Page 16 of Echo: Line
"Drive straight," she orders. "Don't make me work harder than I have to."
Her hands press against my side, applying pressure that makes me see stars. The pain focuses me, sharpens my awareness. I keep the truck pointed down the mountain road, putting distance between us and the kill team.
"You found that crawlspace fast," she says while working. Not quite a question. "Lucky?"
"Trained." The road curves ahead. I navigate it by instinct more than sight. "Years of learning what to look for. Old buildings, disturbed floorboards, root cellar access. Delta operators learn to read environments. Find the exits no one else sees."
"Echo Ridge." She secures the pressure bandage, and the bleeding slows but doesn't stop. "Your team. The ones Patterson said were domestic terrorists."
"We're not terrorists. We're witnesses." My voice is fading despite my best efforts to stay present. "The Committee is running illegal operations. Chemical weapons. Assassination programs. We're trying to expose them before they kill more innocent people."
"And they sent me to arrest you. To make it legitimate."
"To make it look legitimate. Big difference." The truck drifts slightly. I correct, but the steering requires more effort than it should. "You were the cover story. Decorated FBI agent brings in dangerous fugitive. When the tactical team kills us both, you become a hero. Tragic loss in the line of duty."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Her hands are still pressed against my side, keeping me together through pressure and will. I'm acutely aware of her presence in the confined space—the warmth of her body next to mine, the competence in her movements, the way she doesn't panic even though her entire career just detonated around her.
"Why save me?" she asks. "I came to arrest you."
"You came to do your job. That's not a crime." I navigate another curve, and the truck's headlights sweep across dark forest. "Besides, I don't let civilians die if I can help it. Even ones sent to arrest me."
"I'm not a civilian."
"Compared to what I am, you are." The words come out harsher than I intend. "No offense. You're competent. Butthere's a difference between FBI training and living in combat for eight years."
"I noticed." But there's no anger in her voice. "The way you moved back there. Even injured, even half-conscious, you were three steps ahead. Planning exits, covering angles, controlling the engagement." She pauses. "That's not terrorism. That's professional soldiering."
"Glad someone can see the difference."
We drive in silence for a few minutes. The road is getting worse, less maintained, winding deeper into wilderness. Good. Harder for them to track us. Harder to set up roadblocks.
"Everything they told you about me is a lie," I say, because she deserves to know. "But I don't expect you to believe me. Not yet."
"They tried to kill me." Her voice is flat with shock and realization. "An FBI agent. They sent a tactical team to kill me along with you. Why?"
"Because you found me. And they need us both dead before you figure out the truth." The steering wheel is getting harder to hold. My hands keep slipping. "Protocol Seven. The inauguration. Kessler spent four days trying to break me for information on Echo Ridge."
"The black site where they held you."
"Yeah. Ten miles north of the cabin. Not on any federal database." The world is tilting again. Trees blur into dark shapes rushing past. "They were going to stage my capture. Make it look like legitimate law enforcement. Use your credibility to destroy ours."
She's still applying pressure to my side, but her voice tells me she knows it's not enough. "But I didn't follow the script. I questioned. Doubted. Didn't call in the team when I should have."
"Your instincts saved your life. Probably saved mine too." My vision is fading at the edges now. Gray creeping in despite the adrenaline. "They were counting on you being a good soldier. Following orders without question."
"I spent years watching my father follow orders that corrupted him. Turned him into everything law enforcement shouldn't be." Her voice is quiet but steady. "I joined the FBI to be different. To be better. To never look away from the truth even when it's easier."
"Then you picked the right day to trust your instincts."
The truck drifts again. This time I don't correct fast enough. We clip a tree, metal shrieking. Ward grabs the wheel, keeps us on the road.
"Pull over," she says. "You can't drive anymore."
"Can't stop. Need distance."
"Alex." Her hand is on my face now, turning me toward her. "You're going into shock. If you don't stop and let me treat you properly, you're going to crash this truck and kill us both."
The logic penetrates through the fog. She's right. I know she's right. But stopping means vulnerability. Means being unable to defend if they find us.
