Chapter 16
STRYKER
Dylan stumbles, catches himself against a pine tree, and keeps moving. Blood soaks through his tactical gear where the round caught him high in the shoulder. Every breath comes harder than the last.
"Still with me?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Yeah." The word comes out tight with pain. "Committee's closing fast though."
Behind us, voices drift through the Montana wilderness. Professional. Coordinated. Too many of them spreading through the forest in a search pattern designed to flush us toward their waiting teams.
Kessler's dead man's switch did exactly what it was supposed to do. The beacon brought reinforcements down on our position before we could extract. Now we're running wounded through hostile territory with Committee assets converging from every direction.
My ribs scream where the rounds hit my vest. The impact cracked something, maybe multiple somethings. Each breath feels like someone driving a knife between my ribs. But I'm mobile, which is more than I can say for Dylan right now.
Kane's voice comes through my earpiece. "Stryker, status?"
"Dylan's losing blood. We need to break contact soon or he's not making it out."
"Copy. I'm drawing the main pursuit northeast. Mercer, you in position?"
"Affirmative," Mercer responds. "I've got eyes on the eastern approach. Multiple hostiles moving through the valley. Wait—contact."
The crack of Mercer's rifle echoes across the mountains. Once, twice. Then silence.
"Two down," Mercer reports. "Remaining hostiles taking cover. That should buy you time."
"Good work. Stryker, angle northwest toward Rally Point Charlie. We'll regroup and lose these bastards before circling back to base."
Rally Point Charlie sits in rough terrain, all steep slopes and dense timber. The terrain provides good defense but makes pursuit difficult. If we can make it there, we might shake them long enough to disappear.
Dylan's boot catches on exposed root. He goes down hard, barely catching himself on his good arm. I'm there in seconds, hauling him upright.
"Come on, brother. Not much farther."
"Lying to me now?" Dylan manages something close to a grin. "You always were shit at it."
"Shut up and move."
We push through the undergrowth. Behind us, the voices grow louder. They're tracking us, following the blood trail Dylan's leaving. Every broken branch, every disturbed patch of forest floor tells them exactly where we went.
The memory hits without warning.
The firefight erupted fast. Kessler's team had prepared defensive positions, turning what should have been a clean strike into a brutal close-quarters engagement. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness. Rounds tore through the air in coordinated patterns.
Kane's voice cut through my earpiece. "Target left, moving to flank. Dylan, suppress that position. Stryker, you're clear for approach."
Dylan's weapon barked steady and controlled, laying down covering fire. I moved through the chaos, clearing hostiles. Then a hostile broke from cover behind me. I pivoted, took him down, but his partner was already firing.
The rounds hit like sledgehammers. One, two, three impacts that rang through my chest plate with violent force. The vest held but the kinetic energy transferred straight through to bone and tissue. I went down hard, all the air driven from my lungs in a single explosive gasp.
Panic hit first. My chest wouldn't expand. Wouldn't pull air. The vest had saved my life but the blunt force trauma paralyzed my diaphragm, leaving me gasping like a fish on dry land. Vision tunneling. Darkness creeping in at the edges.
Move. Had to move. Hostiles still active. Dylan exposed.
I forced my body to respond, rolling to cover despite the screaming protest from my ribs. Each attempt to breathe felt like drowning. Small sips of air, not enough, never enough.
Dylan appeared above me, his weapon tracking new targets. He positioned himself between me and the remaining threats, firing with controlled precision while I fought to make my lungs work again.
That's when the sniper round caught him. The impact spun him around, blood spraying dark against the starlight. He went down beside me, weapon clattering against rock.
Air finally rushed into my lungs in a painful gasp. I forced myself up despite the fire in my chest, grabbed Dylan, hauled him to cover. Blood ran hot over my hands. Mercer's rifle cracked from his overwatch position. The sniper threat went silent.
"Hostiles down," I reported once I could breathe again, my voice rough and strained. "Advancing on primary target. Kessler's moving east. I've got pursuit."
Dylan's voice came through strained but operational. "Targets down. Multiple hostiles neutralized. Stryker, watch your six. You've got one breaking toward your position from the northeast."
"Copy. Engaging."
The hostile went down. Then it was just me and Kessler in the darkness.
The memory fades. We're still moving through the forest, Dylan's weight heavy against my side.
"That sniper had good position," Dylan says quietly, like he's reading my thoughts. "Almost got us both."
"Almost doesn't count."
"Tell that to my shoulder."
Ahead, the terrain rises sharply. Rally Point Charlie. Kane materializes from the trees, weapon ready. His tactical gear shows damage from the engagement but he's moving well.
"Mercer's holding the back door," Kane says. "How bad is he?"
"Bad enough. Needs Willa soon."
Kane studies Dylan with the cold assessment of someone who's triaged wounded men in worse situations than this. "Can he move?"
"I'm right here," Dylan mutters. "And yeah, I can move."
"Then we move. Committee's regrouping but they'll be on us again soon." Kane pulls up his tactical display. "We're taking the long route back. Adds distance but keeps them away from Echo Base."
That's the calculation. Dylan needs medical attention now, but leading Committee forces to Rachel, Lucas and the others isn't an option. So we run the long route, bleed a little more, and pray Dylan's got enough left to make it.
We move through the mountains. The terrain helps, forcing our pursuers to slow down, to check every approach.
Steep slopes turn each step into a battle.
Dylan stumbles more often now, his weight growing heavier against my side.
Behind us, voices echo through the forest. Professional communications, teams coordinating search patterns.
Mercer drops back, covering our six with precision that keeps the Committee forces cautious. His rifle speaks and someone goes down. The pursuit hesitates, regroups. We gain distance.
"Movement, northeast ridge," Mercer reports through the earpiece. "Team of four, advancing on your position."
Kane's response comes immediate. "Dylan, can you move faster?"
Dylan's breathing is ragged in my ear. "Negative. Leave me. I'll buy you time."
"Not happening," Kane says, his voice flat with finality.
"Kane—"
"We don't leave people behind. Ever." I tighten my grip on Dylan's good shoulder. "You're coming with us. End of discussion."
Dylan doesn't argue further. He knows the team well enough to know when an order is absolute.
"Then we make a stand. Rally Point Charlie, defensive positions. Mercer, how long until they converge?"
"Not long. They're coordinating. Smart tactics."
We push harder. My ribs grind with every jarring step, sending white-hot pain through my chest. Dylan's losing more blood. I can feel it soaking through his gear, warm and wet against my supporting arm.
The ridge rises ahead. Rally Point Charlie. We scramble up the slope, using trees and boulders for cover. Kane reaches the position first, already setting up fields of fire. Mercer finds high ground, his rifle tracking approaches.
"They're slowing," Mercer reports. "Cautious now. I've made them pay for being aggressive."
The Committee forces probe our position. Testing. Looking for weakness. Mercer's rifle keeps them honest, dropping anyone who gets too aggressive. Kane lays down suppressing fire when they try to flank.
But it's a losing game. We're stationary, they're mobile. Eventually they'll find an angle, coordinate a rush, overwhelm our position through sheer numbers.
"Stryker," Kane says quietly. "How's Dylan?"
I check Dylan's pulse. Too fast, too weak. "Needs extraction soon or he's not making it."
Kane studies the terrain, calculating angles and distances I can't see. "Mercer, can you hold this position alone?"
"Affirmative. For a while."
"Good. Dylan and Stryker, you're moving. I'll draw their attention south. Mercer holds the ridge, makes them think we're still here. You get Dylan out."
"Kane—"
"That's an order. Get him to Willa. I'll catch up."
We move while Kane opens up, his weapon barking in controlled bursts that sound like a much larger force. The Committee teams shift their focus, converging on his position. Mercer adds to the deception, his rifle cracking from multiple positions as he repositions between shots.
Dylan and I slip away through the chaos, moving as fast as his failing strength allows. Behind us, the firefight intensifies. Kane drawing them deeper, Mercer making them pay for every meter gained.
But Dylan's fading. Each step comes slower than the last. His breathing turns ragged and uneven, the kind of rhythm that means shock is setting in.
"Stay with me," I tell him. "Willa's waiting to tear you a new one for getting shot. You know how she gets when people show up bleeding in her medical bay."
"Your fault I got shot," Dylan manages. "Covering your ass."
"Exactly. So you have to stay conscious to tell her that. Make sure she blames me instead of you."
The extraction vehicle waits where we cached it, hidden under camouflage netting. I get Dylan into the passenger seat, his head lolling against the headrest. Blood soaks through the makeshift pressure dressing I applied during the firefight.