Page 11 of Echo: Burn
The men scatter with military precision. Mercer disappears up a ladder. Rourke vanishes into shadows. Stryker takes position near the entrance, rifle tracking sectors only he can see.
Kane turns to Khalid, voice gentling in a way that makes my chest ache. "Take Sarah and Odin deeper into the bunker. Lock the door behind you. Don't open it for anyone except one of us. Understand?"
The boy nods, standing with Odin still pressed against his leg.
"Tommy, you stay in the command center. Keep comms open and monitor thermals."
"Doc." Kane's hand finds my elbow, guiding me toward the exit. "You're coming with us to the forward position. You stay behind cover. If someone comes through that tree line whoisn't one of us, you shoot them. Don't hesitate. Don't wait for confirmation. Just shoot."
"I understand." My hands tighten on the rifle. "Kane?"
He pauses, and in the harsh light I see the exhaustion carved into his features. The scars. The weight of command.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For coming for me. You didn't have to."
Something crosses his face too quick to name. "Yeah. I did."
Then he's gone, moving to his position with that controlled power that makes me notice things I have no business noticing.
I settle into position behind a rocky outcropping, the rifle familiar despite the years. Muscle memory takes over. Breathing steadies. Heart rate drops.
The forest goes quiet except for the wind moving through the pines and the distant howl of the storm. We're positioned on a ridge half a mile from the base, invisible from any approach. Somewhere below, men are searching for me because I refused to let a dog die.
The minutes crawl past. My finger hovers near the trigger guard, not on it—Dad's voice in my head about trigger discipline. The cold bites through my body armor despite the layers.
I think about Jack. About the last time I saw him. About driving away from that hospital parking garage six years ago. About all the years I've spent looking over my shoulder.
But Jack was just one monster. The Committee is something else entirely.
"Contact." Mercer's voice cuts through the silence. "North ridge. Three tangos moving in formation. Professional spacing."
"South ridge clear." Rourke sounds almost disappointed. "Wait. Movement. Two tangos. No, three. They're spreading out."
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is real.
"Weapons tight until my call." Kane's voice is steady as stone. "Let them commit."
The wait stretches into agony. I watch the tree line below with burning eyes, every shadow a potential threat.
Then I see it. Movement through the trees. A figure materializing from darkness, tactical gear and night vision, weapon held in a combat carry.
He's not one of Kane's men.
My finger finds the trigger. Breathing slows. Sight picture acquired. Center mass. Controlled squeeze.
The rifle kicks against my shoulder before conscious thought processes the decision. The report echoes through the forest like thunder. The figure drops.
"Contact center!" I speak into the comms unit, already acquiring the next target. Because there's always a next target.
Gunfire erupts from every direction. Muzzle flashes strobe the darkness. The forest becomes a kill box, and somewhere in the chaos I remember Kane's words: ‘The first one is always the hardest.’
He was wrong.
The second one is worse. Because now I know exactly what I'm doing when I pull the trigger. There's no accident, no instinct, no panicked reaction.
Just the cold calculation of survival.
I squeeze the trigger again, and somewhere below me, another person stops being a threat and becomes a body.
