Ray crawled into the pipe. The metal was freezing, coated in slime and dead leaves. He dragged himself forward on his elbows, the scent of burning wood already seeping into the pipe behind them.
The tunnel sloped sharply downward. Ray slid in the dark, claustrophobia pressing in on his chest. It felt like crawling through a grave. He thought of Thomas, lying bleeding on the floorboards above, while the man who had ordered his death lit the match.
A muffled *whump* echoed from the cabin. Heat immediately flushed down the pipe.
They had ignited the kerosene.
Ray scrambled faster, panic overriding his grief. He saw a faint circle of gray light ahead.
He burst out of the end of the pipe, tumbling down a steep bank of loose shale and dead pine needles, landing hard in the dry creek bed.
Marcus slid out right behind him, gasping for air, covered in mud and cobwebs.
They scrambled to their feet. Above them, through the dense canopy of trees, the sky was already turning orange. Thick, oily black smoke poured into the twilight sky. The cabin was fully engulfed.
“Up the ridge,” Marcus pointed toward the deer trail. “We have two miles to the road. If they see that smoke, they'll know we didn't burn inside.”
Ray stood frozen in the creek bed, staring up at the smoke.
“Ray!” Marcus grabbed his shoulder, shaking him violently. “He died to give you this head start! Do not waste it!”
Ray tore his eyes away from the fire. His jaw locked. The devastating sorrow in his chest instantly hardened, crystallizing into something cold, sharp, and infinitely dangerous.
“Let’s move.”
They ran.
The Appalachian woods at dusk were treacherous. The ground was slick with damp moss, hidden roots acting like tripwires. They ran with reckless, desperate speed, tearing through briars that shredded their jeans and arms.
Behind them, the faint sound of shouting drifted over the ridge. Sterling’s men had realized the trapdoor led outside.
They were being hunted.
Ray’s lungs burned, a sharp, metallic pain tearing at his chest. He was fifty-six years old, running a tactical evasion up a mountain against private military contractors half his age. But adrenaline and pure, unadulterated rage fueled his legs.
“Flashlights! Behind us!” Marcus wheezed, pointing down the slope.
Three bright beams of white light cut through the trees, sweeping back and forth over the brush about a half-mile back.
“Keep moving,” Ray grunted.
They crested a steep ridge and began the long descent toward the county road. The darkness was absolute now, the moon hidden behind thick mountain clouds. They had to rely on the faint glow of the highway lights in the far distance to navigate.
After an hour of brutal, stumbling progress, Marcus tripped over a rotting log and went down hard, cursing as his ankle twisted violently.
Ray hauled him up, throwing Marcus’s heavy arm over his shoulder.
“I got you. Come on.”
“Leave me, Hammer,” Marcus grunted, limping heavily. “You’ve got the files. Get to the bikes.”
“Shut up, Marcus.”
“They’re closing. Listen.”
Ray stopped. Below them, the crunching of boots on dry leaves was distinct. The flashlight beams were brighter, tracking their path perfectly.
“They have night vision or thermals,” Ray said grimly. “They can see our heat signatures.”
“Then we fight,” Marcus said, pulling his knife.
“No. We survive.”
Ray looked around frantically. They were in a dense ravine, surrounded by towering rock walls. Just ahead, the terrain dropped off sharply into a deep, muddy ditch that ran parallel to the distant highway.
“Down there. In the mud.”
Ray dragged Marcus down into the ditch. The water was stagnant, freezing, and smelled of rot.
“Get down. Cover yourself in the mud. Mask your heat signature.”