Page 3 of Reaper
She looks at the dead man bleeding out on her gravel driveway. Her eyes track the trajectory, instinctively following the invisible path of the bullet straight back to the ridge.
She won't find me.
I'm already gone.
Forty-five seconds.
I unseat the magazine. Clear the chamber. Fold the bipod. The rifle slides into the hardshell drag bag. Zip. Sling it across my back.
I break from the overwatch position, sprinting through the brush. The physical exertion burns my stiff muscles, but the adrenaline overrides the pain.
I swing my leg over the dirt bike hidden in a thicket of scrub oak. Kick the starter. The engine roars to life, a guttural snarl in the quiet mountain air.
I dump the clutch. The rear tire spins, biting into the dirt, and I tear down the ridge.
The access road is a treacherous blur of sage, deep ruts, and jagged rock. I push the bike to the limit, the suspension bottoming out as I navigate the steep descent. I don't check my corners. I don't maintain noise discipline. Every rule of engagement I learned in Delta is gone, replaced by a singular, driving need to reach the valley floor.
The wind tears at my clothes, biting through the layers of my jacket. The engine noise deafens me, masking the sound of my own ragged breathing. I dodge a fallen pine, the handlebars jerking in my grip. My tactical instincts scream at me to slow down, to establish a secondary perimeter, to approach with caution. I could be driving into a prepared ambush.
But the image of her standing on that porch with a dead man at her feet overrides my training.
She doesn't know who took the shot. She doesn't know if the threat is neutralized or if the woods are swarming with an Ares cleanup crew. She's an accountant standing alone in a combat zone. Every second I spend on this mountain is a second she spends exposed.
I hit the valley floor and open the throttle. The house looms ahead.
I skid the bike to a halt in her gravel driveway. The back tire kicks up a spray of sharp rocks.
I drop the kickstand and step off in one fluid motion.
Her front door is closed.
I cross the driveway, boots crunching over the same gravel the contractor walked. I step over his body. Blood pools on the wooden planks, thick and dark.
I don't knock.
My combat boot hits the wood right next to the lock. The frame splinters with a violent crack. The door crashes open, rebounding off the interior wall.
The inside of the house smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. A sharp contrast to the copper tang of blood creeping over the threshold behind me.
Addy stands in the center of the living room.
The Glock is leveled directly at my chest.
Her eyes are wide and locked on mine. She doesn't shake. She doesn't scream. She holds the weapon with the competence of someone fully prepared to pull the trigger.
"Drop it." Her voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. Sharp. Unwavering.
"You've got sixty seconds. A cleanup team is already on the way." I ignore the command, holding her gaze. "We are out of time."
She studies my face. Her eyes track over the hardshell rifle bag slung across my back. They drop to my empty hands. She calculates the risk, reading the angles.
"Who are you?"
"Wyatt. Wyatt Harrison."
"That tells me nothing." The Glock wavers a fraction of an inch.
"You're down to fifty seconds." I step into the room. I keep my hands loose, resting near my thighs, far away from my sidearm. "You don't have time for second guessing. Not if you want to live."
