Page 34 of Echo: Line
The helicopter flies directly overhead.
I feel it more than hear it—the pressure change, the vibration through stone, the way Delaney's breathing hitches beside me in the darkness. We're twenty feet underground, pressed against the back wall of the cave where the shadows are deepest. The fire is out. The entrance covered with brush I dragged into place. Every piece of gear tucked away, hidden, invisible.
Delaney's hand finds my arm. Her grip is tight, controlled, but I feel the tremor running through her. Fear she's trying to wall off through sheer will.
I check the phone one more time—still silent—then set it beside me within reach.
"Breathe," I whisper against her ear. "Slow and steady. They're looking for heat signatures. Movement. Not ghosts in caves."
She nods. Doesn't speak. Smart. Sound carries in these rock formations in unpredictable ways.
The rotors fade slightly. Circle back. Fade again. Standard grid search pattern. Methodical. Professional. They'll coverevery square meter of the valley floor, every obvious hiding spot, every tree cluster large enough to conceal two people.
But they won't find us. Not here. Not if we stay still and silent and let the mountain do what mountains do—keep their secrets buried in stone.
Minutes tick past. My wound throbs with each heartbeat, a steady reminder that I'm running on borrowed time and compromised efficiency. The bandage is holding but won't last forever. Neither will I, without proper medical attention. But that's tomorrow's problem. Right now, the only thing that matters is staying invisible.
The dogs are closer now. I hear them baying, excited, following scent trails that lead... somewhere. Not here. The rocky terrain and the stream we waded through before finding this cave should have broken the trail. Should have. Nothing's certain when Committee resources are unlimited and the handlers are professionals who've tracked targets across three continents.
Delaney's breathing is elevated. Controlled, but faster than it should be. The tension of someone in unfamiliar operational territory, managing fear through discipline rather than training.
I adjust slightly, careful not to make noise, and find her hand in shadow. Squeeze once. She squeezes back—acknowledgment, not reassurance.
"Control your breathing," I whisper, barely audible even in the silence. "Focus on what you can influence. Let the rest go."
Her fingers tighten around mine. Then, gradually, her breathing slows. Deepens. She's following my lead, using technique instead of instinct. Good. That's how you survive situations where panic can become the real enemy.
We wait.
The helicopter makes two more passes. The dogs get close enough that I can hear individual barks, can track theirmovement down the valley, past our position, doubling back. They're working the grid systematically, but the handlers are pushing them hard. Too hard. Working dogs need breaks, need water, need time to process scents without being rushed.
Amateur hour. Or desperation. Either way, it works in our favor.
Time drags. An hour, maybe more. My side is on fire, the wound pulling with each breath, but I don't move. Can't. When every second stretches into eternity and the only thing you can do is exist as quietly as possible, time loses all meaning.
The helicopter finally moves off. The dogs' baying fades into the distance. The forest settles back into its natural rhythm—wind through pine branches, the distant call of an owl, the steady drip of water somewhere deeper in the cave system.
"Are they gone?" Delaney's voice is barely a whisper.
"For now. Give it another thirty minutes. Make sure it's not a feint."
She doesn't argue. Just stays pressed against the cave wall, her hand still holding mine. The contact is grounding. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with survival. Two people sharing space and breath and the simple fact of still being alive.
Time goes by. My internal clock—the one Delta Force spent years calibrating—tells me when thirty minutes is up. The forest sounds remain steady. No engine noise. No radio chatter. No signs of ongoing search operations.
"Okay," I say quietly. "We're clear. But stay dark. No fire until I'm sure they're not coming back."
I feel her nod. Then, slowly, we both move. My back protests. My wound pulls. Delaney makes a small sound that might be pain or just relief at being able to move after hours of forced stillness.
"I need to check your bandage," she says. Professional. Focused. "I can't see anything but I can feel for fresh blood."
"Later. Let me secure the entrance first."
I move through the cave with practiced ease, navigating by memory and touch. The brush covering the entrance is undisturbed. Good. I add more branches, make it look even more natural, then retreat back into the deeper darkness.
Delaney's pulled out one of the water bottles. I hear the cap twist, the small gulp as she drinks.
"Small sips," I remind her. "We're rationing."
