"Wrong answer." He stands. "We'll try again in a few minutes. Maybe some time to think will improve your attitude."
He walks away to check the perimeter, and I spit blood onto the rocks.
The zip ties are loosening. Not much, but enough. The blood from my wrists is acting as lubricant, letting me work my hands back and forth with slightly more give each time.
Come on. Come on.
I think about Vivian. The way she looked at me before she ran, her eyes full of fear and determination and something thatlooked like goodbye. The sound of her voice when she promised to come back.
She's out there somewhere. Running. Surviving. Doing exactly what I trained her to do.
I have to believe that. Have to hold onto it. Because the alternative—that they've already caught her, that she's being dragged toward some extraction point while I sit here bleeding—is unthinkable.
The zip tie snaps.
I freeze, keeping my hands in position, not letting the contractor see that I'm free. He's still facing away, scanning the tree line with his rifle raised.
I have maybe three seconds once I move. Three seconds to close twenty yards, neutralize him, and get his weapon before his team responds.
Bad odds. But I've beaten worse.
I wait until he turns slightly, presenting his back more fully. Then I explode from the ground.
The pain in my shoulder nearly drops me, but I push through it, channeling everything into forward momentum. He hears me coming—starts to turn—but I'm already on him, my good arm wrapping around his throat, my body weight driving him to the ground.
He's strong. Trained. He throws an elbow that connects with my wounded shoulder, and the world goes white with agony. But I don't let go. Can't let go. I squeeze tighter, cutting off blood flow to his brain, and count the seconds.
One. He struggles.
Two. He claws at my arm.
Three. His movements weaken.
Four. He goes limp.
I hold for another five seconds to be sure, then release him and grab his rifle. My hands are shaking, my vision swimming, but the weight of the weapon steadies me.
Radio chatter erupts from his belt. "Collins, status report. Collins, respond."
I take the radio and the contractor's sidearm, then disappear into the trees.
Moving hurts. Every step sends fresh waves of pain through my shoulder, and I can feel blood soaking through my shirt. I need to stop the bleeding, need to find cover, need to?—
"Deck."
The voice comes from my left. I spin, rifle raised, and find myself staring at Wolfe.
He emerges from the shadows like a ghost, his long dark hair tied back, his pale eyes assessing my condition with clinical detachment. Behind him, I can make out more shapes moving through the trees. Mace. Hayes. Boone.
My team.
"Jesus Christ." Hayes appears at my side, already pulling a med kit from his pack. "You look like hell."
"Vivian." The word comes out slurred. "Is she?—"
"Safe." Mace's voice cuts through the fog. "She made it to the compound three hours ago. Led us right to you."
She made it. She's safe.
