Chapter 64 Jonah
Jonah
Location: Forested Ravine — Eastern Europe
The forest goes quiet wrong.
Not peaceful.
Not natural.
The birds stop first.
I freeze mid-step, one hand braced against a fir trunk, breath slowing automatically. Marin halts behind me without being told—she’s learning fast.
Too fast for someone who’s just supposed to be running.
That tells me everything.
“They’re close,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say. “And they think they’re early.”
Pain pulses through my ribs as I shift my weight. The guard’s boots are half a size too small. My shoulder screams where the baton caught bone instead of muscle.
I don’t care.
I slide lower, scanning the slope behind us through the lattice of branches. There—movement where the underbrush parts against the grain. Not animals. Too deliberate. Too disciplined.
Hunters.
Malenkov didn’t waste time.
Good.
That means Ronan is exactly where he needs to be.
I crouch and pull Marin in close, keeping my voice barely more than breath. “When I move, you stay still. No matter what you hear.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’m anchoring them,” I say. “You’re the quiet part.”
She swallows, nods once.
I press something cold and heavy into her palm—a compact radio unit stripped down to bare function.
“When you hear this chirp twice,” I tell her, “you run downhill. Straight. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
“And if I don’t hear it?”
I meet her eyes.
“Then I’ve done my job.”
She grips my hand once. Hard.
Then I’m gone.
I move uphill instead of away—counterintuitive, aggressive. The terrain steepens, forcing my pursuers to commit muscle and breath. I snap a branch deliberately. Let my boots slide in the mud.
Let them think I’m hurting worse than I am.
Shots crack behind me—controlled pairs. Close enough to warn, not kill.
They want me tired.
They want me cornered.
I give them neither.
I veer right into a rocky cut where the ravine narrows. Stone walls rise fast, funneling movement. I count steps. Measure angles.
Three seconds later, the first hunter enters the choke point.
I pivot and strike.
The motion tears fire through my ribs, but the man never sees it. My forearm slams into his throat. He drops without sound, weapon clattering against stone.
I drag him off the path, strip his radio, his rifle, his vest.
Then I keep moving.
Because Malenkov doesn’t send one.
The second man comes faster—smarter. He slides to cover, sweeping the slope.
Too late.
I fire once.
Center mass.
He drops.
The forest explodes after that.
Shouts. Orders. Chaos where discipline should be.
Good.
I disappear sideways, melting into terrain that hides men who know how to read it. I don’t chase. I don’t linger.
I reposition.
Because this isn’t about body count.
It’s about pressure.
I key the radio I stole, adjust the frequency until I hear clipped voices snapping in frustration.
“—lost visual—”
“—two down—”
“—he’s not running—”
No.
I’m shaping.
I trigger a short burst uphill—loud, reckless.
Then I’m already moving again.
I imagine Ronan watching the map change color. Lena seeing the vectors tighten. Delta Five recognizing the pattern.
I smile through the pain.
Let Malenkov think he’s closing a fist.
Let him commit his hunters.
Because every man he sends here—
Is one less guarding my SEAL brothers, he thinks, still belong to him.
I pause just long enough to double-tap the radio.
Two quick chirps.
Somewhere below, Marin will move.
I roll my shoulder, steady my breath, and head deeper into the trees—toward higher ground, worse terrain, thinner margins.
I fight through the pain.
Toward the fight.
Because I’m not lost anymore.
I’m exactly where I want to be.
And Malenkov is about to learn the truth Ronan already knows—
You don’t chase Navy SEALs.
You bleed following them.