"That's something, I guess." Miles spoke from behind us. "At least it's not a black site extraction."
Suddenly, a new sound emerged—the whirring buzz of rotors cutting through the air.
"More drones," I whispered.
The first appeared over the eastern treeline—a quadcopter with a stabilized camera mount, its black casing almost invisible against the gray sky. Two more followed, forming a triangular observation pattern above the clearing.
Michael's voice was unnaturally calm. "Standard surveillance package. They're documenting everything. Building a complete situational assessment before making contact."
The movement intensified at the forest perimeter as agents established tactical positions—kneeling behind trees, setting up communication relays, and unfolding equipment cases. Michael rubbed his chin. "They brought a full tactical team."
I asked the obvious question. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning they want something beyond taking us into custody." He continued to scan the perimeter. "If this were only an arrest, they'd have breached already."
A metallic click punctuated his assessment—the sound of a megaphone activating. Static crackled through the forest clearing, scattering birds from nearby branches. A voice began, amplified and distorted but unmistakably human:
"This is a federal operation. Exit the structure with your hands visible. Do not resist. Do not retreat."
"No identification," Marcus noted. "No agency announced. No specific charges."
Michael explained the situation. "Standard approach when multiple jurisdictions are involved. The vagueness is deliberate."
Miles moved beside me, peering through his own sliver of window. "I count at least twenty agents. Maybe more in the trees."
The megaphone crackled again: "Occupants of the ranger station, you are surrounded. Exit the building with your hands visible. This is your final warning."
Michael stepped away from the window, his movements calm and measured. He crossed to the couch where his boots waited, lacing them with deliberate care.
Miles's voice rose in pitch. "What are you doing?"
"Getting ready."
"For what? To surrender?"
Michael looked up. "We can't run. Not from this."
Miles exhaled sharply, running both hands through his hair until it stood on end. "Jesus. I'm a therapist, not a revolutionary. This wasn't—" He paused. "Let's just hope they remember who the real enemy is."
Marcus stood and positioned his feet shoulder-width apart, hands open at his sides. "Go slow. Keep your voice down. No sudden movements. No one dies today."
The megaphone crackled to life once more. "This is your final opportunity to exit peacefully. You have sixty seconds to comply."
A countdown began in my head.
Michael spoke again in a low tone. "Let's do this right. Single file. Hands visible at all times. I'll take point. Alex is behind me. Miles next. Marcus at the rear."
It was the practical choreography of surrender.
Miles pushed his hands deep into his pockets. "Should I get my jacket? It's cold out there."
"No, nothing they can misinterpret as concealment. Nothing that restricts movement."
"My research notes—" I glanced toward my laptop.
Marcus interrupted. "Leave everything. We can deal with possessions later. Right now, we walk out alive."
With forty seconds remaining, Michael stepped in front of me, cupping my face gently with his hands. He spoke softly. "Whatever happens, remember we chose this."
