Chapter 28
A sudden, sharp metallic clank from across the lake shattered the fragile morning peace and instantly brought us back to reality.
James dropped to one knee, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder and peering through the high-powered optic lens.
Through a gap in the rotting wooden slats of the boathouse, I saw a plume of black exhaust rise from one of the mercenary SUVs.
They were moving, their heavily armed teams fanning out along the shoreline like a pack of hunting dogs realizing they had lost the scent.
Collins cursed under her breath, drawing her sidearm and checking the chamber with practiced, lethal efficiency.
"They found the secondary exit or realized the bunker's main blast doors were a diversion," she whispered, her voice cutting through the damp air.
Claire instinctively pulled Ethan closer, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and fierce maternal determination.
I reached out and gripped her hand, finding strength in her touch even as my own heart hammered violently against my ribs.
We couldn't stay in this collapsing boathouse for much longer, as the morning light would soon destroy our only cover.
James lowered his rifle slightly, his expression grim as he turned his head toward the dense, unbroken forest rising behind the structure.
"We move into the treeline now, using the shadows of the ridge to mask our advancement toward the secondary extraction point," he commanded.
He pushed open a squeaking wooden door at the rear of the boathouse, revealing a steep, rocky incline covered in thick pine needles.
The air outside was crisp and bit into our lungs, a stark reminder of the harsh mountain wilderness that surrounded us.
I went first, helping Claire navigate the slippery, uneven terrain while Collins brought up the rear, her eyes scanning our flanks.
Every snap of a twig beneath our boots sounded like a gunshot in the quiet morning, making my adrenaline spike all over again.
Behind us, the distant rumble of a boat engine echoed across the water, meaning the mercenaries were expanding their search perimeter to the lake itself.
They were desperate to recover the Black Slate data, knowing that its publication would mean the absolute destruction of their corporate masters.
We climbed higher into the ridge, the canopy of ancient pine trees swallowing the sunlight and plunging us back into a protective, green-hued twilight.
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My breath hitched as I looked down through the branches, seeing a fast-moving patrol boat cutting a white wake across the glass-like surface of the water.
We were running out of time, running out of energy, but the thought of letting Charles Brooks win kept my legs moving forward against the pain.
