Page 65 of Echo: Line
The comm goes dead. Alex looks at me. His mouth quirks up on one side despite the situation. "Stubborn bastard."
"Good." I settle into firing position. "So are we."
The Committee operatives move closer. They're patient. Deliberate. Taking their time because they know we have nowhere to go.
But they don't know who they're dealing with. They don't know that the FBI agent in here has spent eight years studying how killers think, how they move, how they make mistakes. They don't know that the operator beside me survived four days of torture without breaking.
And they definitely don't know that we'd rather die fighting than let them win.
"Hey," Alex says between shots. "After this is over..."
"After this, we're still alive." I fire twice. "Focus on that."
"Deal."
The first operative breaks cover. Moving fast toward the structure. I track him through my sights. Steady breath. Smooth trigger press.
The shot echoes through the structure. The operative goes down. Immediate return fire from three positions. Rounds punch through the stone walls, send chips of rock flying.
"Here we go."
The world explodes in gunfire.
I fire controlled bursts, force them back into cover. Beside me, Alex does the same. We move in perfect sync. One reloads while the other provides covering fire. Tactical rhythm born from training and trust.
An operative tries to flank left. I put two rounds center mass before he can find cover. He drops. But more are moving in. They're overwhelming us through sheer numbers.
"Magazine," Alex calls, ducking behind cover to reload.
I shift position, covering both our sectors. Three targets visible. I engage the closest, driving him back. The others return fire. A round passes so close to my head I feel the displacement.
"Reloaded." Alex is back up, engaging.
We hold them for minutes that feel like hours. But we're running low. One magazine left for me. Maybe two for Alex. Against at least six remaining hostiles who can afford to wait us out.
"Movement, northeast," Alex reports. "They're repositioning for final assault."
This is it. The moment where we make our stand or die trying.
I meet Alex's eyes across the dim interior. Everything we said and didn't say reflects back. The choice we made. The future we might not have.
"No regrets," I say.
"None." He reaches across the space between us, fingers brushing mine. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Before I can respond, the sound of engines cuts through the gunfire. Heavy. Multiple vehicles. Coming fast.
The Committee operatives outside hesitate. Confused. They weren't expecting reinforcements.
Neither were we.
The first truck explodes through the tree line, pine branches snapping like gunfire. A massive vehicle, pushing fifty miles per hour through terrain that should be impossible. It doesn't slow. Doesn't swerve. Just aims directly at the Committee formation like a battering ram made of steel and fury.
Operatives scatter. One isn't fast enough. The truck's bumper catches him and sends him flying into a tree trunk. The impact makes a sound I'll never forget.
Two SUVs follow, flank the truck. Doors fly open before the vehicles fully stop. Stryker rolls out, rifle already firing. Rourke emerges from the other side, lays down suppressing fire that forces the Committee team into cover. Tommy's behind the wheel of the second SUV. His usual keyboard precision is replaced with aggressive driving that tears up earth and vegetation.
And Kane. Standing in the open bed of the truck like he doesn't care that he's a target. His rifle barks steady, controlled bursts. "On your feet! We're leaving!"
