The woods were too quiet. Every footstep Quinn took, placed deliberately on soft earth and leaf litter, sounded thunderous in his own ears. He moved with the ingrained stealth of years of training, scanning the trees ahead, listening intently, Marco following close behind, rifle held ready, the heavy sack of supplies bumping rhythmically against his back. The brief adrenaline high of the escape was fading, replaced by a gnawing tension, the certainty that Richter's remaining men were still out there, beating the woods, hunting them.
They moved east now, angling back towards the road where Quinn had hidden the SUV. The sun slanted lower through the trees, casting long, deceptive shadows. Twice, they froze, dropping behind thickets as distant shouts echoed through the woods – too far to be an immediate threat, but close enough to confirm the hunt was ongoing. Once, Marco pointed silently to the ground – faint tracks, recently made, crossing their path. Someone was cutting sign, trying to anticipate their route. They weren't just crashing blindly after them; at least one of the pursuers knew what they were doing.
Quinn felt the urgency pressing down on him. Martha and the other prisoners needed to be secured. But Sarah, George, and Helen were miles away, back at the farmhouse, unaware of the successful rescue, unaware that Richter's scattered men might be heading their way. He had to get back. Twenty minutes, he'd told Martha to wait at the SUV. How long had it been since he'd left the farm? An hour? More? Time warped in the heat of combat and escape.
He pushed the thoughts away, focusing on speed and silence. They crested a small ridge, thick with pines. Through the trees, Quinn caught a glimpse of the cracked asphalt ribbon of the country road, maybe two hundred yards away. And nestled in the deep green shadows of an overgrown thicket near the road – the dark shape of the SUV. Still there. Only the SUV.
Relief washed over him, so potent it almost buckled his knees. He motioned for Marco to hold, then crept forward alone to the edge of the trees, scanning the area around the vehicle with the rifle scope.
He saw them. Huddled near the back of the SUV, keeping low. Martha stood slightly apart, peering anxiously back towards the woods, her hands clasped tightly together. The other former prisoners – five men and one woman, all looking gaunt and terrified – clustered near her, glancing nervously in all directions. There was no sign of Richter's men. Not yet.
Quinn gave a low whistle. Martha's head snapped up instantly, her eyes wide with fear, quickly replaced by overwhelming relief as she spotted him. She raised a trembling hand, waving him forward urgently.
Quinn signaled Marco, and they moved quickly out of the trees, across the short stretch of open ground, towards the waiting group.
"Quinn! Marco!" Martha rushed towards them as they reached the SUV, her voice choked with emotion. "You made it! We heard the shooting… we didn't know…" She looked past them anxiously. "George? The little girl?"
"They're okay, Martha," Quinn reassured her quickly, dumping the heavy supply sack near the SUV's rear door. "They're safe back at the farm with Sarah. Richter's dead. We broke his hold on the compound."
Tears streamed down Martha's face, tears of relief this time. "Thank God," she sobbed, clutching Quinn's arm for a moment before regaining her composure. The other prisoners murmured thanks, their faces filled with exhausted hope.
"We can't celebrate yet," Quinn cut in, his voice regaining its edge of command. He looked at Marco. "They followed us out of the compound. They're still hunting." He scanned the road, the woods. "We need to get back to the farm. Now. Sarah and the others could be in danger."
Marco nodded grimly, already moving to open the SUV's doors. "How far back?"
"Eight, maybe ten miles," Quinn estimated. "But we don't know where Richter's men scattered. Some could be heading back that way already. We have one vehicle. It's going to be tight."
Urgency propelled them. "Alright, everyone, listen up!" Quinn's voice took charge. "We all need to fit in the SUV. Quickly and quietly! Stay low, stay calm!"
The former prisoners didn't hesitate, scrambling into the back seats and the rear cargo area, squeezing together shoulder-to-shoulder, knees drawn up, making room. It was an uncomfortable, potentially dangerous crush of bodies, but no one complained. Freedom, even cramped and perilous, was better than Richter's cells.
Quinn helped Martha into the front passenger seat. He then turned to Marco. "You take the seat behind me. Keep that assault rifle ready. Watch the sides."
Marco nodded, climbing in, positioning himself where he could cover the rear passenger-side window. Quinn quickly sorted through the supply sack, pulling out the medical bag and placing it near Martha. He kept the scoped rifle beside him, tucking the extra ammunition and radios within easy reach near the driver's seat. He tossed the night vision goggles onto the dashboard.
He slid behind the wheel, the vehicle feeling overloaded and sluggish. He checked the rearview mirror – a sea of pale, anxious faces stared back. He turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, sounding strained under the load.
"Everyone down!" Quinn ordered. "Keep your heads below the window line if you can."
He eased the overloaded SUV out of the thicket and onto the cracked pavement, turning east – back towards the farm, back towards Sarah, George, and Helen. Back towards the unknown.
He pushed the accelerator, the engine whining in protest, but picking up speed. The ride was rougher now, the suspension complaining under the extra weight. Every bump seemed magnified. He drove with intense focus, eyes constantly scanning the road ahead, the fields, the treelines, the rearview mirror.
They were a single, slow-moving target now. If Richter's men spotted them, there was no splitting up, no backup vehicle. Just one overloaded SUV filled with vulnerable people. He thought of the farmhouse – the scene of carnage he'd left behind. Had any of Richter's men already reached it? Was Sarah holding them off? Or worse?
The ten miles back to the farm stretched before them like an eternity. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in deepening shades of orange and purple, casting long shadows that seemed to writhe like living things at the edges of the fields. Dusk was falling, and with the fading light came a new, deeper sense of vulnerability. They were racing the darkness, racing the hunters, heading back towards a place that might no longer be safe.