Twenty yards to the truck. My thighs burn. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind the reality of what we just did. What we're still doing.
Ten yards.
More shouting behind us. Closer now. They're coming.
The truck looms ahead—safety, mobility, a chance. Rhys reaches it first, yanks the passenger door open. "Get in!"
I dive for the door. My boot slips on ice. For one heart-stopping second I'm falling, off-balance, vulnerable. Rhys's hand shoots out, catches my jacket, keeps me upright long enough to scramble into the cab.
The engine roars to life before I even get the door closed. Rhys slams his foot down. The tires spin, screaming against ice and gravel. The truck lurches sideways. For a second we're not moving forward at all, just fish-tailing in place while armed men close the distance.
Then the tires bite. Catch. The truck shoots forward so fast my head snaps back against the seat.
Gunfire erupts behind us. Not scattered shots—concentrated fire. Professional. They're aiming for the engine block, the tires, trying to disable us before we can get clear.
Bullets punch through the rear window. The safety glass spider-webs but holds, creating a frosted barrier between us andour pursuers. One round hits the headrest inches from my skull. Another blows out the side mirror in a spray of plastic and metal.
Rhys keeps his foot down. The truck's engine screams as we hit forty, fifty, sixty. The compound recedes behind us—a pillar of black smoke rising into the winter sky, flames still licking at what's left of the office building. Evidence burning. Our tactical advantage evaporating with every second.
But we're alive. Moving. And that's more than those men expected.
My ears are still ringing. Hands shaking from adrenaline dump. But we're alive. Moving. Free.
For now.
"Wells," I manage. "We need to warn him. They might hit him on the way in."
Rhys already has his radio. "Wells, abort approach. Hostiles at the mining site. Armed and dangerous. I repeat, do not approach alone."
Static, then Wells's voice. "Copy that. Redirecting to your location. Where are you?"
"Heading south on Ridge Road. Meet us at the junction."
"Ten minutes."
Rhys sets the radio down, checks the rearview. No pursuit yet. But they'll come. Men like that don't leave witnesses.
"That was good thinking," he says. "With the heater."
"Glad it worked. Wasn't entirely sure it would."
"You were sure enough." He glances at me. "Chicago. That's where you learned to think like that."
The statement hangs between us—not quite a question, but close enough.
"Chicago taught me a lot of things." The road behind us stays clear through the cracked rear window. "Most of them I wish I could forget."
He doesn't push. Just drives, puts distance between us and the men who tried to kill us.
The mine road connects to Ridge Road—empty, no traffic. Good. Less chance of civilians getting caught in crossfire if the traffickers catch up.
My shoulder aches where I slammed into the snow bank. Ribs tender from the blast wave. Nothing serious. Nothing that won't heal.
Not like Chicago. Not like the warehouse where I spent three hours undercover before someone leaked surveillance photos and three armed men came for me with orders to eliminate the problem. The sound of bullets hitting concrete. The woman in the photos I couldn't save because my cover got blown before we could raid the safehouse.
"You with me?"
Rhys's voice pulls me back. The present. The truck cab. The broken window. The man beside me who just killed someone to keep us alive.
