Page 50 of Echo: Line

As we move, I can still taste her on my lips. The kiss. The promise. The conversation we both want to finish.

The helicopter roar intensifies behind us. Close enough now that I feel the vibration through the ground.

Her hand finds mine for just a second as we run—a squeeze that says what we don't have time to speak aloud.

Then we let go and focus on staying alive.

12

DELANEY

The forest moves past in patterns I'm starting to recognize.

Three hours of hiking. My shoulder throbs with every step, stitches pulling tight under the borrowed shirt. Alex sets the pace—fast enough to cover ground, slow enough that I can keep up without complaint. He checks our six every thirty seconds. Scans the tree line. Reads terrain like other people read newspapers.

Competence. That's what draws me first. Not his looks—though the sharp jaw and soulful eyes don't hurt. Not the damaged warrior narrative. Just pure, undiluted competence. The certainty that he knows what he's doing, that following his lead keeps me alive.

But it's more than that now.

The kiss in that cabin wasn't adrenaline. Wasn't survival instinct or proximity or any of the rational explanations my training tries to apply. It was real. Deliberate. A choice made with clear eyes.

And I want more.

The professional part of my brain—the FBI-trained profiler who spent eight years maintaining objectivity—screamswarnings. Compromised. Emotionally involved with a subject. Making tactical decisions based on feelings instead of facts.

Can't make myself care.

Alex stops at a ridge line, hand raised. I freeze. He scans the valley below through binoculars, studies something for a full minute before lowering them.

"Clear. Rally point's two klicks that way."

"How can you tell?"

"Rock formation. Three boulders in a triangle pattern. Tommy marked it years ago." He hands me the binoculars. "See it?"

It takes a moment, but then I spot it—three massive stones arranged in what could be natural coincidence or deliberate marker.

"Got it."

"Good eyes. Let's move."

We descend into the valley. The ground gets rougher—loose scree, hidden deadfall, a creek bed that's more mud than water. Alex navigates it like he's walking through his own house in the dark.

This is what he does. What he's trained for. And he's good at it in a way that makes my marksmanship qualification feel like kindergarten exercises.

But I also notice the cracks.

His hand shakes sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking. His breathing changes when helicopter sounds get close. The haunted expression that crosses his face when he mentions Syria. He's holding himself together through sheer force of will, but the damage runs deep.

And somehow, impossibly, he's letting me see it.

That's what changes everything. Not the competence or the protection or even the kiss. The fact that he's showing me thebroken parts. The vulnerability hidden under the operator mask. The man underneath the weapon.

We reach the rally point just as the sun hits its peak. The three boulders form a natural shelter, concealed from aerial surveillance by tree cover.

Two people wait in the shadows.

The man steps forward first. Older than Alex by maybe five years. Taller. Broader through the shoulders. Burn scars twist around the left side of his neck, disappearing under his collar. His gaze locks onto me with the kind of attention that makes my spine straighten automatically.