Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

His fingers adjusted the binoculars with surgical precision. He watched the woman descending the ridge, her movements a symphony of efficiency and purpose. He’d caught a glimpse of her the previous night at the hotel, a fleeting shadow that had lodged in his memory like a splinter. Something about her set his teeth on edge, a quality that spoke of shared dark spaces and unspoken horrors.

She moved with fluid precision. Every step, every glance, tactical.

Who the hell is she?

The question gnawed at him, burrowing deep. She wasn’t part of the senator’s usual detail—he knew them all, had their routines committed to memory. This woman? An unknown. Her mere existence was enough to set off alarms in his head.

He stowed the binoculars with practiced efficiency. No need to linger. The sniper’s nest was clean, wiped of any trace. She wouldn’t find so much as a hair, but her presence alone spelled trouble. And in his world, trouble had a nasty habit of snowballing.

Moving deeper into the dense woods, his body slipped through the trees with fluid grace. This was his element—silent, invisible, lethal. The forest embraced him, its canopy shielding him from prying eyes. Underbrush swallowed his tracks, leaving no trace. He moved quickly, but carefully. Walking heal-to-toe with each measured step.

The extraction point was just a few clicks northeast. The path was etched in his mind, every choke point and escape route catalogued. He had taken the shot, played his part. Now it was time to disappear, to become nothing more than a whisper on the wind.

A shallow stream cut through his path, gurgling softly. He stepped across the rocks, careful not to disturb the water. No tracks, no signs. Just one more thread in his vanishing act.

The ground sloped into a narrow ravine. Descending with the grace of a cat, his boots barely touched the soft earth. As he neared the clearing, his senses heightened. Wind rustled the leaves, carrying with it the faintest hint of a storm on the horizon.

He crouched low, sweeping the area with a practiced eye. Satisfied, he pulled out his radio, thumb pressing the call button. His voice was low, controlled. “Requesting extract. Over.”

Nothing. Silence.

Bishop frowned, checked the signal. Full bars. He keyed the mic again, this time with more bite in his voice. “Extract. Now. Over.”

Dead air. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy.

A chill coiled around his spine, the hair on his neck standing at attention. Something was off. He didn’t bother with a third call. Third chances were for amateurs.

The extraction point was compromised.

His mind shifted, cycling through contingencies. Plan Bravo—head for the alternate exfil site two clicks south, using the ravine for cover. If that’s blown, fallback to the safe house. If pursuit engages, prioritize evasion and delay contact until I’m on better ground. The radio disappeared into his vest as he scanned the tree line, his eyes narrowing on every shadow and movement.

This had to be a setup.

Bishop adjusted his rifle strap, rolling his shoulders to stay loose. He didn’t move yet. Instead, he dropped lower, slipping into the underbrush, his footsteps muffled against the damp earth. First rule of survival—don’t make yourself a target.

He moved, quick but controlled. Northwest, toward the secondary rendezvous. There was always a backup plan. Always. He had outmaneuvered death on three continents, survived alone in enemy territory with nothing but his wits and a combat knife. This was no different. His instincts were screaming at him now, honed through countless operations where failure meant death.

The radio silence wasn’t a glitch. It was deliberate. Calculated.

They weren’t just abandoning him. Cutting him loose.

Bishop’s pace quickened, but his breathing remained steady. His mind processed the implications, but his body was already moving. He’d been burned before. He knew the game. There was no loyalty here, no fairytales about a clean getaway. The moment he became a liability, they were the ones to pull the trigger.

The wind shifted, rustling the leaves, carrying the scent of rain. His muscles coiled, ready to spring into action.

Disappearing was his specialty. But this time, it would be on his terms.

He pressed deeper into the woods, his mind sharp, calculating. One thought crystallized: survive. Always on his terms.