Page 81 of Echo: Burn
"Keep moving!"
We reach the emergency exit. It's locked, reinforced steel, electronic lock. I'm reaching for breaching charges when Willa steps forward with a small device Tommy gave her.
"Let me." She attaches it to the lock. Three seconds later, the door clicks open. "Tommy thought we might need it."
"Remind me to give him a raise."
We burst through the exit into the Montana night, Odin right behind us. Cold air hits my face like a slap after the chemical-laced atmosphere inside. Behind us, the facility is fully engulfed, flames reaching toward the stars.
"Vehicle's two hundred meters north," Stryker's voice guides us. "But Kane, you've got a problem—Kessler just exited through the west side. He's coming for you."
Of course he is.
"Get Willa to the vehicle," I order. "I'll handle Kessler."
"Like hell." Willa chambers a round. "We do this together."
There's no time to argue. Kessler emerges from the smoke like something out of a nightmare, tactical vest scorched, face blackened with soot, rifle up and tracking.
He sees us. Adjusts his aim.
I fire first. My round catches his rifle, knocking it from his hands. He doesn't slow down. Just keeps coming, drawing his sidearm as he closes the distance.
"Run!" I shove Willa toward Stryker's position. "Go!"
She hesitates for one fatal second. That's all Kessler needs.
He's on me before I can bring my weapon around. His fist catches my jaw, snapping my head back. I taste blood. Counter with an elbow to his ribs. He grunts but doesn't go down. Former Delta operators don't go down easy.
We crash into each other like freight trains. He's good—better than good. Every move is textbook close-quarters combat. Strikes to vulnerable points. Grappling for weapon control. Brutal efficiency honed by years of training and combat.
My rifle goes flying, knocked loose by a vicious strike to my wrist. Now it's just fists and elbows and knees, two operators trained in the same kill-house, the same doctrine, the same ruthless efficiency.
He drives me backward into a concrete wall. The impact drives the air from my lungs. His hand goes for my throat. Ideflect, grab his arm, attempt an arm bar. He counters, breaks free, lands a brutal hook to my ribs that cracks something.
Pain explodes through my side. Old injury. He knows it, too—saw my file, studied my weaknesses. He presses the advantage, another strike to the same ribs. Then another.
I drop, roll away, come up gasping. He's already on me. Relentless.
Behind us, another section of the facility collapses with a roar of tearing metal. Chemical fog rolls across the ground, glowing faintly toxic in the firelight. We're running out of time. The air itself is becoming poison.
Kessler lunges again. I catch his punch, redirect his momentum, and send him stumbling into a support pillar. He recovers fast—too fast—spinning back with a knife I didn't see him draw.
The blade slashes across my forearm. Not deep, but enough to bleed. Enough to slow me down.
"You're getting old, Kane," Kessler taunts, circling. "Soft. That girl's made you weak."
"That girl's made me human," I counter, watching the knife. "Something you wouldn't understand."
He feints left, attacks right. The knife comes at my throat. I deflect with my forearm—feels like fire—and catch his wrist. We grapple for control of the blade, faces inches apart, both of us bleeding and burned and running on pure adrenaline.
"Hart trusted you!" Kessler snarls. "And your team made him choose—his daughter's life or the truth. That fear killed him just as surely as a bullet."
"I didn't know!" The words tear out of me. "We were following orders! Protecting..."
"Protecting nothing!" He drives his knee into my injured ribs. The pain whites out my vision. "You protected your careers!Your precious black ops clearance! While Hart died alone, afraid they'd kill his daughter!"
The knife inches closer to my throat. My grip is slipping. The chemical burns on my hands make holding anything agony. He's stronger than me right now. Fresher. Less damaged.
