“Unit two peel wide,” I direct into the radio, my voice clipped and emotionless. “Unit three stagger behind us. If they try to run the tree line, I want eyes on the slope.”
Acknowledgments crackle back through the speaker. Men I have trained and fought beside respond with the discipline that comes from years of operating in situations where seconds determine outcomes. They know what is required. They will deliver or die trying.
Kolya takes the bends with a driver’s arrogance, tires hissing over worn asphalt. The engine answers his demands like a beast pleased to be moving, the acceleration pinning me back against the seat. The van jerks hard around a sharp corner, overcorrects, and gunfire erupts from the passenger window. Bright flashes follow, wild shots slamming into the guardrail and ricocheting off rocks with angry whines.
Kolya corrects our trajectory, weaving through the storm of bullets with movements that border on precognitive. The SUV reacts like a living thing beneath his hands, nose low, weight distributed perfectly, and torque ready to respond to his every command.
“Do not give them a target,” I tell him, though he already knows. “Window down a centimeter only. Keep it narrow.”
He adjusts without acknowledging, his focus absolute. This is what he was born to do, and every instinct in his body prepares for it. The thrill of pursuit, the mathematics of speed and trajectory, the raw adrenaline of combat at eighty miles per hour.
A white SUV materializes ahead like a thought shaped into metal and intent. It cuts across the lane, lining up on us instead of the van. Muzzle flashes burst from its windows, the sound rolling toward us in a sharp, rhythmic roar. Kolya reacts instantly, swerving to angle our bulletproof SUV against the onslaught. Rounds hammer the reinforced glass, sparking off the hood andguardrail in a rain of fire, but the vehicle holds steady beneath the barrage.
Misha lowers his window and returns fire.
“Unit two, engage!” I bark into the radio, my voice cutting through the chaos.
The second team answers instantly. Their vehicle closes in on the white SUV, bullets shredding its front tires and punching through the engine block. The SUV jerks sideways, flips, and rolls, landing on its roof in a mangled roar of metal and glass.
Kolya swerves, forcing our SUV against the van’s flank. Metal grinds, sparks bursting where steel meets steel. The van veers, clips the guardrail, and loses its balance. It tips, tilts, and slides over the edge. For one breathless second, the world tilts with it, and then reality ruptures as the vehicle plunges over the lip and disappears into the ravine below. The sound of tearing metal and shattering glass echoes off the canyon walls, a symphony of destruction that continues long after the van vanishes from sight.
Silence arrives first inside my lungs and then in the world. Kolya cuts the engine, and we spill out into the cold mountain air, our boots hitting hot asphalt that still smells of burned rubber. My heartbeat is loud in my ears, adrenaline singing through my veins with chemical intensity. My weapon is drawn before a second thought arrives.
I run to the guardrail and peer over the edge, assessing the descent. The ravine drops away sharply, a canyon of brutal angles and unforgiving stone. Basalt shelves jut out at intervals, decorated with scrub brush and stunted pines that have somehow found purchase in the hostile terrain. The vanlies on its side, perhaps twenty feet down, a white ruin with spiderwebbed glass catching the late morning sun.
Without hesitation, I swing myself over the guardrail and begin the descent. My boots find purchase on narrow ledges, my hands grasping exposed roots and stone protrusions. The wind grabs at my jacket and makes it billow like a banner, trying to unbalance me with each gust.
The distance closes in careful increments, each foothold tested before I commit my weight. Loose rock skitters away beneath my soles, tumbling down to bounce off lower formations with hollow clicks. The cold seeps through my clothes, reminding me that winter is coming to these mountains, whether we are ready or not.
I reach the van and shove at the dented driver’s door. It gives with the groan of folded metal, the hinges protesting but ultimately surrendering to force. The driver slumps forward against the deflated airbag, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. Blood has run from his nose and mouth, pooling on the crumpled dashboard. I press two fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse I already know will not be there. Dead on impact, probably. The broken angle of his spine suggests the crash finished what the fall started.
The passenger didn’t fare any better. He’s half-sprawled across the shattered window, his body twisted, a bullet wound darkening the front of his shirt. His weapon lies inches from his hand, useless now. One look tells me he never made it out of the firefight alive. The fall only sealed the certainty.
Misha crouches on the lip of the ravine above me, his pistol leveled at the wreckage even as his jaw works through calculations. He doesn’t waste words, just calls down, “Is shethere? Hope?” His voice is even, but I can hear the strain beneath it.
“She isn’t here,” I answer, the words dry and heavy in my throat.
The truth hits clean and brutal. Hope isn’t here. She was never meant to be here.
The realization burns through me, fury taking root where reason should be. We’ve been played. While we hunted this decoy down a mountain road, the real kidnappers walked out of that hospital with her, unseen and unchallenged.
I climb back up, hauling myself over the lip of the ravine. Every joint complains about the abuse, muscles burning from the exertion. The world above feels too bright with the sun slanting indifferent through the pine branches, and the trees watching like a silent jury judging our failure.
Kolya waits by the SUV, the engine still idling, every tendon taut with readiness for whatever comes next. His eyes find mine, reading the answer in my expression before I speak. Misha steps away from the edge and touches his radio, already coordinating the cleanup crew that will remove this mess before civilian authorities arrive with questions we cannot answer.
“Decoy,” Kolya remarks, the single word a verdict that condemns us all.
I lift my chin and scan the ridge, the road that has just given up its terrible secret, and the trees that might be hiding more than wildlife. My stomach tightens into a knot I have carried for longer than I care to admit. The thought does not need to be completed to be dangerous, but I complete it anyway because ignoring the truth has never saved anyone.
They have Hope. And we are exactly where they wanted us to be, chasing ghosts while they move the real target beyond our reach.
“They wanted us looking in the wrong direction,” I tell Misha and Kolya. The words slice through the silence, cold and certain. “Whoever planned this will answer for it in blood. But first, we have to find them. And time is a luxury we no longer possess.”
21
SAGE
Hope is gone. The air in the room feels too thin, too sterile. Somewhere down the corridor, a voice calls for order, but the sound barely reaches through the static in my ears.
