The engine purred beneath me as I tore down the winding trail, gravel and dirt flying in my wake. The air was crisp, cold, and thin this high up, but I didn't care. Every inch of distance between me and that Hydra base felt like breathing again. Like ripping off a collar I never knew I wore.
Then—something inside me tightened.
It wasn't a sound. Not a smell. Just... a pull. A warning from somewhere deep, ancient, wired into this body. My muscles tensed. My fingers twitched on the throttle. Every instinct screamed Stop.
So I did.
I killed the engine and veered off the trail into the brush. The motorcycle coasted for a few seconds before I brought it to a halt behind a thick outcropping of rock. I dropped the kickstand and ducked low, eyes scanning the sky.
That's when I heard it.
Whup-whup-whup-whup.
Helicopter blades. Multiple.
Then the rumble of engines.
I peered out through the trees and spotted the first of them—a matte-black Hydra gunship cutting through the clouds like a predator. Then another. And another. Behind them came the convoy: at least ten armored trucks rumbling up the mountain trail I'd just left, tires chewing through the dirt like it was paper.
All of them headed straight for the base.
Reinforcements. Big ones.
They weren't just sending cleanup. This was a full sweep-and-purge operation. Lock the place down. Hunt for survivors. Track anything that made it out.
Like me.
I clenched my jaw, heart pounding. My first thought was to get back on the bike and ride hard and fast in the opposite direction. But as soon as I looked at the trail again, I realized how stupid that would be.
Too narrow. Too exposed.
If they spotted me from the air, I'd be a sitting duck. One rocket, one gunner, and I'd be shredded before I made it a mile.
And worse—the noise.
The motorcycle was fast, sure. But loud. Too loud. The instant I turned that engine back on, I'd be announcing my location to every damn Hydra radar operator in the area.
I stared at it for a moment.
Then made my choice.
Not worth it.
I tossed the bike into a ditch, covered it with broken branches and leaves, then turned and ran. Fast. Downhill. Away from the trail and into the forest, leaping over rocks, ducking under branches. My breath fogged in the air. My legs screamed. But I didn't stop.
The trees closed in around me, thick and silent. The forest swallowed the sound of my boots against the ground, the branches brushing past me like whispers.
It was risky. Alone. On foot. No supplies. But keeping the bike meant death. Out here, stealth was survival.
I could hear the convoy passing overhead now—grinding gears, boots stomping, orders being shouted in German. The woods shielded me from view, but not from sound. Not from the knowledge that they were crawling all over this mountain like a plague.
Hydra wanted their soldier back.
Too bad for them—I wasn't theirs.
Not anymore.
I ducked under a fallen log and pressed myself into the dirt, watching through a tangle of roots as the last truck rolled by, turret swiveling left and right. I didn't breathe until it was gone.
Then I kept running.
No trail. No plan. Just forward.
Every part of me ached. But I knew one thing for sure.
If I stop moving, I die.
So I pushed on—deeper into the forest, into the unknown.
Whatever waited out there in the world…
…it had to be better than what was behind me.