I round the corner in time to see Montrose moving toward the cabin door with controlled aggression. He's injured. Blood darkens his left side where my earlier shot connected. But he's combat effective, dangerous, committed to finishing what he started.
Finn appears in the doorway, rifle up. They fire simultaneously. Montrose's round catches Finn high on the right shoulder and spins him sideways. Finn's shot goes wide, punching harmlessly into a tree twenty feet behind his position.
"Finn!" The scream tears from my throat before I can stop it.
Montrose pivots toward my voice, weapon tracking. I'm already firing, controlled bursts the way I was trained at Quantico a lifetime ago. First round catches him center mass. Second hits his shoulder. Third misses as he dives for cover behind a fallen log.
I advance, rifle up, scanning for movement. The log provides good cover but limited mobility. Montrose is pinned. Hit in three places now, possibly more if Finn's earlier shots during the initial firefight connected. But being hurt doesn't mean harmless. Doesn't mean safe.
"Federal agent!" The words come automatically. Years of training override everything else. "Drop your weapon!"
His response is another burst of gunfire. Rounds slam into the ground near my feet, kicking up snow and frozen earth. I drop behind a tree, pressing my back against bark, breathing hard.
This is wrong. All of it. I'm not a federal agent anymore. Haven't been since Stormwatch destroyed my career and sent me running. But facing Montrose, trading fire with the man who orchestrated it all, I fall back into patterns drilled into me through years of service.
"You can't win this!" I call out. "The files are transmitted! Everyone knows what you've done! Surrender and maybe you live through this!"
"You think this ends with me?" Montrose's voice carries across the distance between us. "You think I'm the top? I'm middle management, Agent Brennan. The people I work for don't forgive failure."
"Then give me their names! Trade testimony for protection!"
His laugh is sharp and bitter. "There is no protection from them. You transmitted those files and signed my death warrant. Better I die here fighting than what they'll do when they find me."
Movement to my left. Finn, on his feet, blood soaking through his jacket from the shoulder wound. He's pale but moving, rifle gripped in his left hand while his right arm hangs useless. The universe's cruel joke, shooting him in the same shoulder that already carries shrapnel from Afghanistan.
Our eyes meet across the distance. He nods once, subtle communication that feels earned despite how recently we met. He'll draw Montrose's attention. Give me an opening.
I shake my head violently. He's hit. Barely functional. Going after Montrose now is suicide.
But Finn's already moving, circling wide, using trees for cover as he works toward Montrose's position from a different angle. Deliberate noise that announces his presence. Bait.
Montrose takes it. Gunfire erupts, aimed at Finn's position. I use the distraction to advance, moving fast and low, closing the distance while Montrose focuses on the more immediate threat.
Finn returns fire. Single shots, carefully aimed. He's buying me time. Drawing Montrose's full attention while I flank around for a killing shot.
I reach a position with clear sight lines. Montrose is visible behind the log, partially exposed as he tracks Finn's movement. My finger tightens on the trigger. Center mass. The shot I've been trained to make. The shot that will end this.
Montrose moves first. Fast and unexpected, rolling from cover toward Finn's position with weapon up. He's closing distance, turning this into close quarters combat where Finn's injury becomes critical disadvantage.
"Finn, he's moving on you!"
My warning comes too late. Montrose is already there, already inside Finn's effective range. They go down together, grappling for control of weapons, fighting with desperate violence. I can't shoot. Can't risk hitting Finn. Can only watch in horror as they struggle.
The rifle falls from Finn's grip, knocked away by Montrose's attack. But Finn still has his left hand, still has years of hand-to-hand combat training from the Army. He drives an elbow into Montrose's wounded side. The corrupt official gasps, momentarily weakened.
They separate. Both reaching for weapons scattered in the snow. Montrose gets there first, brings his rifle up, aims at Finn's head.
I fire without conscious thought. The round catches Montrose in the back, punching through his spine. He drops forward, weapon falling from nerveless fingers.
But he's not done. Even mortally wounded, he reaches for a sidearm holstered at his hip. Trying to complete his mission. Dangerous to the end.
Finn kicks the weapon away, then staggers backward, pressing his left hand against the shoulder wound. Crimson streams between his fingers. His face is grey with shock and blood loss.
Montrose coughs, blood bubbling from his mouth. "You think you've won." His words come wet and labored. "I'm nobody. Just a name on the org chart." He coughs again, the sound failing. "They'll send someone better."
"Who are they?" I demand, moving closer but keeping my rifle trained on him. "Give me names."
His laugh turns into a choking sound. His eyes lose focus, fixing on something I can't see. "You're already dead. Just don't know it yet."
