Chapter 14 - The End of the Line
The two tactical operators blocked the path to the quarry trail, their weapons leveled at Mark’s chest before he could even raise his own pistol.
"Drop the weapon, Captain. End of the line," the larger operator commanded, his voice muffled behind the dark composite mask of his helmet.
Mark slowed to a halt, his chest heaving as he dropped the pistol onto the grass at his feet. He raised his hands slowly, his scarred fingers spread wide, catching the amber light of the flickering park lamps.
"Who gave the order?" Mark asked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring in his ears. "Was it the Director? Or did the oversight committee decide that dead men shouldn't file expense reports?"
"The department doesn't like loose ends, Captain," the operator replied, stepping closer with his carbine still trained squarely on Mark’s heart. "When you walked out of Frankfurt, you invalidated your own resurrection. You should have stayed in the grave."
"The grave was crowded," Mark said, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips.
Out in the distance, through the trees trailing toward the ridge, Mark could hear the faint, muffled roar of an engine starting up—David’s truck coughing to life, carrying Clara, Lily, and Toby up toward the safety of the abandoned ranger station. They were safe. The trap had sprung on him, leaving the path behind him clear.
The operator thumbed the safety switch of his carbine with a sharp, metallic click. "Any last words, Captain?"
"Yeah," Mark whispered, his eyes locking onto the dark lenses of the operator's mask. "Tell them I’m coming back for the rest of them."
Before the operator could pull the trigger, a sharp, deafening crack echoed from the tree line behind the park pavilion—not a suppressed military round, but the thunderous, unmistakable boom of an old hunting rifle.
The operator staggered sideways, his shoulder exploding in a spray of dark blood as he dropped his weapon and hit the grass with a heavy thud.
The second operator spun around, raising his rifle toward the treeline, but a second hunting rifle shot shattered the glass of the park pavilion light above them, plunging the clearing into sudden, deep shadow.
"Get in the truck, Mark!" a voice shouted from the darkness of the trail—a voice Mark never expected to hear shouting his name in defense.
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David stepped out from the shadows near the tree line, holding an old bolt-action hunting rifle with shaking hands, smoke still curling lazily from the barrel.
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