Chapter 27 Elara
Elara
The desert swallowed sound, then spat it back in echoes of boots and shouts. Hydra’s men were everywhere. Too many engines. Too many guns.
Beckett’s hand locked around mine, iron and fire, dragging me into the night. Sand kicked up behind us, each step sinking, stealing breath I didn’t have to spare.
“Keep low,” he muttered. “Don’t stop.”
“Why aren’t we taking a vehicle?” I whispered.
“Because they shot it up. Now run.”
The moon cut silver across his shoulders, painting him in light and shadow. I should have been afraid. Instead, I matched him stride for stride, knife gripped tight in my free hand.
Bullets snapped past, biting into rock. He shoved me down behind a jagged outcrop, body covering mine as sparks showered stone. His chest heaved against my back, steady even now.
“You hit?” he demanded.
“No.” The word rasped out, sharp with grit.
“Good.” He leaned just far enough to return fire. Two shots. A scream. Silence. Then headlights arced closer, sweeping across the desert floor.
“They’re circling,” I said, tasting dust and fear.
“Not if we move first.” He yanked me up, pulling me toward a shallow gully cutting through the earth. We slid down, gravel scraping skin, darkness wrapping us tight.
We ran. Crawled. Stumbled. Every muscle burned, lungs tearing, but Beckett never let go of my hand. Not once.
“Why—” My voice broke on the word, but I forced it out. “Why risk this? River told you—”
“River’s not here.” His grip tightened. “I am.”
Something inside me cracked at that—something Hydra had tried to chain and bury. For a moment, the chase, the gunfire, the whole night blurred, and all I saw was him choosing me over himself.
The roar of an engine jerked us back to reality. One of Hydra’s trucks crested the ridge above, headlights blinding. Beckett shoved me flat into the sand, covering me as the vehicle slowed, men shouting.
His mouth brushed my ear, words a whisper of steel. “When I tell you to run, you don’t look back.”
“And leave you?” I hissed.
“Better me than you.”
I turned my head, meeting his eyes in the dark. “No. We run together.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then his jaw clenched, and he gave the smallest, sharpest nod I’d ever seen.
“Together,” he said.
The truck engine revved above us. Beckett raised his weapon. My knife gleamed faint in the moonlight. And with the desert stretching endlessly around us, we prepared to fight our way free.