Chapter 8
DELANEY
My legs burn. Every step sends fresh pain through my thighs and calves, muscles screaming protest at the relentless pace Alex sets through the wilderness.
We've been moving for hours, uphill through dense pine forest, navigating around deadfall and over rocky terrain that tears at my already-destroyed shoes.
He moves ahead of me like the injury doesn't exist. Like he didn't nearly bleed out less than a day ago.
His stride is steady, controlled, eating up ground with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times.
Every few minutes he stops, scans the area, checks our back trail, then continues.
Professional. Methodical. Infuriating.
My FBI training included physical fitness requirements.
I can run five miles, pass the combat course, meet all the benchmarks.
But this is different. This is sustained wilderness movement with no end in sight, following someone who operates on a completely different level than anything Quantico prepared me for.
"Water break," Alex says, the first words he's spoken in an hour.
I nearly collapse against a fallen log, gulping air, legs shaking. He's barely breathing hard. The bandage around his torso shows a small amount of blood seepage, but nothing like it should be after three hours of hard hiking.
"How are you doing this?" The question comes out between gasps.
He glances back. "Doing what?"
"Moving. You were dying yesterday."
He hands me a water bottle—one of two we found in the Committee truck. "Training. You learn to push through pain. Manage the damage. Keep moving until the mission's complete."
"What's the mission?"
"Staying alive." He takes the bottle back after I drink, caps it carefully. Rationing. "Reach the extraction point. Get you somewhere safe."
Get me somewhere safe. Like I'm a package to deliver instead of a person who just destroyed her entire life to help him.
The reality hits fresh every time I stop moving. Twenty-four hours ago, I was FBI. Eight years of service. Clean record. Rising through the ranks. Everything I'd worked for since I was eighteen and decided to be better than my father.
Now I'm a fugitive. Wanted by the same organization that employs me. Hunted by a shadow group that tried to kill me. And I can't go back. Can't call my supervisor, can't report to Quantico, can't fix this through official channels.
Because the official channels tried to put a bullet in my head.
"We need to keep moving," Alex says, scanning the tree line. "Committee will have aerial assets up soon if they don't already. We're exposed here."
I force myself to stand. My legs protest, but they hold. "How much farther?"
"Six miles to where Kane wants us. Defensible position, good cover, water source." He looks at me, assessing. "Can you make it?"
The question irritates me. "I'm FBI. I can handle six miles."
Amusement flickers across his face—brief, controlled. "Never said you couldn't."
We move.
The next two hours blur together. Pine trees and rocky slopes and the constant burn in my muscles. Alex adjusts his pace slightly—not slow enough to be obvious, but enough that I can keep up without completely destroying myself. The consideration is both appreciated and annoying.
Watching him as we hike, I can't help but study the way he moves. He uses natural cover even though no threat is visible. Positions himself between me and the most likely approach vectors. Military-precise discipline so ingrained it's automatic.
And amidst the exhaustion, the fear, the complete destruction of my career—watching him work is still compelling. This is someone who knows exactly what he's doing. Someone who's kept himself alive against impossible odds for eight months.
Someone who warned me when he could have used me as a distraction and run.
"Rest," he says, stopping in a small clearing protected by heavy tree cover. "We're making good time. Can afford ten minutes."
I drop onto a fallen log, not bothering to hide the relief. My shirt is soaked with sweat despite the cold mountain air. Blisters have formed on both heels where my shoes don't fit right anymore.
Alex doesn't sit. Just stands at the edge of the clearing, weapon ready, scanning. He's never still.
"Do you ever stop?" I ask.
"Stop what?"
"Being on guard. Being ready for a threat."
He's quiet for a moment. "No. Not really."
"That's exhausting."
"It keeps you alive."
The words hang between us. Simple truth. No drama, no emphasis. Just the reality of what his life has become.
What my life has become now too.
The thought makes my chest tight. "I can't go back, can I? Even if I wanted to."
He turns to look at me. "No."
"Just... no? That's it?"
"Would you prefer I lie?" He moves closer, lowers his voice even though we're alone in the wilderness.
"They'll debrief you. Discover you helped me escape.
Charge you with aiding a terrorist. Best case scenario, you're fired and blacklisted.
Worst case, federal prison. Or the Committee decides you're a liability and sends another team. "
Each scenario hits harder than the last. "So I'm just... burned? My whole career, everything I worked for since I was eighteen?"
"Yeah." No softening it. No comfort. Just honesty. "You made a choice yesterday. Saved my life instead of following orders. That choice has consequences."
"I know it has consequences." The frustration boils over. "I shot two federal operators. I stole a tactical vehicle. I helped a wanted fugitive escape. You think I don't understand what I did?"
"I think you understand what you did. You haven't processed what it means yet." He sits down next to me on the log, moves carefully to avoid pulling his wound. "You're still thinking like FBI. Like there's a system you can work within, a way to fix this through proper channels. There isn't."
"Then what do I do?"
"You start over." His voice is quieter now. Less tactical officer, more human. "Build something new. It's not what you wanted. But it's real."
The resignation in his tone makes me study him—not the operator leading me through the wilderness, but the man underneath. Someone who's lived what he's describing.
"How did it happen for you?" I ask. "Before the Committee. Before all this."
He's quiet long enough that I think he won't answer. Then: "I was Delta. Had a career, a team, a purpose. We operated in places that didn't officially exist, did things that never made it into reports. It was what I was good at. What I believed in."
"What changed?"
"You know the official version. Syria. Refused the drone strike.
Got burned." He's quiet for a moment. "What you don't know is that those eight months in Montana?
Every team they sent after me was another burned operator like me.
They were using me to eliminate their own problems. Protocol Seven field test. I thought I was defending myself. Turns out I was just their weapon."
The implications make my stomach turn. "They made you kill your own people."
"Yeah." Simple. Final. "Kane found me. Showed me the truth. Recruited me into Echo Ridge. Gave me purpose again. Family." He looks at me. "Then we engaged in a firefight with the Committee. They grabbed me during the firefight. Tried to break me.”
"But you didn't break."
"No." Simple. Final.
"And you escaped."
"Saw an opening and took it. Didn't know if extraction was coming or if I'd be running solo again.
" He looks at me. "Point is, I get what you're going through.
Had a life, had purpose, lost it all because I chose truth over orders.
It doesn't get easier. But you adapt. You survive. You find new purpose."
"With Echo Ridge."
"With people I trust. People who chose the same thing you did—integrity over convenience."
The words settle into the space between us. He's offering something. Understanding maybe. Or just showing me I'm not the only one who lost everything for doing the right thing.
"I worked so hard," I hear myself saying. "Eight years building a career. Being better than my father was. Believing in the system. And now..."
"And now you've seen behind the curtain. Seen that the system you believed in has rot at its core." His voice is gentle despite the harsh truth. "That's not your failure, Delaney. That's theirs."
The use of my first name makes me look up. His eyes hold mine with empathy I haven't seen from him before. Not pity. Recognition of shared loss.
"We should move," he says, standing. "Still have four miles to the closest extraction point."
But he offers me his hand to help me up. And when my legs nearly give out from the stiffness, his arm goes around my waist, steadying me until I can stand on my own.
"Thanks," I say.
"Don't thank me yet. We've got a long way to go."
The extraction point is close to a small cave system tucked into a rocky hillside, hidden by dense brush and accessible only through a narrow approach that would be easy to defend. Alex checks it thoroughly before allowing me inside.
The main cave is maybe fifteen feet deep, tall enough to stand in, with a smaller chamber branching off to one side. Cold but dry. Protected from the elements. Defensible.
"This'll work," Alex says, dropping his rifle near the entrance. "We'll rest here tonight. If all goes well Kane will extract us from this position at first light."
I collapse onto the rocky floor, too exhausted to care about comfort. My legs are jelly. My feet throb. Every muscle aches. My Glock digs into my hip. I shift it aside, check the magazine out of habit. I shake my head, it’s not much against helicopters and tactical teams.
Alex moves around the cave with practiced efficiency, checking sight lines, setting up a small fire near the entrance where the smoke will dissipate through cracks in the rock above. He pulls out one of the water bottles, takes a careful sip, then passes it to me.
"Drink," he says. "Stay hydrated."