Page 38 of Reaper
The Extraction
WYATT
The sun breaks over the ridge at 0615.
It doesn't bring warmth. It just illuminates the wreckage.
We move in silence. The five miles to the logging road are a brutal, mechanical slog through shattered pine and deep, freezing mud. I take point, cutting a path through the deadfall, tracking the bruised and saturated earth for any sign of an Ares patrol.
Nothing. The storm wiped the slate clean.
I check over my shoulder every fifty yards. Addy is ten paces back. Her face is pale, her lips tight, her boots sinking ankle-deep in the sludge, but she doesn't stop. She doesn't complain. She just keeps climbing.
Every time I look back, my chest tightens. The memory of her in the cave, pinned against the stone, taking me apart piece by piece, flashes through my mind in a violent, visceral loop.
It's a dangerous distraction. I lock it down.
I lock it behind the armor I've spent years building, the same armor she systematically dismantled in the span of three days.
Has it been only three days? Four?
An eternity.
We hit the tree line above an old logging road just before 0900.
I drop into a crouch. I hold up a fist.
Addy stops immediately, dropping to one knee behind a massive boulder.
Below us, the dirt road cuts through the timber. Fifty yards to the south, an old, heavy-duty forestry truck sits parked in a turnout, the engine idling.
One man stands by the driver's side door, smoking a cigarette, an assault rifle slung across his chest.
Ares extraction team. Waiting for the sweepers that aren't coming back.
"Stay here." I don't look at her. I draw my sidearm. "Do not move until I signal."
I slide down the embankment. The wet earth muffles my descent.
I don't use the knife this time. I come up behind the truck, using the heavy metal bed for cover. The mercenary takes a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of white smoke into the cold air.
I step out.
Two suppressed rounds to the center of his chest. One to the head.
He drops into the mud before the cigarette hits the ground.
I secure his weapon, drag the body into the dense brush off the shoulder, and sweep the cab. Empty. The keys are in the ignition.
I turn back to the ridge and motion with two fingers.
Addy scrambles down the embankment. She doesn't look at the blood in the mud. She just climbs into the passenger seat and locks the door.
I drop the truck into gear and bury the accelerator.
We don't speak for forty miles.
I drive us off the mountain, sticking to the secondary service roads until we hit the valley floor. The heater in the truck blasts dry, hot air, baking the smell of wet wool and ozone into the cab.
