Professional. Disciplined. But they expected an easy kill—wounded fugitive, cornered FBI agent—and we're not giving them that.
I drop to my knees at the corner, run my hands along the floorboards. There—a gap wider than the others, edges worn smooth. I dig my fingers in, pull. The boards resist, then give with a creak. Not a hidden release. Just old construction and a cellar access someone didn't bother sealing properly.
The floorboards lift away, revealing a crawlspace. Not spacious, not comfortable, but it leads somewhere. That's all that matters.
"In. Now."
Ward doesn't argue. She holsters her weapon and drops into the opening, landing in the dirt below with a grunt. I follow, pulling the boards closed above us as rounds punch through the space we just occupied.
Total darkness. The crawlspace smells like earth and rot. Water drips somewhere in the distance. Ward's breathing is steady next to me in the confined space.
"Which way?" she asks.
"Follow me. Hands on my boots if you need guidance." I start crawling, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through my side. The wound has reopened completely now. Blood soaks my shirt, drips onto the ground beneath me.
Keep moving. Distance first. Survival first. Bleeding out can wait.
The crawlspace is just twenty-four inches high. We move on elbows and knees, dirt grinding into wounds, cramped muscles screaming protest. Behind us, I hear the operators tearing apart the cabin, looking for where we went.
Thirty feet feels like thirty miles. My vision grays at the edges. Everything tilts and shifts, making navigation difficult. But my hands find the hatch—old wood, hinges rusted but functional. I push up, and it opens.
The hatch opens onto twilight and forest. I pull myself up and out, rolling away from the opening to give Ward room. She emerges a second later, covered in dirt, hair wild, but still moving, still functional.
"Vehicle." I point toward the Committee tactical truck parked fifty yards away near the tree line. They left it unguarded because who steals a vehicle during an active firefight?
We do.
Ward sees what I'm thinking. "You can't drive."
"Watch me." I start moving, using trees for support when my legs want to give out. She stays beside me, one hand ready to catch me if I fall, the other still holding her Glock.
Voices behind us. They've found the crawlspace. We have maybe sixty seconds before they emerge.
The truck is a newer F-250, armored, probably equipped with every tactical upgrade the Committee's budget allows. The keys are in the ignition—standard procedure for quick extraction scenarios. I pull myself into the driver's seat, every movement leaving blood on the leather.
Ward climbs in the passenger side, slams the door. "You need medical attention."
"Later." I start the engine, shift into gear. "Seatbelt."
The truck lurches forward just as operators emerge from behind the cabin. They're shooting, but we're already moving, engine roaring, tires chewing through dirt and pine needles. Rounds spark off the armored body. The rear window cracks but doesn't shatter. Bulletproof glass. The Committee's own upgrades keeping us alive.
I aim the truck at the access road, accelerating hard. My focus narrows. Stay alert. Keep driving. Everything else can wait.
"Alex." Ward's voice seems to come from far away. "Alex, you're bleeding everywhere."
"I know." The steering wheel is slippery under my hands. Blood or sweat, I can't tell anymore. "Glove compartment. Should be a first aid kit."
She opens it, pulls out a trauma kit. Standard issue, better than basic supplies but not enough for what I need. Still, she's already tearing open packages, pulling out gauze and pressure bandages.
