“I’m asking you to do what Morrison did. Move to a position and hold it. Don’t break. Don’t run.” Mack held his gaze. “Morrison would have done it without being asked.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, and for a second, Mack thought he’d argue.
He didn’t. “What about Alyssa?” he asked.
“She stays here. It’s the safest position on the strip.” Mack looked at her. “Stay down. Stay covered. Don’t move until I come back for you.”
She held his eyes. He could see the argument forming—she didn’t want to be left behind, didn’t want to be the person who waited while other people risked their lives for her.
But she was smart enough to know that her presence in the open was a liability, not an asset.
“Come back to me,” she said, touching his cheek.
“I will.”
He gripped her fingers, kissed them. Then he turned to Blake. “Stay low. When you hear me engage, push up the ridge on his flank.”
Blake nodded. His hands had stopped shaking. He gave Alyssa a weak smile, then raced low and fast, sprinting for the tree line on the north side of the strip.
Mack rose and fired several rounds to cover him as best as he could.
Eric’s rifle cracked—the shot hit the tarmac behind Blake’s heels, close but not close enough.
Mack ran. He pushed east, skirting the plane and the hangar. He hit the tree line, staying below the ridge’s sightline, using the terrain the way he’d used terrain in a dozen countries and twice as many engagements.
The concussion made the footing treacherous—roots, rocks, and ice hidden under the snow—but the adrenaline was doing its job, flooding his system with chemicals that overrode pain and sharpened his focus. They turned a damaged body into something that could function long enough to finish the fight.
He could now see Eric’s position. Not the man—the nest. A natural rock outcropping on the ridge, partially screened by brush, with a clear line of fire down to the tarmac.
It was a good position. Textbook, even. But the escape route was limited—steep terrain behind the ridge, dense trees on either side. Eric had chosen the nest for offense, not extraction. He’d planned to take his shot and disappear before anyone could respond.
He hadn’t planned on Mack arriving at the airstrip. And he certainly hadn’t planned on two men closing on his position from different angles.
Distant sirens echoed through the frigid air, rising from the south where the access road connected to the highway.
Garrett. Grizzly. And behind them, Claire and the federal convoy.
Eric heard them, too. Mack saw movement on the ridge—a shift in the brush, the silhouette of a man breaking down his position. He was collapsing the bipod, slinging the rifle, and preparing to move.
Staying meant capture. Capture was a federal prison. His window for killing Mack had just slammed shut.
He broke from the nest into the trees on the far side of the ridge, moving fast, heading for whatever vehicle he’d stashed on the back road.
But the terrain funneled north. The ridge dropped off steeply to the east, and the dense timber channeled any escape route toward the north end of the strip—toward Blake’s position.
Mack pushed harder. Branches whipped his face. His boot caught on a root, and he stumbled, caught himself, and kept moving. His breath fogged in the air.
The ridge was close now—fifty meters, then thirty. He was climbing, his legs burning, his vision tunneling, the concussion trying to pull him under with every step.
He heard the impact before he saw it.
A crash of bodies in the brush. A grunt. The sound of two men hitting the snow.
He crested the ridge. Blake and Eric were tangled in some bushes, fighting. Eric was trying to break free—elbows, knees, the frantic scrambling of a man who knew he was trapped. Blake held on, not with skill or technique, but with weight, desperation, and the stubborn refusal to let go.
It wasn’t elegant. It was ugly and desperate, and it might have been the bravest thing Blake Bennett had ever done.
Eric got an arm free. He swung the rifle, using it as a club. It caught Blake across the shoulder, and he cursed but didn’t let go. His arms locked tighter around Eric’s torso, and he rolled them, pinning the weapon under Eric.