Chapter 23 Ryan
TWENTY-THREE
Ryan
“Down,” I hiss, grabbing Celeste by the shoulder and pulling her to the floor beside the bed.
She moves without question or resistance—a far cry from the woman who fought me on every directive four days ago. Her body tenses beneath my hand, but her eyes remain sharp, focused. No panic.
Good.
“How many?” she whispers.
I cock my head, filtering ambient noise to isolate movement patterns outside. “Six, maybe seven. Standard tactical formation. Three at the front, two covering the rear exit, at least one on overwatch.”
“Options?”
The single-word question earns her a flash of approval. She’s learning to think operationally, prioritizing information by necessity rather than curiosity. The journalist is becoming a tactical asset.
“Bathroom window,” I murmur, already calculating dimensions, drop height, and path to cover. “It’s tight, but viable. Twenty-foot sprint to the tree line behind the motel. Forest cover from there.”
Her eyes dart to the small window I noted during my initial sweep. Understanding blooms across her features. “They’re expecting us to exit through the door.”
“Exactly.” I reach for our bag, movements economical and silent. “When I say move, you go straight through that window.”
She nods once, decisive.
Outside, the tactical team continues their quiet deployment. Their discipline is impressive—minimal communication, practiced movements. Not local law enforcement. Not even standard federal. These are specialized operators with advanced training.
“They’re about to breach,” I say, hearing the subtle shift in position, the minute adjustments of a stack team preparing to enter. “We need a distraction.”
I move to the bathroom, Celeste following like a shadow. Inside, I assess the plumbing—old pipes, poor maintenance, high water pressure. Perfect.
“Cover your ears,” I warn before striking the exposed pipe beneath the sink with the butt of my weapon. The metal ruptures with a shriek, water spraying in a high-pressure jet across the small space. Steam billows instantly as the hot water line feeds the growing flood.
“Now the window.” I brace my shoulder against the frame, applying precise pressure until the weathered wood splinters around the lock. The window swings outward, revealing a narrow opening barely wide enough for Celeste’s shoulders.
From the main room comes the sound I’ve been expecting—the pneumatic hiss of a door ram, followed by the splintering crash of the entry door giving way. Voices call out in clipped, professional tones. We have seconds, not minutes.
“Go,” I order, lifting Celeste toward the window. “Feet first, arms overhead to streamline your profile.”
She complies without hesitation, wriggling through the narrow opening with surprising agility for someone with healing ribs. Her feet disappear just as the bathroom door flies open.
The first operative enters low, weapon raised in textbook fashion. His tactical gear marks him as a private contractor—high-end equipment, no identifying insignia. His eyes widen slightly behind his ballistic glasses as he registers the ruptured pipe, the open window, and me.
I don’t give him time to process further.
My first strike targets his weapon, right hand deflecting the barrel upward while my left palm drives into his extended elbow. The joint hyperextends with an audible pop. As his grip reflex loosens, I strip the weapon from his hands, simultaneously sweeping his legs.
He drops, but his training shows—he’s already reaching for a secondary weapon at his ankle. My boot connects with his temple before his fingers find purchase. Not hard enough to kill, just enough to ensure he stays down.
The second operative is already entering—more cautious after witnessing his teammate’s rapid neutralization. He tries to create distance for a clean shot, backing toward the door.
Wrong move.
I close the gap instantly, water-slick floor providing perfect momentum.
My shoulder drives into his sternum, carrying both of us into the door frame with crushing force.
His head snaps back against the wood with a dull thud.
Like his partner, he’s good—his knee drives up toward my groin even as consciousness fades from his eyes.
I twist, taking the impact on my thigh rather than my more vulnerable anatomy. The pain is insignificant—a data point to be acknowledged and filed away. His grip slackens as oxygen deprivation does its work.
A third figure appears in the doorway—darker tactical gear, different stance. Team leader, evaluating the situation before engaging.
No time for finesse now.
I grab the sink’s porcelain edge, wrenching it free from corroded mountings with a single violent jerk.
The improvised weapon catches the leader off guard—nobody expects bathroom fixtures as tactical options.
The heavy basin connects with his extended weapon, driving it backward into his face.
Blood erupts from his shattered nose as he stumbles back.
The window awaits, steam and spraying water providing limited concealment. I toss our bag out first, then squeeze through the opening, ignoring the scrape of splintered wood against my shoulders, then I drop to the ground outside in a controlled tuck-and-roll that absorbs the impact.
Celeste is pressed against the motel’s exterior wall, body low, eyes alert. In the darkness, her newly auburn hair appears almost black, her face a pale oval focused entirely on me. The trust in her expression strikes me more forcefully than any blow I’ve just delivered or received.
“Clear?” she asks, voice barely audible above the commotion now coming from our room.
“For now.” I take her hand, already plotting our route to the tree line. “Stay close. Move on my signal.”
I scan the parking lot, identifying the dark shapes of vehicles positioned to block obvious escape routes.
The tactical team’s SUVs are parked with careful precision—cover the main entrance, the side exit, and the route to our rental car.
Their positioning confirms what I already suspected: this operation was planned, not opportunistic.
“Now,” I whisper, setting out in a low crouch. Celeste matches my movement with surprising coordination; her body hunched to minimize her profile, just as I’ve taught her.
The tree line lies twenty yards away—an eternity of exposed ground. We cover half the distance before a shout rises from the motel balcony behind us.
“Contact. East side. Two targets moving to cover.”
Disciplined professionalism in that voice. No emotion, just operational clarity. These aren’t amateurs.
A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness, sweeping the ground where we were seconds ago. I increase our pace, pulling Celeste into the shelter of a dumpster as gunfire erupts—controlled bursts rather than panicked spraying—suppressed weapons, the sound barely louder than handclaps.
“Stay down,” I murmur, calculating angles, evaluating options.
More voices join the first, establishing a tactical net around our position. Light discipline is solid—they’re using minimal illumination to preserve their night vision while maximizing our visibility. Another indication of professional training.
“Ryan,” Celeste whispers, her breathing steady despite the danger. “There’s a drainage ditch.”
I follow her gaze to where a rusted drainage conduit emerges from the asphalt, running along the motel’s foundation toward the tree line. Not immediately obvious unless you’re pressed against the ground, seeking any advantage.
“Good eyes,” I acknowledge, the phrase carrying more weight than she might realize. In my world, observation saves lives.
We crawl toward the shallow trench, using its minimal depression for concealment. Not ideal cover, but better than nothing. The damp earth molds beneath us as we wordlessly coordinate our movements—my hand on her lower back guiding her forward, her body responding with intuitive understanding.
Ten more yards to the trees. Shouting intensifies behind us as our pursuers reorganize. Flashlight beams dance across the parking lot, narrowing the search grid.
“The tree line isn’t our goal,” I whisper as we pause in the shadow of a maintenance shed. “It’s what they expect. We need to create distance on an unexpected vector.”
Celeste processes this with remarkable speed. “There’s a service road on the north side. I saw it when we checked in.”
Another approving nod. She’s integrating tactical awareness into her journalist’s observational skills. “We’ll angle there once we hit initial cover. Use the trees as concealment, not destination.”
The final stretch to the tree line feels endless; each inch gained is a small victory against exposure.
The darkness works both for and against us—concealing our exact position but making navigation treacherous.
Celeste’s breath catches once when her injured ribs connect with an unseen root, but she makes no sound.
We reach the first trees just as a shout confirms we’ve been spotted.
“Movement at the perimeter. Sector four.”
The professional response is immediate—repositioning of assets, convergence on our last known location. We have perhaps thirty seconds before they establish a new containment perimeter.
I pull Celeste deeper into the woods, our path deliberately erratic. Straight lines are predictable. Survival requires unpredictability. She follows without question, feet finding secure placement despite the uneven terrain and limited visibility.
Fifty yards in, I pause, listening. The pursuit has entered the tree line, spreading out in a standard search pattern. Their communication is minimal but effective—clicks and short phrases that convey positions without revealing intentions to potential listeners.
“North,” I whisper, orienting us toward the service road Celeste mentioned. “Stay low, watch your footing.”