Page 64 of Echo: Line
"Out. Now." He's already reaching for his weapon. "Head into the trees. I'll cover."
I grab my sidearm and bail out the passenger side as the truck grinds to a halt. My feet hit dirt. Alex is right behind me. Rounds snap past, chew bark from trees. I duck low, zigzag between trunks.
"Left," Alex calls. "Follow the terrain down."
The ground slopes away sharply. I half-run, half-slide down the incline. Use trees for balance. Behind us, vehicle doors slam. Voices shout coordination. They're coming on foot now. Organized. Professional.
We reach the bottom of the slope and Alex grabs my arm, pulls me behind a fallen log. We press flat against the earth, weapons ready. My breath comes hard.
"How many?" I whisper.
He listens. "At least six. Maybe more."
"Stryker and Rourke?"
"Too far out. By the time they reposition, this will be over." He ejects his magazine, counts rounds, reloads. "We're on our own."
Outnumbered. Outgunned. Miles from any support. Just the two of us against a Committee kill team that somehow knew exactly where we'd be.
"There." Alex points to a structure barely visible through the trees. "Old mining operation. Stone walls, limited access points. Better than dying in the dirt."
"That's the standard we're working with now?"
"Welcome to my life."
We move fast, stay low, use every bit of cover. The mining structure looms ahead. Weathered stone and rusted metal, half-collapsed but still solid enough. Alex reaches it first, clears the entrance before pulling me inside.
The interior is dim and smells of rot and mineral. Support beams crisscross overhead. Piles of debris create natural barriers. It's defensible. Barely.
"Openings," Alex says, positioning himself near a gap in the stone wall that provides sight lines on our approach route. "Cover the north side."
I take position opposite him. My hands are steady on my weapon despite the adrenaline flooding my system. FBI training takes over. Controlled breathing. Clear sight picture.
Movement in the trees. Three operatives advance in tactical formation. Professional spacing. They use cover effectively.
"I've got three," I report.
"Two more on my side." Alex's voice is calm. Clinical. "They're setting up a perimeter. Boxing us in before they move."
"How long?"
"Minutes." He doesn't take his eyes off his sector. "They'll coordinate the breach. Come from multiple angles simultaneously."
"What's our play?"
"Make them pay for every inch. Conserve ammunition. Wait for an opening." He glances at me. "And hope Kane doesn't follow protocol."
I understand what he means. By the book, Kane should write us off. Cut losses, preserve the team. But Kane made it clear at the briefing that Echo Ridge doesn't abandon its own.
My comm unit crackles. "Alex. Delaney. Sit rep." Kane's voice cuts through the static.
Alex keys his mic. "Grid November-Seven. Pinned down in old mining structure. At least eight hostiles, possibly more. Low on ammunition. Recommend you get the team clear."
"Negative. We're fifteen minutes out."
"Kane—"
"Echo Ridge doesn't leave its own. Hold position. We're coming."
