Page 28 of Echo: Line
"So do you." She sits up, rolls her shoulders. "How's the wound?"
"Fine."
"Liar." But she doesn't push it. "We're moving?"
"Soon. Need to do a perimeter check first, make sure we're clear." I start to stand, and the world tilts slightly. Delaney's beside me immediately, hand under my elbow, steadying me.
"Easy."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that. I keep not believing you." Her grip is firm, keeping me upright until the dizziness passes. This close, exhaustion still lines her face. The faint scent of her shampoo cuts through everything else. Lavender.
I pull away, put distance between us before my body can respond to her proximity in ways that complicate an already complicated situation. "We need to move. Check the truck for water and supplies."
"Got it." She releases me. "Should I check now?"
"I'll do it. You get ready."
She nods, waits until I'm out the door before she starts moving around the cabin. Professional courtesy. Or maybe she's as aware of the confined space as I am.
Outside, the morning air is sharp and cold, mist rising from the ground in thin wisps. The truck sits where we left it, undisturbed. No tracks in the dirt. No signs of Committee presence. We caught a break. Narrow one, but we'll take what we can get.
Perimeter check takes longer than it should. Moving careful to avoid reopening the wound. Everything's clear. But the access road worries me. Single entry point means single escape route if they find us. We need to ditch the truck soon, go on foot where vehicles can't follow.
Back inside, Delaney's pulling a clean shirt down over her head. She must have found something in the Committee truck. I catch the movement for half a second—lean muscle, the line of her back—before the fabric covers everything. She turns,catches me in the doorway, and awareness flashes between us. Recognition of the moment hanging in the air.
I look away first, cursing myself. "We should go."
"Yeah." Her voice is slightly rough. "We should."
But neither of us moves immediately. The cabin suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. She's standing three feet away, close enough to touch, and every instinct I've been suppressing is telling me to close that distance.
She's FBI. Temporary. A complication that could get us both killed.
The words don't carry the same weight they did six hours ago.
"Alex—"
The sound of an engine cuts her off. Distant but approaching. Vehicle on the access road, moving slow and methodical. Search pattern.
Training takes over. Moving before conscious thought, grabbing the rifle, checking the load. Delaney's already at the window, weapon up, scanning the approach.
"How many?" I ask.
"Can't tell yet. Single vehicle. Moving tactical."
Committee. Has to be. Local law enforcement doesn't do grid searches at dawn unless someone with federal authority tells them to.
"Back door. Now." I grab the rifle, keep it ready. Delaney moves with me, smooth and coordinated. No hesitation. No panic. Just professional movement toward the exit.
The engine sound grows louder. They're committed to this approach, which means they've already cleared the surrounding area. Running out of time.
We slip out the back door into the tree line. The Committee truck is on the other side of the cabin, but we can't risk goingfor it. Engine noise would give us away immediately. On foot, we move fast and silent through the pines.
Behind us, the vehicle stops. Doors opening. Radio chatter. Professional team, exactly what I expected. They'll clear the cabin in under two minutes, find our trail in three. We need distance and we need it now.
Delaney keeps pace beside me, matching my stride even though her legs are shorter. Breathing hard but controlled, weapon ready, eyes scanning for threats. Better than most operators I've worked with. Natural talent, maybe. Or just pure determination not to slow me down.
