Too late.
I fire once.
Center mass.
He drops.
The forest explodes after that.
Shouts. Orders. Chaos where discipline should be.
Good.
I disappear sideways, melting into terrain that hides men who know how to read it. I don’t chase. I don’t linger.
I reposition.
Because this isn’t about body count.
It’s about pressure.
I key the radio I stole, adjust the frequency until I hear clipped voices snapping in frustration.
“—lost visual—”
“—two down—”
“—he’s not running—”
No.
I’m shaping.
I trigger a short burst uphill—loud, reckless.
Then I’m already moving again.
I imagine Ronan watching the map change color. Lenaseeing the vectors tighten. Delta Five recognizing the pattern.
I smile through the pain.
Let Malenkov think he’s closing a fist.
Let him commit his hunters.
Because every man he sends here—
Is one less guarding my SEAL brothers, he thinks, still belong to him.
I pause just long enough to double-tap the radio.
Two quick chirps.
Somewhere below, Marin will move.
I roll my shoulder, steady my breath, and head deeper into the trees—toward higher ground, worse terrain, thinner margins.
I fight through the pain.
