(LANCE)
The unmarked SUVs tore through the back roads, headlights off, guided only by moonlight and the faint glow of dashboard screens. Mud and marsh water still clung to our boots, filling the vehicle with the heavy, rotting scent of saltwater and decay. Eliona sat pressed against my side, her body trembling, the faint metallic tang of fear-sweat mixing with the gun oil and blood on my vest. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, each inhale catching like broken glass in her throat.
I kept one arm wrapped around her, the other gripping my pistol, eyes scanning the darkness behind us. No headlights followed. Not yet.
We reached a secondary safe house — an old fishing shack tucked deep in the wetlands — just as the sky deepened from bruised purple to full night. The team moved silently,
