Needing to shake the unease, I move to the edge of the watch tower's platform, the weathered wood creaking under my boots as I lean over the railing. The setup I rigged last year anchors from a reinforced beam here at the top— a thick steel cable stretched taut across the gap to a distant anchor point hidden in the far treeline, the pulley trolley hanging ready, its wheels greased for silent speed.
I test the line, giving it a sharp yank to feel the tension, vibration thrumming steadily up my arms, unyielding but with the perfect flex for a fast drop.
My fingers trace the cable from the beam mount, hunting for frays or slippage in the fittings, then I slide the trolley along a short test span, the faint metallic whisper confirming it's smooth and locked in. Everything holds—secure, a lifeline etched against the sky if we need to vanish into the green below.
Satisfied for now, I unclip and sling the rifle back over my shoulder, scanning the shadows one last time before stepping back inside.
She's still at the computer, but her eyes lift to meet mine, questioning.
We're too exposed here, too stationary. Prometheus has resources and motivation. It's only a matter of time before they find us.
The glint I saw earlier hasn't repeated, but the wildlife patterns are wrong. No birdsong from the west, where there should be morning activity.
The squirrels that were chattering an hour ago have gone silent. Small prey animals know when predators are near.
I count potential approaches—the trail we came up is the obvious one, but there's a ridgeline to the north that a skilled climber could traverse. The eastern face is a sheer drop, but the west has tree cover almost to the tower's base.
If I were assaulting this position, I'd send the main force up the trail as a distraction while a smaller team came from the west.
"There's something else." Her voice pulls me from my threat assessment. "The chemicals they're using—I found the source. They're being supplied by a company called Titan International."
Her voice draws me back inside. "You're sure?"
"Purchase orders, shipping manifests, everything." She looks up at me. "You know them?"
"Yes. If Titan is involved, this isn't just domestic terrorism. There's money behind it, probably foreign."
"We need to stop the chemical shipments."
"We need to stay alive long enough to stop anything." Movement in the tree line catches my eye. "Close the laptop. Grab your bag."
She reacts immediately to my tone, powering down and moving away from the window. She tucks the laptop inside her bag and slings it over her shoulder, while I track the movement—could be deer, but the pattern's wrong.
"What is it?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe?—"
The first bullet punches through the wall two inches from my head.
"Down!" I tackle her, covering her body with mine as more rounds tear through the wooden structure.
EIGHT
Sawyer
The shots comefrom multiple angles—at least three positions, maybe more.
Splinters rain down as bullets perforate the walls. The windows shatter in sequence, glass exploding inward. Savannah is underneath me, her heart racing against my chest, but she's not panicking. Her hands are already reaching for the laptop, making sure it's protected.
"They found us."
"How?"
"Doesn't matter." I pull her toward the trapdoor that leads below. "We're leaving."
More gunfire, from multiple positions. They've surrounded us. I count muzzle flashes—at least eight shooters, probably more. Professional spacing, overlapping fields of fire. These aren't FBI imposters. These are mercenaries.
The first bullet punches through the wall six inches from Savannah's head, showering us with splinters. Then the night explodes.
