Don’t stop running. That’s what Johnathan told himself as he sprinted through the trees, air coming in razor shards, every muscle on fire. He only had to get over that ridge, maybe thirty feet. He could hear shouting behind him, closing in. Twenty feet, fifteen. A bullet tore through his calf and he went down. So close, he was so close. He began to crawl. He would make it, he must make it.
He didn’t have the air to sob, choking on his tears as his fingers pulled, dragging himself up and over the small berm. He dared a glance backward. They were still over fifty feet away and he only had six to go, six feet until he was in range of the comm tower and he could order an airstrike and drop team, hiding inside a small crack in a tree trunk he noticed earlier. He looked at his GPS screen built into his armband, only two feet to the outer reach border.
He had done it, he’d outrun them. They were still too far, the trees surrounding him denying a clear shot. The GPS beeped, he slammed his hand down on the distress button - but his hand never made contact. Somebody had caught his arm. He looked up, confused and terrified.
The man clicked his tongue and cocked his head to the side, “You didn’t really think you got away, did you?”
A knife Johnathan hadn’t noticed pierced hilt-deep into his armpit and out his shoulder, grazing his neck. He screamed in agony. “We can’t have you giving away our plans now can we?” the man said calmly, as if they were friends merely discussing this morning’s choice of tea. A second knife plunged through the screen on his arm, destroying his last hope. The rest of the party had arrived and surrounded him, all panting.
“Ain’t you heard the stories, moron?” a tall man drawled from the back. The gathered group fell deathly silent as he continued, “Nobody comes back from a confrontation with the Recei.”
He turned to face the others, drawing a massive revolver. Not just any revolver, but the revolver. A captain’s revolver, decorated with golden dragons on the sides of the barrel and a deep ebony grip. He held it high in the air, mockingly sneering, “Long live the queen.”
The crew erupted into laughter as he pointed that gun at Johnathan’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.
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