Page 49 of Echo: Line
She nods. Doesn't move. Neither do I.
We stay like that for five more seconds. Ten. Stealing time we don't have because the alternative is pulling apart and facing the reality that we're still being hunted.
Finally, she moves. Stands. Winces as the movement pulls her shoulder but doesn't complain. Just reaches for her ruined tank top, movements stiff.
"Here." I grab a spare shirt from the emergency supplies. Black, too big for her, but clean and dry. "This'll be better."
She takes it. Our fingers brush. The contact feels more significant than it should, weighted with everything we didn't get to finish.
The shirt goes on with difficulty. I help without being asked, easing her injured arm through the sleeve. Necessary touches. But charged with the kiss still burning between us.
She catches my wrist when I start to move away.
"When this is over," she says, voice steady despite everything. "When we're not running anymore. We finish this conversation."
Not a question. A statement of intent. Giving me a future tense that implies survival.
It works.
"We will," I say. Not a promise I'm sure I can keep, but one I need to make anyway.
We move to the emergency cache Tommy stashed here. I pry up the floorboard in the corner, reveal the waterproof case beneath. Inside: two more rifles, ammunition, MREs, water purification tablets, emergency blankets, a compass, cash, and two tactical packs.
I hand Delaney one of the rifles. "AR-15. Thirty-round magazine. You familiar?"
"Qualified on it at Quantico." She checks the action, tests the weight, movements becoming more confident with each passing hour.
I load spare magazines into my pockets—six for my rifle, three for my sidearm. Delaney mirrors the motion, learning by watching. Her hands are steadier now. The shock wearing off, replaced by something harder.
MREs go into our packs—four each, enough for two days if we ration. Water purification tablets. Emergency blankets that fold down to nothing. The compass I strap to my wrist. The cash—five thousand in mixed bills—goes into a waterproof pouch in my inner vest pocket. No ID, no cards, no way to buy anything legitimate. Cash is the only currency that works when you're a ghost.
"Check your rifle," I tell her. "Magazine seated, chamber clear, safety on."
She does. Perfect form. FBI training showing through.
I shoulder my pack, clip my weapon to the sling mount. The weight is familiar. Grounding. This is what I know. This is what keeps us alive.
I check the perimeter through the cabin's grimy window. Nothing yet. But not much lead time when the hunters are professionals and know exactly where we started.
Delaney appears beside me. Weapon ready. Face set in determined lines that hide whatever she's feeling. The operator mask settling into place.
She's learning fast. Too fast. The realization should reassure me. Instead it amplifies the fear that I'm shaping her into someone she was never meant to become.
"What's the play?" she asks.
"Next fallback location. Twelve miles north—high ground, natural choke points. Defensible if we have to make a stand." I check the compass on my wrist, orient toward the bearing. Six emergency locations scattered across this range, each one selected for tactical advantage. This is number three.
"And if we can't reach it before they catch us?"
"Then we improvise. Like we've been doing since we started this."
She nods once. All business now. The woman who kissed me with desperate certainty hidden behind tactical competence.
But when I open the cabin door, she touches my back. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel the contact through my shirt.
Then we move.
We disappear into the forest as the first Committee helicopter thunders from the sky in the distance. The sound grows louder with every second. Closer. More inevitable.
