Page 66 of Echo: Line
Committee operatives return fire but they're disorganized now. Caught between Echo Ridge's assault and their broken formation. One tries to flank left. Sarah drops him from the driver's seat of the lead SUV, her shot clean and professional.
Alex and I don't need to be told twice. We're out of the structure. Sprint for the vehicles. My legs burn. My lungs scream. Rounds snap past my head close enough that air displacement brushes my skin.
Rourke provides covering fire, his shots precise despite the chaos. "Move, move, move!"
I'm ten feet from the truck when my foot catches on an exposed root. I go down hard, palms scrape across rock and dirt. Before I can push up, Alex's hand locks around my arm and hauls me vertical. We're running again, his grip never loosens.
We reach the truck. Rourke grabs my vest and physically lifts me inside. I land hard on the metal floor. Alex throws himself in after me, already turning to provide covering fire through the open back.
"Everyone in?" Kane doesn't wait for confirmation. The truck lurches forward.
Stryker and Rourke pile into the SUVs. Engines roar. We're moving, crash back through the forest the way we came. Behind us, Committee operatives are regrouping, trying to mount pursuit. But they're on foot and we're mobile.
"Status?" Kane doesn't take his eyes off the rough terrain ahead.
"Operational," Alex reports, breathing hard. "Zero casualties. Low ammunition."
"They were already waiting for us," I add. "In position before we arrived."
The truck goes silent. Kane's hands tighten on the wheel. In the rearview, Stryker and Rourke exchange looks. Tommy's face on the dashboard comms screen goes pale.
"We planned this operation two hours ago," I continue. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "They shouldn't have had time to position assets. Unless they're running predictive models on our likely movements."
Alex shifts beside me. His shoulder presses against mine in the cramped space. When I meet his eyes, his expression is calculating. Working the problem.
"Or satellite surveillance," he says quietly. "Tracking our vehicles from orbit."
"We discuss this at Echo Base," Kane says. His voice carries finality. "Secure comms only. Until then, assume Committee has better surveillance capabilities than we estimated. Understood?"
"Understood," we echo.
The weight of it settles over the truck. The Committee isn't just powerful. They're everywhere. Watching. Tracking. Always one step ahead.
The truck bounces over rough terrain, putting distance between us and the ambush site. Through the canvas covering, glimpses of Montana wilderness slide past. Beautiful. Deadly. Like everything else in this new reality.
My shoulder throbs where I hit the ground. My palms sting from the scrapes. But I'm alive. Alex is alive. And the Committee just showed us exactly how outmatched we are.
Alex's hand finds mine in the shadows. Squeezes once. When I squeeze back, he relaxes slightly against me.
The truck hits a rut and jostles us both. Nobody speaks. The silence stretches taut, heavy with the realization that we're fighting an enemy who can find us anywhere.
No location is safe. No operation is secure.
And we just barely made it out alive.
15
ALEX
The safe house is forty miles from Echo Base. Small compound tucked into the Montana wilderness. Defensible perimeter. Motion sensors on all approaches. Completely off any official maps. We use it for post-operation medical and debrief when going directly home might compromise the main facility.
The truck barely stops before Willa's pulling open the tailgate. Her medic assessment is instant and thorough. "Anyone bleeding? Broken bones? Loss of consciousness?"
"Scraped and bruised," I report. "Nothing critical."
She doesn't take my word for it. Never does. Her hands probe my ribs with professional efficiency that still makes me wince. "Bruised but not broken. You'll live." Then she's checking Delaney, cataloging injuries with the same clinical precision.
Delaney sits on the medical table while Willa cleans the scrapes on her palms. The antiseptic bites into raw flesh but she doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a sound. It wasn't all that long ago she was an FBI profiler who'd never fired a shot in the field. Today she held defensive position against a Committee kill team like she was born to it.
