Griff suddenly stumbled, his grip on her arm loosening. "Keep going."
That's when Sarah saw the blood spreading across his shoulder, dark and wet in the moonlight. Blood streaked hisshoulder, and the raw chemical burn still marked his face, lending him the look of a man carved out of pain and fury. He didn’t slow.
"You're hit."
"It's nothing." But his face had gone pale, and the blood kept coming. "Run."
Boots crashed through underbrush. Flashlight beams swept the darkness. Someone shouted coordinates into a radio.
Sarah got her shoulder under Griff's good arm, taking his weight. "Pick up the pace, Buttercup."
They stumbled deeper into the woods, Griff's breathing getting more labored with each step. The flash drive burned in Sarah's pocket—evidence that could bring down a conspiracy, if they lived long enough to use it.
"There," Griff pointed through the trees with his good arm. "The highway."
Sarah could see it now—Route 50, six lanes of empty asphalt at this hour. But between them and the road was a steep embankment, chain-link fence, and absolutely no cover.
"They'll pick us off the second we try to cross," she said.
"Not crossing. Under." Griff gestured to a dark opening at the base of the embankment where the trees ended. A drainage culvert, large enough to stand in at the edge of the highway. "Storm drain."
"They'll trap us in there," she protested.
"They'll trap us out here." Griff's legs were getting unsteady, his weight heavier on her shoulder. "In there, we can at least control the access points. Buy time."
A bullet cracked into a tree, inches from Sarah's head. No more debate.
They half-ran, half-fell down the embankment, Griff's blood leaving a trail she couldn't do anything about. Theculvert mouth yawned before them—corrugated metal, rust-stained concrete, absolute darkness beyond the first few feet.
"In," Griff commanded, his tactical authority cutting through even his pain. "Now."
16
The drainage culvertwas a mouth of absolute darkness. No moonlight penetrated this far, no streetlights reached beneath the highway. Griff felt his way along the corrugated metal wall, rust flaking beneath his fingertips, the ridges catching on his torn shirt. Each movement sent fire through his shoulder.
The smell hit him in waves—decades of rotting vegetation, motor oil from the highway above, something dead further in that made his stomach turn. Water dripped somewhere deeper in the tunnel, each drop echoing in the blackness.
Sarah shifted beside him.
"Don't even think about using any light," he whispered. "They'll spot us instantly."
"But we can't see?—"
"Better blind than dead." He pressed his palm against his shoulder, feeling warm wetness seep between his fingers. The bullet had carved a groove along his deltoid—painful, messy, but not life-threatening. Yet. Blood loss plus exhaustion wasn't a winning combination.
Above them, footsteps thundered across the drainage grate. A flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating them for half a second—Sarah's dirt-smeared face, eyes wide with controlled panic—before sweeping past.
"Blood trail leads this way," a voice called. Professional. Calm. "They went to ground."
"Thermal's three minutes out," another replied.
Griff calculated rapidly. Their pursuers would sense he was a pro. With help coming soon, no way they’d risk following him and Sarah blind. He had three minutes until tech arrived, and their pursuers turned their hiding spot into a kill box. Both ends of the culvert would be covered by now. Six contractors minimum, probably more.
"We're trapped," Sarah breathed beside him, her voice edged with panic.
"Not yet." He kept his voice steady, authoritative. "But we will be once that thermal arrives." He jerked his head toward the deeper darkness. “No choice but to go further in.”
Sarah shifted beside him,her hand brushing his vest. "I have a better idea. Give me your phone."
