Page 86 of Echo: Line
I follow, checking corners the way Stryker taught me. The corridor opens into a large room—security station, exactly where Cross's intel showed it. But instead of empty terminals, there are four Committee operatives taking cover behind workstations.
They see us the same moment we see them.
Everything turns into gunfire and chaos. I dive behind a concrete pillar as rounds tear through the air where I was standing. Alex goes the opposite direction, drawing fire, giving me a chance to find better cover.
The FBI never trained me for this. Eight years profiling killers, interviewing psychopaths, building cases from evidence. None of that prepared me for bullets snapping past my head and concrete chips cutting my face.
But I had training before the Bureau. Range time, defensive tactics, survival skills my father insisted on. Alex sharpened those skills, pushed me harder, made me faster. The training takes over. I lean out, acquire a target, fire. The operative jerks backward, dropping his rifle.
Three left.
Alex is moving, using the room's layout to flank. I provide covering fire—not trying to hit anything, just keeping theirattention split. He appears on their exposed side, moving from target to target with practiced efficiency. Two more drop.
The last operative runs. Smart. I would too.
"Exit's clear," Alex says, moving to the security station. "Tommy, we're at Bravo extraction."
"Copy. Van's two minutes out. You've got Committee response teams converging on your position from three directions."
"Then we better be gone in ninety seconds."
The extraction point is a loading dock that services the building. Less secure than the main entrance, which makes it useful for moving things the Committee doesn't want seen. Like bodies or evidence of crimes.
We hit the dock at a run. The van screeches up, side door already open. Stryker's at the wheel. Rourke provides cover from the passenger seat. Willa reaches out to pull us in.
I'm three feet from the door when the round hits.
The impact spins me sideways—shoulder screaming, body following momentum into the concrete. My rifle clatters away. The pain is immediate and overwhelming, hot and nauseating.
"Delaney!" Alex's voice, distant through the ringing in my ears.
I try to stand. My left arm won't cooperate. Won't even move. Looking down, I see blood soaking through my vest, dark and spreading. Through-and-through, the tactical part of my brain notes. Entry wound front, exit wound back. Missed the bone but got everything else.
"I can move," I manage. "Go!"
Alex appears above me, rifle firing past my head at targets I can't see. His face is locked in combat focus—not panicked, not frozen, just executing. He hooks one arm under my good shoulder, hauls me upright.
"Not leaving you!"
Rounds impact around us. Stryker lays down suppressing fire from the van. Rourke's rifle cracks with precision—each shot buying us seconds. Alex half-carries, half-drags me toward the van. My boots scrape concrete, legs trying to work but not quite managing it.
We're not going to make it. Too far, too exposed, too many hostiles.
Then Willa's there, firing with the same cold efficiency I've seen from all of them. She and Alex bracket me, moving together like they've done this a thousand times. Maybe they have.
We reach the van. Hands pull me inside. Rourke climbs into the back, rifle still engaging targets. Stryker accelerates before the door fully closes. We're moving, rounds pinging off the van's armored exterior, but moving.
"Pressure!" Willa's hands are on my shoulder, applying force that makes me gasp. "Keep pressure on the exit wound. Alex, hold this."
He takes over, hands steady despite the van careening through Committee security. Willa rips open trauma supplies, working with veterinarian precision on human tissue. The irony would be funny if everything didn't hurt so much.
"Talk to me," Alex says. His hand finds mine between working the pressure dressing. "Stay focused. We're almost there."
"We got it, right?" The words come out weaker than intended. "The evidence?"
"We got it. Everything." His grip tightens. "You did good."
The van hits a pothole. Pain explodes through my shoulder, vision graying at the edges. Willa's voice cuts through the fog, commanding Alex, directing pressure points, talking me through staying conscious. Professional. Calm. Like she's treating a dog instead of a person bleeding all over her tactical van.
