Chapter 7
SELA
Marc shifts. Not the careful, deliberate movements I've seen for the past few hours. This is different. Predatory. Something lethal unleashed.
Interior lights die. Darkness swallows us so completely I can't see my own hands.
"Bedroom," he says, voice low. "Away from windows. If they breach, you hold position and don't fire unless you have a clear shot. Understand?"
"Understood."
I move through the blackness, palm trailing the wall for guidance. My heart hammers but breathing stays controlled. Training kicks in. The same calm that settles over me when someone codes on my table. Adrenaline sharpens everything instead of scattering it.
I reach the bedroom and drop to a crouch beside the bed, away from the window. The Glock is out, finger along the frame, not the trigger. Range training kicking in. Sight picture. Breathing. Trigger discipline.
Outside, the engine noise cuts off. Doors open with quiet clicks that speak to trained operators approaching a target. They're not rushing. Not sloppy. Professional hit team.
I count my breaths. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
I hear footsteps. Multiple sets moving through underbrush instead of the access road. They're spreading out. Surrounding us.
Marc is somewhere in the main room. I can't see him. I can't hear him. But I know he's there, positioned, weapon ready. Doing what he was trained to do.
Glass breaks.
Not a window. Something smaller. Motion sensor, maybe. They're taking out our early warning, cutting off our ability to know what's coming.
Then silence descends.
The forest has gone quiet. No wind sounds. No small animal movements. Even the night birds have gone still. Just silence before suppressed gunfire shatters it.
I hear several shots. More incoming. Rounds punch through the cabin's exterior wall. Wood splinters around me. One round hits something metal in the kitchen and ricochets with a sharp ping that makes my teeth clench. Another punches through the wall above my head. Too close.
Marc returns fire. I hear him moving through the main room. Shots. Movement. More shots. He's not staying in one place.
More rounds incoming from a different angle. They're working together. More shooters than I thought.
I press my back to the wall beside the bed, Glock aimed at the bedroom door. If they breach. If Marc goes down. If they come through that door. My training is ER trauma, not combat, but the principle is the same. You function. You don't freeze.
My grip stays steady. You don't fall apart when someone's bleeding out on your table. You do the job.
Gunfire intensifies. Marc's using the hunting rifles now. Heavier caliber. Reports are louder even through suppressed return fire. Making them pay for every foot of ground. I hear shouting outside. Commands in tactical shorthand. They're pressing harder.
But there are more of them. Angles shifting. Different positions. Different firing patterns. They know what they're doing.
Marc can hold them. But not forever. Not with trained operators who have numbers and firepower on their side.
A window explodes. The bedroom window. Glass showers across the floor. My eyes squeeze shut reflexively. I feel shards pepper my jacket and cut into exposed skin on my neck. Warm blood trickles down.
Something lands nearby and hits the floor with a metallic thunk. A cylindrical shape. I have barely enough time to react before it detonates.
I throw myself behind the bed, face pressed into the mattress as white light floods my vision even through closed eyelids.
Concussive force slams through the room. My ears ring. A high-pitched whine drowns everything else. Can't hear. Can't orient. The disorientation is complete and overwhelming. The world tilts sideways. Nausea hits hard.
But I'm not blind. Kept my eyes shut. Vision returns when I force them open. Everything is blurry but functional.
A figure at the window. He's climbing through with combat gear and a suppressed weapon coming up. The weapon is aimed at the doorway, at where Marc would be coming through.
I fire center mass. Multiple rounds. Glock's recoil is familiar, controlled. This is target shooting with lives on the line.
The figure falls back through the window. I don't know if I hit him or if body armor stopped the rounds. I don't care. I just bought Marc a few seconds.
I'm already moving away from the window towards the door. My ears are ringing but starting to clear enough to hear shouting. Marc's voice. A sharp command I can't make out over the tinnitus.
The bedroom door flies open. I swing the Glock towards movement. Stop myself a fraction of a second before firing on Marc. The way he moves is unmistakable even through adrenaline haze.
Blood stains his left sleeve but he's not favoring it. Adrenaline is keeping him functional.
"Move!" He grabs my arm, pulls me out of the bedroom. "Back door. Now. They're breaching the front."
We cross the main room at a run. I see muzzle flashes through shattered windows. Incoming rounds punch through walls. One passes near enough that I feel air displacement along my cheek. Another hits the stove. Sparks fly.
Marc returns fire without breaking stride. One hostile goes down in the treeline. The body drops hard.
We reach the back door. Marc kicks it open, scans the area beyond. It's clear for now. I hear sounds from the front. They must be focused on the main entry, expecting us to be pinned inside.
"Truck. Stay on my six. If I go down you run. Straight to the truck. Keys are in it. You drive south until you hit the highway then call Rhys. Understand?"
"Yes."
Marc leads. I follow right behind him, Glock up, scanning our flanks. My hands don't shake. Breathing is steady despite my heart hammering. Training and adrenaline are working together.
Gunfire intensifies at our backs. The pattern changes. They're inside now, searching. Any second they'll realize we're gone and figure out we went out the back.
I catch movement to our right. Marc sees it first. Pivots, fires. The hostile goes down before I even register the threat. Marc's already moving again, pulling me with him.
We reach the truck. Marc yanks the driver's door open, shoves me across to the passenger seat. He's in and starting the engine before I'm fully seated.
Rounds impact the truck bed. Metal strikes metal. They've found us. More rounds incoming. The rear window spiders with cracks but doesn't shatter.
Marc guns the engine. We lurch forward, tires spinning on frozen ground before catching. Headlights stay off. He just drives by moonlight and whatever ambient glow filters through the trees. He's navigating by instinct and memory.
A figure steps into our path with a weapon coming up. Marc accelerates straight through. Impact throws the hostile aside. The body hits the ground as we pass with a sickening thud.
Then we're on the access road, driving hard. Marc has one fist on the wheel, the other keying his radio.
"Finn. We're mobile. Vehicles in pursuit."
Finn's voice crackles through. Calm. Steady. "Copy. I'm in position on the access road. Lead them to me."
"En route."
Marc drops the radio. Both hands are on the wheel now. He's pushing the truck hard on a road that shouldn't handle this speed. Trees flash past. I brace one palm on the dashboard.
Behind us, headlights appear. Pursuit vehicles coming fast.
Marc sees them in the rearview. Adjusts his route, heading straight for Finn's ambush point.
My grip on the dashboard starts to shake.
Not during the firefight. Not during the run to the truck. Now. When we're mobile. When immediate threat has passed and my body realizes what just happened.
I almost died. We both almost died. Men with guns tried to kill us in a cabin in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness and now we're running through the night with hostiles on our tail.
Marc's fingers cover mine and squeeze.
"Breathe," he says. "You did good back there. Kept your head. Returned fire. Moved when I told you. You did everything right."
"I shot someone."
"You defended yourself. Someone came through that window with a gun. That's survival."
My chest tightens. Air comes faster, harder. The shaking spreads from my hands to my arms. Delayed shock is setting in.
"Sela. Look at me."
I turn my head. His eyes stay on the road but his grip is firm on mine.
"You're alive. I'm alive. We're getting clear and linking up with Finn. You did everything right. Now I need you to keep it together a little longer. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He releases my fingers. Both hands are back on the wheel as we take a curve too fast. The truck fishtails. He corrects without apparent effort.
Headlights behind us are gaining. They have faster vehicles. Better drivers maybe. Or just more motivation to catch us before we reach help.
Marc takes a hard right onto the access road. It's narrow and unpaved. Trees press in on both sides. Branches scrape the truck.
Ahead, lights flash twice. Please let that be Finn.
Marc keeps us moving through the darkness.
Behind us, pursuit vehicles hit the turn. One makes it. The other overshoots and crashes into the treeline with the sound of metal crumpling. One vehicle down.
Finn's truck appears ahead, positioned sideways across the road. He's out with a rifle, using his vehicle as cover.
Marc doesn't slow. He takes us past Finn's position. I twist in my seat to look back. Finn opens fire on the remaining pursuit vehicle. Controlled shots. The tire blows. The vehicle swerves, loses control, impacts a tree hard enough that I hear it from here.
Finn's back in his truck immediately, pulling out to follow us.
Time blurs. We're climbing through dense forest on a path barely wide enough for one vehicle. Then we're through a gate and into a clearing where lights shine from a cabin.
Cara's on the porch with a rifle, watching the treeline while Finn parks behind us.
"Clear?" Finn asks.
"For now," Marc says. "Lost them on the back roads, but they'll regroup."