And Lance Levine, who never stopped watching, never stopped counting. Even when they broke his ribs, he kept his humor buried under his breath like contraband.
They’re out.
Ronan got to them.
My chest tightens—not pain, not fear—but something close to relief. Dangerous, if I let it spread.
I don’t.
Relief makes you careless.
I shift positions, circling higher, staying mobile. The hunters are breaking now—two peel off downhill, another checks his radio with visible frustration.
They know.
They just don’t want to say it yet.
I key the stolen radio, keeping my voice low.
“Cross. Levine,” I say quietly, like they can hear me through concrete and distance and years of hell. “You good?”
Static answers.
I smile anyway.
Ronan will be telling them the same thing. Probably already did.
I fire one controlled burst into a rocky outcrop far left—loud, sloppy, unmistakable.
The hunters jump.
They’re rattled.
Good.
Because now this part ends fast.
I move again, slipping through brush and shadow, angling toward the ridge where Ronan’s exfil path will punch through. My body hurts. Everything hurts.
But pain doesn’t own me anymore.
Malenkov lost his leverage.
Lost his prisoners.
Lost the part of the board he thought was untouchable.
And me?
I’m still here.
Still moving.
Still dangerous.
Somewhere below, Ethan Cross and Lance Levine are breathing free air again—even if they don’t know it yet.
That knowledge settles into my bones like armor.
