CHAPTER 10 #2
Gemma keeps pace, her fingers locked tightly in mine. She doesn't complain about the branches whipping against her jeans or the uneven, rocky ground. She just runs, her breathing harsh and ragged.
We cover a mile in under ten minutes.
I slow our pace as we approach the edge of the highway, dropping into a low crouch behind a massive fallen log. Gemma drops beside me, her chest heaving, her face flushed with exertion.
I peer over the top of the rotting wood.
Through the trees, I can see the gray asphalt of Route 28. Parked on the shoulder, partially concealed by the tree line, is a matte-black Chevrolet Suburban. The windows are heavily tinted, and the chassis sits high on reinforced suspension.
It’s a syndicate transport vehicle.
Standing near the front bumper, smoking a cigarette, is a single mercenary. He is wearing the same tactical gear as the others, but his helmet is resting on the hood of the SUV. He is staring up at the sky, watching the thick column of black smoke rising from the direction of the safe house.
He is distracted. He thinks the fight is happening two miles away.
"Stay here," I whisper to Gemma, releasing her hand.
"Be careful," she breathes, pulling the Sig Sauer from her pocket and holding it tightly against her chest.
I slip over the log, moving into the tree line with absolute silence.
The wind is blowing from the highway toward me, carrying the sharp smell of tobacco smoke. I use the natural cover of the thick pine branches, closing the distance to the SUV. Thirty yards. Twenty yards. Ten.
The mercenary takes a long drag from his cigarette, pulling his radio from his vest.
"Alpha Leader, this is transport," he says, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet morning air. "I see the smoke. Did you breach the target?"
Static crackles over the radio. There is no response. The explosion likely deafened the assault team, or they are currently realizing the kitchen is empty.
"Alpha Leader, report," the man says, his tone shifting from casual to slightly tense. He drops the cigarette, crushing it under his boot, and reaches for the rifle slung across his back.
I step out of the tree line.
I am less than five feet behind him.
I don't use the knife this time. I draw the Glock, raise it to eye level, and fire a single, suppressed round directly into the base of his skull.
The pfft of the silencer is barely louder than a pneumatic nail gun.
The mercenary drops instantly, hitting the gravel shoulder with a heavy, lifeless thud.
I keep the weapon raised, scanning the interior of the SUV through the windshield to ensure there isn't a driver waiting inside. The front seats are empty.
I lower the gun and turn back toward the tree line.
I don't have to call for her. Gemma is already moving. She scrambles over the fallen log and runs toward the vehicle, her boots crunching loudly on the gravel. She doesn't look at the body bleeding out near the front tire. She keeps her eyes fixed entirely on the passenger door.
I grab the keys from the dead man’s tactical vest, hit the unlock button, and pull the driver’s side door open.
"Get in," I say.
Gemma scrambles into the passenger seat, slamming the heavy armored door shut behind her.
I slide behind the wheel, throwing the Glock onto the center console, and press the ignition. The heavy V8 engine roars to life.
I throw the SUV into drive and hit the accelerator.
The heavy tires spin on the gravel for a fraction of a second before catching the asphalt, launching the massive vehicle forward down the empty highway.
I check the rearview mirror. The road behind us is completely clear. The column of black smoke from the safe house is already beginning to dissipate in the wind.
We made it out.
I let out a slow, controlled breath, the tight coil of tension in my chest finally beginning to loosen. I ease my grip on the steering wheel, my heart rate slowly returning to a normal rhythm.
I look over at Gemma.
She is sitting rigidly in the passenger seat, her hands gripping the edge of the seatbelt. She is staring straight ahead at the road, her profile pale and drawn in the morning light.
"We are clear," I tell her, my voice quiet. "They don't have transport to follow us."
She doesn't answer immediately. She bites her lower lip, her eyes dropping to the center console.
"Callum," she says.
Her voice isn't relieved. It isn't exhausted. It is tight, strained, and filled with a sudden, sharp panic that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"What is it?" I ask, my eyes darting to her face.
She slowly lifts her left hand away from her stomach, pulling it out of the oversized pocket of the cashmere hoodie.
Her fingers are covered in blood.
The dark, wet stain is spreading rapidly across the gray fabric near her ribs, soaking through the thick cashmere.
"I think," she whispers, her eyes wide and terrified as she looks at her own blood, "I think I caught a piece of the shrapnel when the door blew in the basement."
The world outside the windshield completely stops.
I stare at the blood on her hand, the tactical reality of our escape instantly evaporating, replaced by a cold, absolute terror I have never felt in my entire life.
"Gemma," I say, my voice cracking.
Her eyes roll back, her head slumping against the window glass as she loses consciousness.