"As long as they have to," Khalid says quietly. "That's what operators do."
I sink deeper into my chair. Somewhere down the corridor, Lucas is safe with Willa in the medical bay, away from the radio chatter and the violence bleeding through the speakers. At least I got that right.
Tommy continues tracking the pursuit across his screens, but then his fingers freeze over his keyboard. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"They're slowing down. Committee's closing the gap."
Colton is wounded. Dylan is wounded. And they're out there running from Committee reinforcements drawn to Kessler's beacon, trying to evade teams converging on the area.
On Tommy's screen, the blue markers move across the terrain. The red markers close in from multiple directions, a tightening noose of hostile contacts. The distance between them shrinks with each refresh of the display. Sarah's hand finds the back of Tommy's chair again, knuckles going white. Khalid shifts forward in his seat. Even Odin seems to sense the tension, a low whine building in his throat.
I watch the gap between them narrow—closer, closer still—and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
16
STRYKER
Dylan stumbles, catches himself against a pine tree, and keeps moving. Blood soaks through his tactical gear where the round caught him high in the shoulder. Every breath comes harder than the last.
"Still with me?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Yeah." The word comes out tight with pain. "Committee's closing fast though."
Behind us, voices drift through the Montana wilderness. Professional. Coordinated. Too many of them spreading through the forest in a search pattern designed to flush us toward their waiting teams.
Kessler's dead man's switch did exactly what it was supposed to do. The beacon brought reinforcements down on our position before we could extract. Now we're running wounded through hostile territory with Committee assets converging from every direction.
My ribs scream where the rounds hit my vest. The impact cracked something, maybe multiple somethings. Each breath feels like someone driving a knife between my ribs. But I'm mobile, which is more than I can say for Dylan right now.
Kane's voice comes through my earpiece. "Stryker, status?"
"Dylan's losing blood. We need to break contact soon or he's not making it out."
"Copy. I'm drawing the main pursuit northeast. Mercer, you in position?"
"Affirmative," Mercer responds. "I've got eyes on the eastern approach. Multiple hostiles moving through the valley. Wait—contact."
The crack of Mercer's rifle echoes across the mountains. Once, twice. Then silence.
"Two down," Mercer reports. "Remaining hostiles taking cover. That should buy you time."
"Good work. Stryker, angle northwest toward Rally Point Charlie. We'll regroup and lose these bastards before circling back to base."
Rally Point Charlie sits in rough terrain, all steep slopes and dense timber. The terrain provides good defense but makes pursuit difficult. If we can make it there, we might shake them long enough to disappear.
Dylan's boot catches on exposed root. He goes down hard, barely catching himself on his good arm. I'm there in seconds, hauling him upright.
"Come on, brother. Not much farther."
"Lying to me now?" Dylan manages something close to a grin. "You always were shit at it."
"Shut up and move."
We push through the undergrowth. Behind us, the voices grow louder. They're tracking us, following the blood trail Dylan's leaving. Every broken branch, every disturbed patch of forest floor tells them exactly where we went.
The memory hits without warning.
The firefight erupted fast. Kessler's team had prepared defensive positions, turning what should have been a clean strike into a brutal close-quarters engagement. Muzzle flasheslit the darkness. Rounds tore through the air in coordinated patterns.
