Page 42 of Echo: Line

My ankle turns. Pain shoots up my leg but I don't stop. Can't stop. Behind us, voices shout coordinates. Professional. Organized. Closing in.

More gunfire. Closer. They're flanking, trying to cut off our escape route.

Alex materializes beside me like a ghost, rifle up, firing past my shoulder. The suppressed weapon coughs—professional, controlled, deadly. Someone screams. The scream cuts off abruptly.

He's already moving before the body hits the ground, positioning himself between me and the threat. Always between me and danger.

"How many?" I gasp, lungs burning.

"At least six. Maybe more." He checks his rifle with muscle memory efficiency, drops the magazine, slams in a fresh one. "They had the LZ locked down. Been waiting for hours, probably since before dawn."

"How did they know?"

The muscles in his jaw tighten. "Figure it out later. Right now we run."

We move through terrain that gets progressively worse—thick underbrush that tears at clothes and skin, deadfall that threatens to break ankles, a creek bed that's more mud than water. My lungs are on fire. My legs threaten mutiny. But Alex maintains a brutal pace, constantly checking our six, making sure I'm with him.

Him trusting me to keep up, to stay quiet, to fight when needed. Me trusting his lead, his tactics, his ability to keep us alive.

Perfect combat sync, forged in desperation and violence.

We've covered maybe half a mile when he stops suddenly, hand up.

Movement ahead. Two operators trying to cut us off.

"Down," Alex breathes.

We press into a hollow beside the creek, concealed by an overhang. The operators pass maybe twenty feet away, weapons ready, scanning the terrain.

Too close.

One of them stops. Radios something. Turns in our direction.

Alex's fingers tighten on mine. Stay absolutely still.

The operator takes three steps toward our position.

Then his radio crackles. He responds, turns, moves off to rejoin his partner.

We wait. Sixty seconds that feel like sixty years.

"Clear," Alex finally whispers. "But they're boxing us in. We need to break contact, find alternate extraction."

We move again. Slower now, more careful. Alex is checking his phone—probably signaling Tommy, updating our position.

The gunfire comes from nowhere.

Automatic weapon, full auto, the sound tearing through the forest like a chainsaw. Bark explodes off the tree beside my head. I feel the impacts vibrate through my boots as rounds chew up the ground.

Alex slams into me, driving me down behind a fallen log. My chin hits dirt. The taste of earth and pine needles fills my mouth.

"Cover!" His voice cuts through the chaos.

I roll, bringing up my pistol. My hands are steady despite the fear flooding my system. Sight picture. Breathe. The muzzle flashes give me a target—sixty meters, partial concealment behind a pine trunk.

I fire. Miss. Fire again. The operator jerks, drops.

"Reloading!" I drop the magazine, slam in my spare. Fifteen more rounds. That's all I have left.