Chapter 7
ALEX
The adrenaline wore off an hour ago.
My back presses against the back of the couch, rifle across my lap, eyes tracking between the door and the single window that faces the access road. The wound in my side burns—sharp when I move, dull and throbbing when I stay still. Acceptable. Pain means alive. Pain means functional.
Delaney sleeps on the floor near the cold fireplace, wrapped in the musty blankets we found.
She insisted I take the couch since I'm injured.
I told her I'm keeping watch. Both statements are true, but the real reason is simpler—I can't afford to let my guard down that much. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The cabin is dark except for faint moonlight filtering through gaps in the boards covering the window. Enough light to see her curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. The other rests near her Glock. Even in sleep, she's ready.
FBI training. Good instincts.
She's been asleep for three hours. Her breathing is deep and steady now, but nearly an hour of moving around passed before exhaustion finally pulled her under.
Every time she moved, I tracked the sound, categorized the threat level.
None. Just a woman trying to find comfort on a hard wooden floor in a rotting cabin after probably the worst day of her life.
The worst day so far, anyway.
My side pulls when I shift position, and I bite back the grunt that wants to escape. Can't wake her. She needs the rest. And I need the time to think without those eyes watching me, assessing, trying to figure out if saving me was the right call.
She's a complication I don't need. A liability. No combat experience, no field training, no understanding of what it means to live off-grid with a kill team hunting you. The Committee will use her against me if they get the chance. Leverage. Pressure point. Weakness.
I should have left her at the cabin when I had the chance. Should have taken the truck and disappeared into the wilderness alone like I've done in the past. She'd be safer. I'd be faster.
But I didn't leave her.
And sitting here watching her sleep, I'm starting to understand why.
Delaney had a choice at that cabin. She could have called Patterson. Could have stepped aside when the Committee team breached. Could have done exactly what they expected—good FBI agent following orders, trusting the system.
Instead, she shot two operators and followed me through a crawlspace when she could have left me behind.
She looked at the evidence and made a call. Her instincts told her something was wrong and she listened. When it came down to choosing between the badge and the truth, she chose truth.
That takes courage. The kind that can't be taught at Quantico.
She shifts in her sleep, and the blanket slips off her shoulder. The rise and fall of her breathing. The way her hair falls across her face. The stress lines around her mouth have smoothed out, and there's a softness to her features that wasn't there when she was awake.
My body responds in ways I can't afford right now.
The awareness sharpens. The scent of her—soap beneath the blood, dirt and cabin rot.
The memory of her hands on my side, steady and competent, keeping me alive through sheer determination.
The sound she made when that mouse scared her, followed immediately by laughter that cut through the terror of the day.
My pulse jumps. Heat spreads through my chest despite the cold cabin air. I'd have to be dead not to notice.
But getting involved with her would be the kind of mistake that gets people killed.
When Kane gets here, Delaney goes back to something resembling a normal life—a life somewhere the Committee can't reach her.
She's not built for a life of sleeping in base camps, safe houses and abandoned cabins, always moving, always watching over your shoulder, never trusting anyone outside the team. It would break her.
So I wall it off. Lock it down. Focus on what matters—keeping her alive long enough to hand her off to Kane, who'll figure out what to do with an FBI agent who knows too much.
The burner phone sits on the floor next to me. 0347 hours. Committee response teams usually operate on twelve-hour shifts. If they're smart—and Kessler always hires smart—they rotated personnel at midnight. Fresh eyes, fresh energy, searching the grid for a stolen vehicle and two fugitives.
We need to move soon. Stay ahead of the search radius. But Delaney needs rest, and I need to check in with Tommy.
The Committee phone has basic encryption—standard protocol for their operations. Good enough for what I need. I navigate to a secure text app, type quickly, one-handed, the other hand never leaving the rifle.
Status check. Mobile but injured. Agent Ward secured. Extraction timeline?
Tommy's reply comes fast. He never sleeps.
Committee pressure heavy. Multiple facilities compromised. Kane says stay mobile and dark. Will advise when extraction viable. 24-48 hours minimum.
I stare at the screen, processing implications. If the Committee is hitting Echo Ridge facilities, they're escalating. Moving from containment to elimination. Kessler knows Kane will try to extract me, so he's forcing Kane to defend instead of attack.
Standard doctrine. Pin your enemy in place, control the battlefield, then eliminate at your leisure.
Which means Delaney and I need to keep moving. Stay ahead of the search grid. At least another day or two before Kane can break free to extract us.
Understood. Staying dark. Ward FBI. Confirmed hostile or asset?
Twenty-four hours ago, I'd have said hostile without hesitation. Now?
Asset. She's solid. Kane talked to her last night.
Another pause, longer this time.
Understood. Stay safe, brother.
I close the app and set the phone aside.
Kane trusts my judgment, but he'll want verification.
He'll want to look Delaney in the eyes, read her body language, assess the threat himself.
That's fine. She'll pass. The way she moves, the way she thinks—she's someone you want on your side when everything goes to hell.
Movement near the fireplace makes me look up. Delaney's reaching for her weapon before her eyes are fully open. The Glock comes up smooth, points at the door, then she's awake enough to remember where she is.
She lowers the weapon slowly, scans the cabin. Her eyes find me in the darkness.
"How long was I out?" Her voice is rough with sleep.
"Three hours. Go back to sleep."
"You should be resting. You're the one who nearly bled out." She sits up, pushes hair out of her face. Exhaustion still lines her features.
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar." She stands, moves to where I'm sitting. "Let me check the wound."
"It's fine."
"Alex." She crouches in front of me, close enough that her breath fogs in the cold air between us. "You can either let me check it now, or I can wait until you pass out from infection and check it then. Your choice."
The part of my brain that's still operational notes the threat assessment—she's too close, inside my guard, could disarm me before I react. The rest of my brain is occupied with the way her hands move, the determined set to her jaw.
"Fine." I lean back, give her access to the wound. "Make it quick."
She's gentle as she lifts my shirt, peels back the pressure bandage. Her fingers are cool against my skin, and I force myself to focus on the pain instead of the way her touch makes my pulse jump.
"No fresh bleeding," she says after a moment. "The packing held. But we need to get you to a real doctor soon. This needs stitches, probably antibiotics."
"Add it to the list."
She meets my eyes. "You know I'm right."
"I know." I gesture to the phone. "Heard from Tommy. Kane can't extract for another day or two. Committee's hitting their facilities, keeping them defensive."
Fear flickers across her face—brief, controlled, then buried. The reality sinking in that we're on our own. "So we move."
"We move."
"Where?"
"North. Deeper into the wilderness. Committee search teams work on grid patterns. If we stay mobile, stay unpredictable, we can stay ahead of them." I pause. "It's going to be hard. Rough terrain, no supplies, limited water. You up for it?"
She looks at me like I just asked if the sky is blue. "What's my alternative?"
"I can call Kane, have him arrange a separate extraction for you. Get you somewhere safe while I—"
"No." The word is flat. Final. "I'm in this now. All the way."
"Delaney—"
"I shot two Committee operators yesterday. I threw away my career. I'm wanted by the same people who tried to kill me." Her voice is steady, certain. "So yeah, Alex. I'm ready for whatever comes next."
The certainty in her voice makes my chest tighten, makes it hard to breathe for a second. She means every word. All in, consequences be damned. The kind of commitment I've only seen in operators who understand what it costs.
I have to look away before she sees too much in my eyes.
"Get some more sleep," I say. "We move at first light."
"What about you?"
"I'll rest once we're clear."
She studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to decide whether to push. Finally, she nods. "Wake me in two hours. We'll switch."
"Delaney—"
"Two hours, Alex. You can't keep watch forever."
She's right, but I don't admit it. Just watch as she settles back down near the fireplace, wraps herself in the blankets, and closes her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evens out again.
But this time, her hand drifts to her weapon before she fully relaxes.
Learning fast.
Dawn breaks cold and gray, seeping through gaps in the cabin walls like water through cracks.
I've been awake all night—couldn't sleep, wound too painful, mind too active with scenarios and contingency plans.
Delaney didn't wake for her watch shift.
I let her sleep. She needed it more than I need perfect vigilance.