Chapter 23 Ryan #2
We move with deliberate care—speed balanced against stealth. The forest floor is treacherous in the dark, fallen branches and hidden depressions waiting to betray our position with a telltale crack or stumble.
Behind us, our pursuers have split into teams, some maintaining the original search pattern while others circle wide to cut off potential escape routes. The tactic is sound, exactly what I would do in their position.
Which is why we need to do something unexpected.
“There,” Celeste breathes, pointing toward a break in the trees ahead. The service road she mentioned—narrow, unpaved, but distinctly different from the surrounding forest.
Before we can reach it, movement flickers to our right—a shadow detaching itself from deeper darkness. I pull Celeste behind the broad trunk of an ancient pine, pressing her against the rough bark with one arm while my other hand draws my weapon.
Two figures emerge into a small clearing twenty feet away, moving with the coordinated precision of experienced operators. Their tactical gear absorbs what little ambient light filters through the canopy, rendering them as moving voids against the forest backdrop.
“Grid section clear,” one murmurs into his comms. “Moving to sector six.”
“Copy that,” comes the response, voice low but carrying in the still night air. “Beta team has potential movement near the north perimeter.”
They’re tracking us effectively, narrowing the search grid with each passing minute. We need to move now, before they complete their encirclement.
I glance at Celeste, finding her eyes already on me. No fear there—just focused determination. I indicate the direction with a slight tilt of my head. She nods once, understanding without words.
The operatives move deeper into the forest, away from our position. I count three breaths, then guide Celeste forward, our progress deliberately slow to minimize sound.
We’re ten feet from the service road when a branch snaps beneath my boot—a sound that seems deafening in the tense silence. The reaction is immediate—both operatives spin toward the noise, weapons raised.
“Contact.” The word cuts through the night as their flashlights click on, beams sweeping toward our position. “Two targets, north sector.”
No more stealth. No more careful navigation.
“Run,” I command, pushing Celeste toward the road. “Now!”
We break from cover at full sprint, abandoning concealment for speed. Shouting erupts behind us as we’re spotted. The first shots follow moments later—disciplined fire, controlled bursts toward our moving forms.
I position myself between Celeste and the shooters, my larger frame offering what protection I can provide. The service road appears, a pale slash through the darkness. We hit it at full speed, boots finding purchase on the packed gravel.
“Left,” I direct as we reach a fork in the road. The right path shows signs of recent use—tire tracks, disturbed gravel. We take the less-traveled option, banking on their expectation that we’d choose the more obvious route.
A clearing appears ahead, moonlight illuminating what appears to be a maintenance area of some kind. As we draw closer, details emerge—a small collection of storage sheds, equipment parked in haphazard rows, the glint of metal rails.
A railway yard.
Celeste sees it the exact moment I do, her pace faltering slightly as she processes the implications. “Train yard,” she gasps, breathing hard from our sustained sprint. “Could be a way out.”
My mind races through the possibilities, weighing options against pursuit timelines. A static location is a death trap with operators closing in, but the yard offers potential resources if we move quickly enough.
“There.” Celeste points toward a maintenance truck parked near one of the sheds. “Keys might be inside.”
I shake my head, scanning the area. “Too obvious. They’ll have the description of our rental. Any vehicle we take becomes an immediate target.”
Her eyes follow mine as I assess the yard, landing on the real opportunity—a freight train positioned on the far tracks, engine idling with the low rumble of diesel power. Workers move around the forward cars, loading final cargo before departure.
“The train,” I say, decision made. “Heading west. We can take it to Spokane and then hop on another to Portland.”
Understanding blooms across her features. “We have to switch trains?”
“Yes. But it gives us distance and time we don’t currently have. They’ll think we’re headed direct to Seattle.”
A shout from the forest edge confirms the pursuit has found our trail. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, converging on the service road we just traveled.
I guide Celeste into the shadow of a storage container, eyes never leaving the train as I formulate our approach. “We need to reach those rear cars without being spotted by either the workers or our pursuers.”
She nods, gaze calculating as she studies the yard. “The loading equipment creates a corridor of shadow along the southern edge.”
Again, her observational skills impress me. It’s the route I already identified—using the loaders and stacked cargo as concealment. “Thirty seconds to cross open ground before we reach cover. Then we parallel the train until we find an accessible car.”
“Lead the way.”
The simple trust in those three words hits me with unexpected force. Six days ago, she fought me on every directive. Now she places her life in my hands without hesitation.
We move as one unit across the exposed ground, staying low, using the minimal available shadows. The pursuit has reached the yard perimeter, voices calling out positions as they establish a containment strategy.
Twenty feet to the first cover point. Fifteen. Ten.
A figure steps out from behind a forklift, the silhouette unmistakable—tactical posture, weapon at ready low. He’s facing away from us, attention focused on coordinating with his team rather than searching his immediate area.
A mistake that gives us our opening.
I signal Celeste to freeze, then advance alone, footsteps silent on the packed earth.
The operative never registers my approach until my arm locks around his throat, cutting off both air and sound.
His training shows in his immediate response—elbow driving back toward my ribs, foot stamping toward my instep.
I counter each move, maintaining the blood choke until his struggles weaken, then cease altogether. I lower his unconscious form to the ground, acquiring his radio in the process.
Celeste appears at my side, her expression a mixture of shock and admiration. “Is he …?”
“Unconscious,” I confirm, securing the operator’s weapon and checking his tactical vest for anything useful. “He’ll wake with a headache in about three minutes. We need to be on that train by then.”
The radio crackles with coded updates as the team continues establishing its perimeter. I clip it to my belt—tactical intelligence is invaluable, and monitoring their communications gives us a critical advantage.
We continue along our planned route, using the shadow corridor created by the loading equipment. The train rumbles fifty feet to our right, cars being sealed as final preparations for departure commence.
“How do we know which car to board?” Celeste whispers as we crouch behind a stack of shipping pallets.
Before I can answer, the radio at my belt crackles to life. “Echo One, status report. Echo One, come in.”
The operative I neutralized missing his check-in. Their response is immediate.
“All units, possible compromise at southwest quadrant. Converge and sweep.”
Our timeline just accelerated dramatically.
“We take the first opportunity,” I tell Celeste, already moving toward the train. “Any car we can access.”
We parallel the tracks, searching for an opening while staying within the diminishing shadows. The train shudders, couplings tensing as the engine builds power. Departure is imminent.
“There,” Celeste points to a boxcar with its door partially open about four cars ahead. The gap is narrow but viable.
Voices rise behind us—the search pattern tightening as they close in on our position. We abandon stealth for speed, sprinting the final distance to the train as it begins its slow roll forward.
“You first,” I boost Celeste toward the narrow opening. She grips the edge, muscles straining as she pulls herself up and through the gap. The train moves, accelerating, momentum building with each passing second.
Movement flashes in my peripheral vision—three operators emerging from between cargo containers, instantly identifying us as their targets.
“Contact. Targets boarding westbound freight. Sector seven.”
I leap for the moving train, hands finding purchase on the metal edge as my body slams against the car’s exterior. Celeste’s hands appear through the gap, gripping my wrists to help pull me inside.
The first shots impact the metal beside my head as I haul myself through the opening. I tumble through the gap into the safety of the boxcar’s interior, rolling to absorb the impact. Celeste is already flattened against the far wall, minimizing her exposure to the door.
Outside, voices fade as the train builds speed, but one persistent operative runs alongside, weapon raised for a final attempt. His determination is impressive—the kind of focused persistence that defines elite operators.
I calculate trajectories, angles, and risks. The gap in the door provides him a narrow shooting window as he parallels our car. One chance for a clean shot—at me or Celeste.
Not acceptable.
I lunge back toward the door, timing my movement to coincide with his approach.
As his weapon appears in the gap, I strike—fingers clamping around his wrist, twisting with precise application of force.
The sickening pop of dislocating joints is followed by the clatter of the weapon falling to the tracks below.
His momentum carries him forward as the train accelerates, putting him off-balance at a critical moment. Training or not, physics remains undefeated. He stumbles, his grip failing as the train outpaces his sprint.
I watch dispassionately as he falls away, cursing into his comms as his target escapes. The growing distance transforms him from an immediate threat to a diminishing figure, until darkness swallows him completely.
Only then do I register a burning sensation in my left shoulder. I press my hand against it, fingers coming away wet with blood. Sometime during the engagement, a round found its mark—a shallow furrow across my deltoid, painful but not debilitating.
“You’re hit.” Celeste appears beside me, concern etched across her features as she examines the wound in the dim light filtering through the door.
“Flesh wound,” I dismiss, more focused on securing our position than on minor injuries.
“It needs cleaning. You’re bleeding.”
“Later.” I move away from the door, scanning our surroundings. The car contains stacked pallets of what appear to be mechanical components, secured with shipping straps but leaving adequate space between them for concealment if necessary.
The captured radio crackles with frustrated updates as our pursuers coordinate their response to our escape. Vehicle deployments. Notifications to stations ahead. Helicopter assets being considered.
“They’re mobilizing to intercept at the next station,” I inform Celeste, mentally calculating distances and timeframes. “We’ll need to exit before then.”
She nods, processing this with the same adaptability she’s shown since the motel room. Then, without warning, her fingers press against my wounded shoulder.
“Not later,” she says, voice taking on that stubborn edge I’ve come to recognize. “We deal with this now. Before infection sets in. You’ve been so focused on patching me up these past days—time to return the favor.”
The command in her tone nearly draws a smile despite our circumstances. I relent, allowing her to guide me to a seated position against one of the pallets.
“First aid kit in the bag,” I direct, watching as she retrieves it.
“I know.” She kneels beside me. “I’ve been paying attention to where you keep things.”
Of course, she has. Observant to a fault—the quality that makes her both an excellent journalist and a surprisingly adept student of tactical operations.
Her touch is gentle but confident as she cleans the wound, applying antiseptic. The sting is insignificant compared to the warmth of her hands against my skin.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says as she works, voice deliberately casual in a way that immediately triggers my tactical awareness. “About Project Phoenix. About what I found in Jared’s files.”
The train rumbles beneath us, carrying us westward into uncertainty. Whatever revelation she’s about to share, I sense it will alter our understanding of the danger pursuing us—and perhaps the very nature of our mission.
I settle back against the pallet as she secures a bandage over my wound. Beyond the partially open door, darkness rushes past, punctuated by occasional lights from the world we’re temporarily escaping.
“I’m listening.”