Page 29 of Echo: Line
We hit a ravine and I grab her arm, pull her down behind a fallen log. From here, we have a clear view back to the cabin. Three operators, all armed, all moving with the precision of people who do this for a living. Committee's best.
"They'll track us," Delaney whispers.
"I know."
"So what's the plan?"
"Keep moving. Stay ahead of their search radius. Find defensible ground if they close the gap." I watch the operators fan out, professional and methodical. "We can't fight three-on-two when I'm injured and you're not trained for this."
She looks at me, determination hardening her features. "I'm not letting them take you again."
The statement is simple. Direct. And completely serious.
"Delaney—"
"No." She cuts me off. "You warned me at that cabin. Got me out. Kept me alive when that team tried to kill us both. I'm not letting them finish the job."
The conviction in her voice makes my chest tight. She means every word. This woman who has known me for less than twenty-four hours is ready to die beside me rather than let the Committee take me back to Kessler and Scorch.
I should tell her she's being naive. That loyalty like that gets you killed. That she barely knows me and has no obligation to throw her life away for mine.
Instead, I reach out and touch her face. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the warmth of her skin and see her eyes widen slightly in surprise. She holds my gaze, conflict moving behind her eyes. Fear and determination and trust she shouldn't be giving me yet.
Behind us, radio chatter. The team has found our trail.
I pull my hand back, force myself to focus. "Time to move."
She nods once, checks her weapon, scans the tree line. Already thinking tactically. Already adapting.
Maybe she's not as temporary as I keep telling myself. But that's a problem for later. Right now, survival. Right now, we move.
8
DELANEY
My legs burn. Every step sends fresh pain through my thighs and calves, muscles screaming protest at the relentless pace Alex sets through the wilderness. We've been moving for hours, uphill through dense pine forest, navigating around deadfall and over rocky terrain that tears at my already-destroyed shoes.
He moves ahead of me like the injury doesn't exist. Like he didn't nearly bleed out less than a day ago. His stride is steady, controlled, eating up ground with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. Every few minutes he stops, scans the area, checks our back trail, then continues.
Professional. Methodical. Infuriating.
My FBI training included physical fitness requirements. I can run five miles, pass the combat course, meet all the benchmarks. But this is different. This is sustained wilderness movement with no end in sight, following someone who operates on a completely different level than anything Quantico prepared me for.
"Water break," Alex says, the first words he's spoken in an hour.
I nearly collapse against a fallen log, gulping air, legs shaking. He's barely breathing hard. The bandage around his torso shows a small amount of blood seepage, but nothing like it should be after three hours of hard hiking.
"How are you doing this?" The question comes out between gasps.
He glances back. "Doing what?"
"Moving. You were dying yesterday."
He hands me a water bottle—one of two we found in the Committee truck. "Training. You learn to push through pain. Manage the damage. Keep moving until the mission's complete."
"What's the mission?"
"Staying alive." He takes the bottle back after I drink, caps it carefully. Rationing. "Reach the extraction point. Get you somewhere safe."
