The bright cabin lights they'd left behind had destroyed what little night vision he'd had. Now they were stumbling through a world of black shapes and deeper shadows, where every tree branch became a potential enemy and every rustling sound could be death approaching.
Behind them, flashlight beams cut through the darkness, and voices called out in what sounded like Russian—but not quite. The guttural consonants, the harsh cadence...
"That’s Russian?" Sarah gasped, already winded. "Why are they speaking Russian?"
"Less talking, more running." Griff's own breathing was labored, not from exertion but from the bear spray stillcoating his airways. Every inhale brought fresh fire to his lungs. The accent wasn’t strictly Russian. It clicked into place in his mind—Chechen. Not good.
And in the darkness, they had every advantage.
"I'm trying! These boots weren't made for—" Her foot caught on something, and she went down hard.
Griff spun back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his compromised vision made depth perception nonexistent. He found her sprawled across the pine needles by feel more than sight, hands quickly checking for obvious injuries in the darkness.
"You okay?" He grabbed a handful of backpack and hauled her to her feet, keeping his voice barely above a whisper.
"Define okay." She winced as she put weight on her left ankle. "Because right now?—"
A bullet cracked into the tree beside them, showering them with bark.
"Never mind," Sarah squeaked. "Running."
She took two steps and stumbled again. Griff caught her arm, feeling her favor the left ankle. Not good. He pulled her against him, taking most of her weight as they plunged deeper into the woods.
The sun dropped behind the ridgeline. Darkness fell fast now. Behind them, the voices grew louder, more organized. Commands barked in that distinctive Chechen dialect, the sound of pursuit crashing through underbrush.
The flashlight beams swept methodically now, professional search patterns. Griff had crossed paths with Chechen mercenaries twice during his SEAL days—once in Syria, once in Afghanistan. Both times, things had gotten bloody fast. They didn't take prisoners, didn't negotiate, and they didn't quit until the job was done. Worse, they'd be adapting to the darkness faster than Sarah ever could.
Griff's eyes streamed constantly, turning the forest into awatercolor painting of shadows and feeble moonlight. Branches appeared out of nowhere, slapping at his face, each impact making his inflamed skin feel like it was being scraped with steel wool. Sarah gasped beside him, her breathing ragged, but she kept moving.
"There!" Through the blur, Griff spotted what he was looking for—a dark gash in the landscape that meant a ravine or creek bed. Better cover than the open forest, and the water would mask their heat signatures from any thermal imaging. "Down here."
"Down where? I can't see any—" Sarah's words cut off as Griff pulled her over the edge.
The world tilted. Pine needles gave way to loose dirt and gravel. They half-slid, half-fell down the embankment, Griff trying to control their descent while his burning eyes made everything a blur of motion. Sarah's laptop bag went flying again. Her hand gripped his arm hard enough to leave bruises.
They hit the bottom in a tangle of limbs and equipment. Griff's shoulder slammed into a rock, sending lightning through his already abused body. Sarah landed on top of him, driving the air from his lungs in a capsaicin-flavored wheeze.
"Ow," Sarah whispered. "Everything hurts."
"Quiet." Griff rolled them both against the ravine wall, pressing into the deepest shadows he could find. His hands moved over her quickly, professionally, checking for injuries in the darkness. Vision blurred or not, he kept scanning the dark.
"Anything broken?" he asked.
"I don't think so." Her whisper was barely audible. "My ankle's not happy, but?—"
"Shh." He pressed a finger to her lips, listening.
Footsteps above. Multiple sets, moving carefully now.Flashlight beams swept overhead. Voices conferring in Chechen, professional and calm.
The accent brought back memories Griff would rather forget. A dusty compound outside Kandahar. The kind of killing efficiency that came from years of practice in places where human life was cheap.
Sarah was shaking beside him, whether from cold or fear he couldn't tell. Probably both. Her hand found his arm again, gripping tight. He could feel her rapid heartbeat where she pressed against him, could hear her trying to control her breathing.
The footsteps paused directly above them. Griff's hand moved slowly to his sidearm, though with his vision still compromised by both the bear spray and darkness, he'd be shooting more by sound than sight. A shower of dirt and pebbles cascaded down as someone tested the edge of the ravine.
Sarah started to say something—probably another question—and Griff's hand covered her mouth gently but firmly. Her eyes went wide in the darkness, but she nodded understanding.
More Chechen. A laugh. Dismissive. The footsteps moved on, heading deeper into the woods, but Griff knew better than to trust it. They'd be back, probably with night vision gear.
