The mud on the ridge is calf-deep and sliding out from under us with every step.
My thighs burn. My lungs ache from pulling in the icy air. The hardshell drive in my inside pocket is a heavy, sharp-edged weight against my ribs.
Wyatt moves ahead of me in the dark. A shadow among shadows.
He doesn't stumble.
He doesn't slip.
He picks a path through the shattered timber and exposed rock with the efficiency of a man who has spent half his life navigating hostile terrain.
Every hundred yards, he stops.
Waits for me to catch up.
Checks my face, his eyes sweeping my perimeter, and then turns and keeps climbing.
He doesn't offer his hand. He doesn't ask how I'm holding up. He just expects me to do the work.
That expectation keeps me moving long after my legs start shaking.
We crest a secondary ridge. The timber thickens here, ancient pines that somehow survived the storm.
Wyatt stops.
Not a pause to check my progress. A dead stop.
He drops into a crouch.
My pulse kicks. I freeze, mimicking his posture.
He holds up one hand. Two fingers extended.Hold.
The rain hisses through the pine needles. For three seconds, that's all there is. Then, fifty yards down the slope to our left, a pale green beam of light sweeps through the trees.
Night vision. Thermal imaging.
Ares.
Wyatt is beside me before I can draw a breath. He yanks me backward, off the game trail, plunging into a steep, narrow ravine choked with deadfall and freezing runoff.
The water hits my boots, shocking cold.
He shoves me down against the muddy bank of the ravine, under the thick, tangled overhang of a fallen cedar. The space is tight. Claustrophobic.
He drops over me.
His weight pins me to the mud. He wraps his heavy tactical jacket completely around me. His left hand clamps over my mouth. Not rough, but absolute.
The green light sweeps over the ravine.
Footsteps. Heavy boots crushing wet pine needles. Two of them. Moving parallel to the creek bed.
Wyatt's body is rigid against mine. The heat of him is the only thing keeping the freezing mud from shutting down my nervous system entirely. My mouth is pressed against his leather glove.
The footsteps stop. Directly above the fallen cedar.
They see us. They're going to fire down into the ravine and?—
