I choose the rocks.
The climb is brutal, steep enough that I need hands as well as feet, rough stone that tears at clothing and skin with equal indifference.
It puts distance between me and the house, forces my pursuers to abandon whatever vehicles they brought, levels the playing field slightly by reducing this to contest of endurance rather than overwhelming force.
Gunshots behind me, but not close. Warning shots, maybe, or frustration at targets they can’t quite see through the trees. I keep climbing, lungs burning, legs screaming, driven by adrenaline and the clear knowledge that capture means disappearing into Marcus Hale’s network of horrors.
At the crest of the ridge, I pause to assess.
The safe house is visible below, surrounded by vehicles that definitely weren’t there an hour ago. I see black SUVs, professional grade, positioned for rapid extraction rather than siege. This isn’t random violence or opportunistic crime—this is military precision applied to kidnapping, funded by resources most criminals could never access.
Movement catches my eye. Three figures climbing the slope I just ascended, moving with steady determination rather than desperate speed. They know they’re pursuing someone with limited options, someone whose endurance will fail before theirs does.
The smart play is to keep running, to put as much distance as possible between myself and immediate threat while hoping Nikola’s people can track my location and coordinate rescue.
But looking down at the house where Rebecca and her team probably died protecting me, at the vehicles that represent Marcus’s reach into what should have been absolute safety, I realize that running only delays the inevitable.
Marcus found me here. He’ll find me anywhere I run. The only way this ends is if someone eliminates the threatpermanently, and that can’t happen while I’m scattered across the mountains being hunted like prey.
I need to survive long enough for Nikola to find me. More than that, I need to survive long enough to help him end Marcus Hale once and for all.
The emergency phone in my pocket has enough battery for one call, maybe two if I’m lucky. One chance to tell Nikola where I am, what I’m facing, and how to find the people responsible for turning his protection into a lie.
I dial his number and pray he answers before the men climbing toward me decide that taking me alive is optional rather than required.
The hunt is far from over.
The call connects on the second ring.
“Elara?” Nikola’s voice cuts through static, sharp with fear and hope in equal measure.
“They found me,” I say without preamble, crouching behind a boulder while scanning the tree line below. “Rebecca’s team is down, maybe dead. Professional extraction team, military-grade equipment, orders to take me alive.”
“Where are you?”
“Ridge above the safe house, maybe half a mile northeast. Three hostiles in pursuit, possibly more at the base.” I can hear them now—voices coordinating through the trees, getting closer despite the terrain advantage I thought I had. “They’re good, Nikola. This isn’t random contractors. These are people who know what they’re doing.”
“I’m coming. Hold your position, avoid engagement, wait for—”
“There’s no time.” The voices are clearer now, close enough that I can make out individual words. They’re spreadingout, flanking my position, cutting off escape routes with tactical precision. “I love you. Remember that, whatever happens next.”
I end the call and switch the phone to silent, tucking it deep into my jacket pocket. If they take me, if I don’t make it out, at least Nikola will know where to start looking.
The attack comes from three directions simultaneously.
They emerge from the tree line like ghosts materializing from shadow—two men in tactical gear approaching from below, a third circling around from my left flank, all moving with the coordinated precision of a unit that’s done this before. Professional kidnappers, funded well enough to afford military-grade training and equipment.
I have maybe thirty seconds before they reach effective range.
The Glock Nikola forced me to train with feels foreign and heavy in my hands, but muscle memory takes over as I sight on the closest target. The weapon kicks harder than I remember from practice sessions, the sound echoing off rock faces like thunder, but the shot finds its mark. The man stumbles, doesn’t fall, but his advance slows enough to buy me precious time.
“Target is armed! Repeat, principal is armed and engaging!”
Their radio chatter becomes urgent, tactical, all pretense of stealth abandoned in favor of overwhelming force. I see them reassessing, adjusting their approach to account for resistance they clearly didn’t expect from someone they probably categorized as helpless civilian cargo.
I fire three more shots—not trying to kill, just trying to create enough chaos to escape deeper into the rocks where their numbers become less advantageous. One bullet sparks off stonenear the flanking attacker’s position, another goes wide but forces him to take cover.
For a moment, I think I might actually escape.
