Page 31 of Reaper
I push out from under the roots and climb the slick embankment, grabbing a handful of exposed rock to haul myself up to the lip of the washout.
The timber line is gone.
Where the safe house stood, there is nothing but flattened brush and the jagged, shattered stumps of pine trees. The storm cut a half-mile wide swath directly through the ridge.
If the safe house survived the breach, it didn't survive the tornado.
I drop back down into the hollow. Addy is on her feet, leaning against the dirt wall.
"The internal comms network is entirely dead," I say, my voice a flat, emotionless rasp. "The safe house is gone. Completely leveled."
"The team? Frost?" She takes a ragged, uneven breath. Her dark eyes immediately dart toward the destroyed ridge.
"If they made it into the reinforced main storm cellar before the funnel touched down, they're alive." I pull my sidearm from the drop-leg holster, checking the action to ensure the chamber is clear of mud, and securely re-holster it.
"We need to go back up there." Addy points toward the chaotic wreckage of the tree line. "We need to check the debris."
"No."
"Wyatt, we can't just leave?—"
"A heavily armed Ares Global kill squad hit the perimeter three minutes before the storm dropped," I cut her off, my tone leaving zero room for negotiation. "If any of those operators survived the touchdown, that ridge is now a highly active ambush point. We walk back up that hill blind, we walk directly into a lethal crossfire."
I step closer, gripping her shoulders, forcing her to look at me instead of staring up the devastated hill.
"Frost is a professional. He knows how to fight, and he knows how to survive. He got his men below ground. And he expects me to get you clear of the kill zone."
"And what about them?"
"He takes care of his team. I take care of you." The line is absolute. "I'll run recon once I have you in a defensible location. Not before."
She holds my gaze for a beat. She reads the finality in my dark eyes, and doesn't argue. She just nods once, pulling the zipper of her fleece tight to her throat, and slides the encrypted hardshell drive deep into her inside chest pocket.
"Where do we go?"
"East. Away from the strike zone."
We find high ground, assess the comms situation, and keep moving.
She steps out from under the roots, into the freezing rain.
We're cut off, on foot, in the dark, with a kill squad looking for the drive in her pocket.
It's the worst tactical position I've been in since the night I found out the man I killed was a federal witness.
I look at her standing in the rain, chin up, waiting for the call.
"Come." I grab her hand and pull her toward the broken wilderness.
TEN
The Climb
ADDY
The cold eats everything.
Fear, adrenaline, the sheer impossibility of surviving the last hour — the freezing rain washes it all away, leaving nothing but the brutal, mechanical process of putting one boot in front of the other.
