"Stay here," I tell her. "I'm going to check?—"
"No." She grabs my arm. "We stay together. You promised."
I want to argue, but she's right. I did promise. "Together then. But you stay behind me."
We exit the cave carefully, and I scan for threats. Nothing immediate, but the forest is too quiet. Birds should be singing. Their silence means predators.
"We need to get to a vehicle," I tell her. "There's a ranger station four miles northeast. They'll have trucks."
"Can we make four miles?"
"We have to."
We move through the forest, using game trails and natural cover. She’s naturally learning by watching me, moving quietly, and placing her feet where I place mine.
Every hundred yards, I stop to listen, check our six, and make sure we're not walking into an ambush.
Two miles in, she's flagging. Adrenaline crash, exhaustion, the accumulated stress of four days running. She stumbles, and I catch her.
"I'm fine," she lies.
"You're not." I scan our surroundings, spot what I need. "That deadfall. We'll rest for ten minutes."
"We don't have time?—"
"Ten minutes won't matter if you collapse." I guide her to the fallen tree and make her sit. "Drink." I hand her my water bottle.
She drinks, hands shaking slightly. "I'm not usually this weak."
"You're not weak. You're human. There's a difference." I check her for injuries I might have missed, and find bruises blooming on her ribs from our hard landing. "Anything broken?"
"No. Just sore." She looks up at me, and there's something vulnerable in her expression.
A branch snaps fifty yards away.
I pull her down behind the deadfall, hand going to my weapon. Through the gaps in the wood, I see them—two men in tactical gear, weapons ready, sweeping our trail.
They're going to find us. The cover's not good enough, and we can't run without being seen.
"Stay down. No matter what happens, stay down."
"Sawyer—"
I'm already moving, rolling out from cover, and engaging. My first shots take the nearest shooter center mass, spinning him down. The second dives for cover, returning fire that chews bark from trees inches from my position.
I flank left, forcing him to track me, drawing his attention from where Savannah hides. He's good, professional, but I'm motivated.
He's hunting for money.
I'm protecting someone who matters.
The dance is familiar—move, shoot, cover, repeat. I take a graze across my ribs that burns like fire, but it gives me the angle I need. Three rounds, tight grouping, and he's down.
"Clear," I call, and Savannah emerges from behind the deadfall.
She sees the blood immediately. "You're hit."
"Graze. I'm fine."
