Page 41 of Echo: Line
"No."
Fair. My hands are steady, but my pulse is elevated. The professional part of my brain recognizes it as pre-action adrenaline—the body preparing for potential threat. The rest of me just wants to get on that helicopter and collapse.
"It's normal," he adds. "The waiting is always worse than the action."
"How do you deal with it?"
"Compartmentalize. Think about the mission. Control what you can control." He glances at me. "Or in your case, think about what you'll say to Kane to convince him you're not insane for volunteering to join Echo Ridge."
"You think he'll say no?"
"I think he'll test you. Push hard to see if you break. That's what he did with me."
"What did he do?"
Alex is quiet for a moment. "Made me prove I could trust again. That I wouldn't compromise the team. That I was capable of more than just survival." He shifts position slightly. "It wasn't easy."
"But you passed."
"Eventually."
The clearing remains empty. Birds call from the surrounding trees. Normal forest sounds. Nothing to indicate threat.
But something feels wrong.
The birds stop singing.
Alex tenses. "Get down. Now."
I drop to the ground an instant before the clearing erupts with gunfire.
The sound is deafening—overlapping reports, the whistle of rounds passing too close, the meaty thunk of bullets hitting trees. Bark explodes. Pine needles rain down. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite.
Muzzle flashes from three positions—Committee operators positioned in the tree line across from us, concealed in heavy brush, waiting. They knew. Somehow they knew about the extraction.
The realization hits like ice water: we walked into a trap.
"Ambush!" Alex's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and controlled. He returns fire immediately, controlled three-round bursts, suppressing the closest position. "Back the way we came. Move!"
I scramble backward on hands and knees, staying low. A round impacts inches from my hand, kicking up dirt. Another tears through my jacket sleeve without touching skin—so close I feel the heat.
My heart hammers. My hands shake. Eight years of FBI training never included this. Never prepared me for the reality of being hunted by professionals who want me dead.
But my training kicks in anyway. I bring up my pistol, forcing my hands steady through sheer will. Sight picture. Front sight focus. Controlled breathing even though my lungs are screaming.
The closest operator moves between trees, relocating to better firing position. Three seconds of exposure. Poor tactical choice.
I squeeze twice. The pistol kicks against my palm. Both rounds find center mass.
He drops.
I just shot at another man.
No time to process. No time for the sick twist in my gut or the way my hands want to shake. More muzzle flashes. More incoming fire.
"Good shot!" Alex changes position, flowing through the forest like water, using terrain I didn't even see as cover. "Creek bed—north! Move!"
I run. No grace, no technique, just pure survival instinct. The ground slopes sharply downward. I slide more than climb, boots fighting for purchase on loose scree and wet leaves.
