Chapter 5
ALEX
The back door slams open and we burst into twilight.
The temperature drop hits first—mountain air cold enough to sting my lungs.
Then the rounds crack past us, supersonic snaps that punch through the space where my head was a split second ago.
They had shooters positioned exactly where I thought they would.
"Move!" I shove Ward right as bark explodes from the doorframe. Splinters spray across my face. We dive behind the woodpile, and the impact drives what little air I have left from my lungs. The wound in my side screams. Fresh warmth spreads across my shirt—the bleeding's worse now.
Wood chips rain down as bullets chew through our cover. The smell of cordite and pine sap mingles with the copper tang of my own blood. Ward lands beside me, breath coming in sharp gasps. Her eyes are wide but focused. Not frozen. Good.
"They're covering every exit!" She has to shout over the gunfire.
"I know." My training takes over, sorting threats by priority even as my vision wavers.
I scan the tree line. Three shooters visible—two o'clock, ten o'clock, and one directly behind at six.
Probably more in reserve. Professional spacing, overlapping fields of fire.
They're not trying to kill us yet. If they were, we'd already be dead.
They're herding us. Trying to pin us in place. "Back inside. Now!"
The rounds intensify as we scramble back through the door. Dirt kicks up where we were just crouched, puffs of dust that catch the dying light. My legs threaten to give out on the threshold. I catch myself on the doorframe, leaving a blood smear on the wood.
Inside isn't much better. The sound of heavy footsteps followed. Professional stack formation. Probably four to six operators. All armed. All trained. All here to make sure neither of us leaves this cabin breathing.
I need the northwest corner. The crawlspace I spotted when I first arrived. Our only real exit.
"Stay low!" I pull Ward toward the kitchen, using furniture for cover.
A round punches through the couch where she was standing.
Stuffing explodes into the air. Another through the wall—drywall dust and insulation filling the cabin with a choking haze.
We drop behind the counter hard enough to rattle dishes in the cabinets above us.
The particle board won't stop rifle rounds, but it blocks line of sight. That's all that matters right now. Line of sight means they can't acquire a target. Can't acquire means we stay alive another thirty seconds.
Ward's shoulder presses against mine in the cramped space. Her heart hammers—I can feel it through both our jackets. But her hands are steady when she brings up her Glock, scanning for targets through the settling dust. FBI training showing through the fear.
She doesn't argue. Doesn't freeze. Goes where I pull her and comes up ready to fight. Competent enough to keep herself alive. Maybe competent enough to keep us both alive if I can stay upright long enough.
The pain in my side is white-hot now, adrenaline only doing so much to keep the damage at bay. I lost too much blood during the escape. Used up reserves I didn't have just getting here. Every movement pulls at injuries that should have put me down hours ago.
Can't think about that. Tactical assessment only. Front and back exits covered. They're using hammer-and-anvil, trying to pin us in place until they can overwhelm our position.
"Hidden exit," I tell Ward. The words come out steadier than they should. "Northwest corner, under the floorboards."
"What?" She's pressed against the counter next to me, close enough that I can feel her breathing. Fast but controlled. Scared but functional.
"Saw it when I got here. Old root cellar access, maybe a crawlspace. Worth a shot." Years of operational experience taught me to recognize the signs—disturbed floorboards, uneven gaps. This cabin has them. "We go fast, we go together, and we don't stop moving."
"You can barely stand."
"I'll stand long enough." I check my pistol. Twelve rounds left. Not enough for a sustained firefight, but enough to create an opening. "You trust me?"
"No." But she meets my eyes when she says it. "But I trust them less."
Fair enough.
Boot strikes on the front porch. They're stacking up for entry. Three seconds, maybe four before they breach.
"When they come through that door, put rounds center mass. Don't aim for headshots—body armor won’t stop them but the impact will slow them down." I shift position. My vision swims. "On my mark, we move for the northwest corner. Don't look back. Don't hesitate."
"Got it."
The front door explodes inward. Breaching charge, overkill for a wooden door, but effective. Two operators flood through the opening, weapons up, moving with professional coordination.
I fire twice. Both rounds catch the lead operator center mass.
He goes down hard, gasping, body armor keeping him alive but ribs probably broken.
The second operator tracks toward my muzzle flash.
Ward fires before he can acquire target.
Three shots, tight grouping, exactly what you'd expect from someone who qualified regularly but didn't live in combat.
The operator staggers, returns fire. Rounds chew through the counter, missing us by inches because we're already moving.
"Go!" I grab Ward's arm, pull her toward the corner where the floorboards hide my escape route. She moves with me, stumbling over debris, keeping her weapon up and pointed at threats even while running.
More operators pour through the front door. Professional. Disciplined. But they expected an easy kill—wounded fugitive, cornered FBI agent—and we're not giving them that.
I drop to my knees at the corner, run my hands along the floorboards. There—a gap wider than the others, edges worn smooth. I dig my fingers in, pull. The boards resist, then give with a creak. Not a hidden release. Just old construction and a cellar access someone didn't bother sealing properly.
The floorboards lift away, revealing a crawlspace. Not spacious, not comfortable, but it leads somewhere. That's all that matters.
"In. Now."
Ward doesn't argue. She holsters her weapon and drops into the opening, landing in the dirt below with a grunt. I follow, pulling the boards closed above us as rounds punch through the space we just occupied.
Total darkness. The crawlspace smells like earth and rot. Water drips somewhere in the distance. Ward's breathing is steady next to me in the confined space.
"Which way?" she asks.
"Follow me. Hands on my boots if you need guidance." I start crawling, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through my side. The wound has reopened completely now. Blood soaks my shirt, drips onto the ground beneath me.
Keep moving. Distance first. Survival first. Bleeding out can wait.
The crawlspace is just twenty-four inches high. We move on elbows and knees, dirt grinding into wounds, cramped muscles screaming protest. Behind us, I hear the operators tearing apart the cabin, looking for where we went.
Thirty feet feels like thirty miles. My vision grays at the edges. Everything tilts and shifts, making navigation difficult. But my hands find the hatch—old wood, hinges rusted but functional. I push up, and it opens.
The hatch opens onto twilight and forest. I pull myself up and out, rolling away from the opening to give Ward room. She emerges a second later, covered in dirt, hair wild, but still moving, still functional.
"Vehicle." I point toward the Committee tactical truck parked fifty yards away near the tree line. They left it unguarded because who steals a vehicle during an active firefight?
We do.
Ward sees what I'm thinking. "You can't drive."
"Watch me." I start moving, using trees for support when my legs want to give out. She stays beside me, one hand ready to catch me if I fall, the other still holding her Glock.
Voices behind us. They've found the crawlspace. We have maybe sixty seconds before they emerge.
The truck is a newer F-250, armored, probably equipped with every tactical upgrade the Committee's budget allows. The keys are in the ignition—standard procedure for quick extraction scenarios. I pull myself into the driver's seat, every movement leaving blood on the leather.
Ward climbs in the passenger side, slams the door. "You need medical attention."
"Later." I start the engine, shift into gear. "Seatbelt."
The truck lurches forward just as operators emerge from behind the cabin.
They're shooting, but we're already moving, engine roaring, tires chewing through dirt and pine needles.
Rounds spark off the armored body. The rear window cracks but doesn't shatter.
Bulletproof glass. The Committee's own upgrades keeping us alive.
I aim the truck at the access road, accelerating hard. My focus narrows. Stay alert. Keep driving. Everything else can wait.
"Alex." Ward's voice seems to come from far away. "Alex, you're bleeding everywhere."
"I know." The steering wheel is slippery under my hands. Blood or sweat, I can't tell anymore. "Glove compartment. Should be a first aid kit."
She opens it, pulls out a trauma kit. Standard issue, better than basic supplies but not enough for what I need. Still, she's already tearing open packages, pulling out gauze and pressure bandages.
"Drive straight," she orders. "Don't make me work harder than I have to."
Her hands press against my side, applying pressure that makes me see stars. The pain focuses me, sharpens my awareness. I keep the truck pointed down the mountain road, putting distance between us and the kill team.
"You found that crawlspace fast," she says while working. Not quite a question. "Lucky?"
"Trained." The road curves ahead. I navigate it by instinct more than sight. "Years of learning what to look for. Old buildings, disturbed floorboards, root cellar access. Delta operators learn to read environments. Find the exits no one else sees."