I slide lower, scanning the slope behind us through the lattice of branches. There—movement where the underbrushparts against the grain. Not animals. Too deliberate. Too disciplined.
Hunters.
Malenkov didn’t waste time.
Good.
That means Ronan is exactly where he needs to be.
I crouch and pull Marin in close, keeping my voice barely more than breath. “When I move, you stay still. No matter what you hear.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’m anchoring them,” I say. “You’re the quiet part.”
She swallows, nods once.
I press something cold and heavy into her palm—a compact radio unit stripped down to bare function.
“When you hear this chirp twice,” I tell her, “you run downhill. Straight. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
“And if I don’t hear it?”
I meet her eyes.
“Then I’ve done my job.”
She grips my hand once. Hard.
Then I’m gone.
I move uphill instead of away—counterintuitive, aggressive. The terrain steepens, forcing my pursuers to commit muscle and breath. I snap a branch deliberately. Let my boots slide in the mud.
Let them think I’m hurting worse than I am.
Shots crack behind me—controlled pairs. Close enough to warn, not kill.
They want me tired.
They want me cornered.
I give them neither.
I veer right into a rocky cut where the ravine narrows. Stone walls rise fast, funneling movement. I count steps. Measure angles.
Three seconds later, the first hunter enters the choke point.
I pivot and strike.
The motion tears fire through my ribs, but the man never sees it. My forearm slams into his throat. He drops without sound, weapon clattering against stone.
I drag him off the path, strip his radio, his rifle, his vest.
Then I keep moving.
Because Malenkov doesn’t send one.
The second man comes faster—smarter. He slides to cover, sweeping the slope.
