“I promise. Now go.” Something flickers in his gaze—a shadow of doubt, quickly mastered.
The simplicity of the words belies their weight. In three years of marriage to Steffan, I never heard a promise that wasn’t eventually broken. Yet from Mason, a man I just met, the words feel like gospel truth.
We move quickly through the forest, our group splitting up. Mason, Ryan, and Chaos head back the way we came, weapons ready, moving like shadows through the trees. The rest of us turn northeast, toward the extraction point where our ride awaits.
Bear takes the lead, moving with surprising stealth despite his size. His massive body creates a path through the deeper snow that the rest of us follow. Martinez comes next. I stay close behind him. Cooper and Jackson bring up the rear. Cooper’s labored breathing is the only indication of how badly he’s hurting.
The forest grows thicker as we climb, old-growth pines towering overhead, branches heavy with snow. Every step is a battle against gravity and exhaustion. My borrowed clothes are soaked with sweat beneath, and snow-covered outside; my muscles are screaming from the steep ascent.
But I don’t complain. Can’t complain. Not when Cooper is pushing forward despite a bullet wound, not when Mason is risking his life to buy us time.
Gunfire erupts in the distance—behind us, where Mason and Ryan have gone to intercept the pursuit team. The sound echoes through the trees, making it impossible to count individualshots.
My steps falter. Martinez notices immediately, turning back to grab my arm.
“Keep moving,” he says, not unkindly. “Ghost and Brass know what they’re doing.”
Ghost. It fits him—the way he moves through the forest, the way he appeared out of the storm to save me, the way his eyes go distant sometimes, lost in memories I can’t share.
The gunfire continues, sporadic now. Individual shots rather than clusters—aimed, deliberate. I try not to think about what each report means, about the men behind those triggers, about Mason in the crossfire.
We crest a slight rise, and Martinez signals for a halt. “LZ is just through those trees. We wait for my signal before crossing the open ground.”
Cooper sinks to one knee, his breathing shallow, face gray with pain and exertion. Jackson crouches beside him, checking the bandage, which is now soaked through with fresh blood.
“Need a new dressing,” Jackson mutters, already pulling supplies from his med kit.
“No time,” Cooper manages through gritted teeth. “I’ll make it.”
“We’ve got time for me to slap a bandage on that leg.” Jackson ignores Cooper and sets to work.
Bear circles back to me, pressing his warm bulk against my legs. I rest my hand on his massive head, drawing comfort from his solid presence. His ears suddenly prick forward, head turning toward the forest behind us.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“Listen.” Martinez is already moving, rifle raised.
At first, I hear nothing beyond the rasp of Cooper’s breathing and the whisper of wind through pine boughs. Then—a mechanical growl, growing louder. Not the distinctive thump of helicopter rotors, but something else.
Something moving fast through the forest.
“UTVs,” Jackson says, voice tight. “Multiple. Reynolds must have a team stationed nearby.”
“How did they—” I begin, but Martinez cuts me off.
“Doesn’t matter. They’re coming, and they’re coming fast.” He turns to Jackson. “How mobile is Cooper?”
Jackson’s expression is grim. “He’ll make it to the LZ, but he’s not fighting anyone off.”
“Then I’ll hold them here while you three make the extraction.” Martinez’s voice leaves no room for argument.
“Like hell,” Cooper grunts, struggling to his feet. “I can still shoot.”
Martinez opens his mouth to argue, but a new sound cuts through the air—the unmistakable thump of helicopter rotors approaching from the east.
Our extraction.
“LZ, now,” Martinez orders, already turning to cover our retreat. “I’ll buy you time.”
