Bullets sparked off the crumbling brick wall beside Quinn's head, showering him with dust and chips of mortar. He pressed himself flat against the rough surface, peering around the edge, bringing the scoped rifle to his shoulder. Richter's men – maybe six or seven still mobile – were advancing steadily across the compound yard, using the storage tanks and scrap piles for cover, laying down suppressing fire.
"Pinned!" Marco yelled, crouched beside Quinn, clutching the sack of supplies. He raised the assault rifle he'd grabbed from Richter's office and fired a short, controlled burst towards the advancing figures, forcing them back behind cover momentarily. "Can't stay here!"
Quinn scanned the fence frantically. Twelve feet high, topped with razor wire. Climbing it under fire was suicide. He fired the scoped rifle – crack! – aiming for the lead gunman peeking around a tank. A satisfying yelp, and the man ducked back hastily. It bought them a second, nothing more.
"The fence!" Quinn shouted over the gunfire. "We need to go through it, not over!" He looked at the point where the chain-link met the old, decaying brick wall. Maybe there was a weakness there?
"Cover me!" Quinn yelled. He pulled the last smoke grenade from his belt. Marco nodded, laying down another burst of suppressing fire with the assault rifle, the weapon bucking reassuringly in his hands.
Quinn pulled the pin, counted a quick "one," and lobbed the smoke grenade towards the base of the fence near the wall junction. It landed perfectly, immediately spewing thick grey smoke that billowed outwards, obscuring their position from the advancing gunmen.
"Now!" Quinn urged. He holstered his pistol again, needing both hands free, keeping the rifle slung. He scrambled towards the fence junction under cover of the swirling smoke, Marco right behind him.
The smoke was thick, acrid, stinging Quinn's eyes, but it provided precious concealment. They reached the fence. Quinn ran his hands along the base where it met the crumbling brick. The chain-link was bolted to metal posts sunk into the ground, but here, right against the wall, the lowest bolts looked heavily rusted, the concrete footing cracked and broken.
"Here!" Marco hissed, pointing with the barrel of his rifle. He'd spotted it too. The bottom edge of the fence wasn't as securely anchored against the uneven surface of the decaying wall foundation. "If we can pull the bottom free..."
They didn't need to finish the thought. Working frantically, side-by-side, they grabbed the thick wire mesh near the base. Quinn jammed the butt of his rifle against the lowest bolt, trying to lever it, while Marco pulled with all his strength on the taught wire. Metal groaned. Rust flaked away.
Shouts came from beyond the smoke, closer now. Richter's men were advancing cautiously through the obscuring cloud, unwilling to let them escape. Bullets zipped blindly through the smoke screen, whining past Quinn's ears.
"Harder!" Quinn grunted, putting his shoulder into it, ignoring the sharp edges of the wire digging into his hands.
With a sudden screech of tortured metal, the lowest bolt snapped. The bottom edge of the chain-link fence sagged inwards, away from the crumbling brick foundation, creating a narrow, triangular gap near the ground.
"It's enough!" Marco yelled. "Go!"
He shoved the sack of supplies through the gap first. Quinn dove after it, scraping his back and shoulders on the rough edges of the wire and brick, wriggling through the tight opening. He burst out onto the leaf litter and tangled undergrowth on the other side – the relative freedom of the woods.
Marco scrambled through right behind him just as the smoke began to thin noticeably. Quinn risked a glance back through the gap. He saw figures emerging from the dissipating smoke, spotting the breach in the fence, raising their rifles.
"Move!" Quinn grabbed the supply sack, slung his rifle forward, and plunged deeper into the woods, Marco pounding along beside him.
Branches whipped at their faces. Roots threatened to trip them. They crashed through the undergrowth, focused only on putting distance between themselves and the compound. Behind them, angry shouts erupted as Richter's men realized they were through the wire. The pursuit was on.
A rifle cracked behind them, the bullet thudding solidly into a tree trunk just ahead of Quinn. They veered right, using the thick trunks of oaks and pines for cover, pushing deeper into the woods.
"They're coming!" Marco gasped, breathing hard, clutching the assault rifle.
"Keep moving!" Quinn ordered. He paused behind a thick pine, raised his scoped rifle, found one of the pursuers momentarily framed between two trees, and fired. A distant shout, maybe a fall. He didn't wait to confirm, just turned and ran again. Suppressing fire, breaking contact – basic tactics.
They ran hard for another five minutes, adrenaline masking their exhaustion. The sounds of direct pursuit seemed to fade slightly, though Quinn knew they wouldn't give up easily. Richter's men knew this area; Quinn and Marco were just crashing through unfamiliar territory.
They finally slowed, dropping behind a dense thicket of rhododendrons on the crest of a small rise. Quinn listened intently, chest heaving. Distant shouts, maybe, but no immediate sounds of footsteps crashing through the woods behind them. They had gained some breathing room.
"Think... think we lost 'em?" Marco panted, leaning against a tree, sweat dripping from his face.
"For now," Quinn said cautiously. He scanned their back trail. "But they won't stop looking. We need to get back to the SUV. Back to the others." He checked his internal compass, orienting himself based on the sun's position and the direction they'd run. "This way. Keep low."
They started moving again, more cautiously now, using the terrain for cover, constantly scanning, listening. The weight of the supply sack, filled with precious weapons, ammo, and medical gear, felt reassuring, but also a burden slowing them down. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every snapping twig sounded like a pursuer.
They had escaped the compound, eliminated Richter, and gained vital resources and an ally. But they were still miles from safety, hunted, with the fate of Sarah, Helen, George, and the other prisoners resting heavily on their shoulders. The victory felt precarious, bought at a high price, and far from complete. The relative quiet of the woods felt less like safety, more like a momentary pause before the next inevitable storm.