The assassin stood alone at the edge of the cliff, a shadow against the vast expanse of the Alaskan sky, his figure cutting through the soft, golden hues of twilight like an ink stain on untouched parchment.
There was no hesitation in the way he held his rifle, the Garand M1 resting against his shoulder with the ease of a tool well-used, an extension of his own body. The barrel, still warm from the shot, pointed downward toward the river below, as if tracking the path of his victim even after the deed was done. He did not move, did not rush to leave the scene. Instead, he stood there, watching, waiting—not for confirmation, not for guilt or regret to take hold—but with the silent patience of a predator who already knew his kill was certain.
The sky behind him stretched endlessly, a masterpiece of delicate, shifting colors—pale pinks blending into the deepening blues of the oncoming night, streaks of molten gold spilling across the clouds, as if the heavens themselves had been painted by some divine hand. The air was crisp, carrying the distant cry of a bird in flight, the rustling of trees far below, the gentle murmur of the river moving onward, uncaring, uninterrupted.
And yet, despite the breathtaking serenity of the scene, the assassin's presence was an intrusion—cold, mechanical, merciless. He did not belong to this world of soft colors and open skies. He was an absence, a void, a sharp blade slicing through the peaceful canvas of nature.
He turned, slowly, deliberately, his movements as measured as his breath. The rifle remained in his grasp, its dark metal glinting under the fading light. His coat, long and heavy, stirred slightly in the breeze, the fabric whispering against itself. And then, without a word, without a glance back, he walked away, disappearing into the tree line as if he had never been there at all.
But his image remained, burned into the scene like a scar.
Below the cliff, hidden beneath the thick underbrush, two young men exhaled simultaneously, though their relief was neither pure nor complete—because even as the immediate threat passed, even as the specter of death retreated into the forest, its mark remained in the bloodstained water, in the broken body drifting with the current, in the undeniable fact that Layla Smith was no longer standing but instead floating, lifeless, her dark hair fanning out like ink bleeding into the river.
T.B. moved first, as Anderson expected he would, a sudden and violent reaction driven by nothing but instinct, by the pure and unfiltered desperation of a man who had no space in his mind for logic or planning, only action, only movement, only the overwhelming need to reach her, to close the distance between himself and the body slipping further and further away. He didn't pause, didn't hesitate, didn't think. He just ran to the edge of the river and threw himself in, the freezing water swallowing him whole, its shock hitting his muscles like an electric current, but he barely registered it. He kicked forward, arms cutting through the current, fighting it, pushing against it.
Anderson did not move. Not at first. He stood at the riverbank, his breath misting in the air, his mind calculating, assessing, dissecting the situation with surgical precision, breaking it down into numbers, angles, probabilities. Swimming was too slow. T.B. was strong, but even his strength was failing against the river, his strokes powerful yet inefficient, his exhaustion evident even as he pushed forward with blind determination. Anderson's eyes flicked toward Layla—still moving, still drifting, further away with every second. The current was winning.
So he turned and ran. Not toward the water, but away from it, back toward the trees, his feet pounding against the damp earth as he raced toward the place where they had hidden a raft—a crude, hastily built construction of wooden bars lashed together with rope, meant for emergencies, though no one had expected an emergency like this. But it was there, and it was faster than swimming, and that was all that mattered.
His fingers closed around the rough wood, splinters biting into his skin, but he didn't slow down. With one hard yank, he dragged it free from the underbrush, muscles straining as he hauled it toward the river's edge. No hesitation. No wasted motion. He crouched low, adjusted his grip, and with a single, decisive push, he launched it into the water, the force of the current catching it instantly, carrying it forward.
He didn't wait to see if it worked. He jumped on the raft.
The raft rocked violently as he landed, the cold seeping through his clothes, but he steadied himself, legs spread wide, balancing against the shifting movement beneath him. His hands found the paddle—long, heavy, carved from a single piece of wood—and without pause, without breath, he drove it into the water. The resistance was immediate, the current pulling against him, but he was ready for it. He adjusted his grip, his muscles burning as he dug the paddle deep, each stroke propelling him forward, faster than any swimmer could move, faster than even T.B., who was still struggling against the current, his movements slowing as exhaustion and cold gnawed at his limbs.
Anderson passed him easily. Not out of arrogance. Not out of anything as meaningless as competition. Simply because logic dictated that he would. Because he had chosen the right tool for the situation, because brute strength meant nothing if it wasn't applied correctly, because in the end, intelligence would always be faster than instinct.
The distance between him and Layla shrank. He could see her clearly now—her body limp, her arms spread wide, her face turned upward, eerily serene despite the violence that had placed her there. The river carried her, not quickly, but steadily, and he knew if he missed this chance—if he reached too late—there would be no second opportunity.
He shifted his weight, adjusted the angle of his paddle, and then—there. His fingers closed around the fabric of her collar, and he pulled. She was heavier than he expected, her clothes waterlogged, her body unresponsive, but he didn't hesitate. He didn't pause. He lifted her, inch by inch, first her head, carefully resting it onto the raft, then her shoulders, her torso, her waist, her legs—each motion precise, controlled, devoid of panic but not of urgency, because every second mattered, because even as he moved, the weight of reality pressed down on him. She was unnervingly light in his arms, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a whisper of doubt curled into existence—what if he was too late?
No. That thought had no place here.
He adjusted his grip on the paddle, guiding the raft toward the opposite bank where the land jutted out just enough to form a temporary shelter. As the raft scraped against the earth, he jumped off, lifting her again, not alone this time—because T.B. was there now, stumbling out of the water, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with something raw and unfamiliar, something like fear but heavier, deeper, like a man confronting something he had never allowed himself to believe in.
Together, they carried her to the flattest patch of ground, a large rock where she could lie undisturbed. And then T.B. knelt, one knee hitting the ground hard, his shoulders rising and falling in uneven tremors, his fingers hesitant as they brushed against her cheek. His lips parted, but no words came out. He had no words for this.
T.B., who had been trained in combat, who had spent his life mastering the art of destruction, who could pull a trigger and watch a man fall without blinking, had no training for this. No training for the act of saving rather than killing, for the unbearable helplessness of watching life slip away with nothing but empty hands to grasp at it. His tears, silent and unnoticed, dripped onto her skin, mixing with the river water that clung to her hair. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to fix this.
T.B. had never felt useless before. Not once in his life.
His body had always been enough—more than enough. He had been trained for violence, for action. His hands, calloused and scarred, had learned to break bones, to pull triggers, to end lives with mechanical efficiency. He had been built for movement, for decisions that required no thought, for the kind of instinct that kept a man alive on a battlefield where hesitation was the difference between standing and bleeding out in the dirt.
But now—now he was here, on his knees in the cold mud, watching Anderson press down on Layla's chest with brutal precision, watching the force of each compression shake her fragile body, and for the first time in his life, his hands were useless. His strength was useless. His training was useless.
He had never saved anyone before.
Not once.
He had never been taught how.
The realization crawled under his skin, a slow, insidious thing, suffocating, tightening, wrapping itself around his ribs like a vice. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling too fast, his fingers twitching with restless energy, his entire being screaming at him to do something, move, act, fix this. But he didn't know how.
He didn't even know where to start.
His body, this body that had carried him through warzones, that had endured exhaustion and hunger and pain, was now just a mass of muscle and sinew with no purpose. His fists, which had shattered noses and knocked men unconscious in a single blow, clenched and unclenched at his sides, completely fucking worthless. His legs, which had carried him through firefights, through gunfire and explosions, through smoke-choked corridors where death waited around every corner, were now folded beneath him in absolute stillness because there was nowhere to run, no enemy to fight, no battle to win.
Only this.
Only Anderson, his face a mask of focus, his hands relentless, his voice sharp as he counted compressions under his breath. Only Layla, still motionless, still not breathing, still not coming back. Only the sound of the river behind them, indifferent and eternal, as if it hadn't just stolen the air from her lungs, as if it wasn't still pulling at the edges of her drenched clothing, trying to drag her back into its depths.
T.B. swallowed hard, trying to push down the unfamiliar weight in his throat, trying to ignore the way his vision blurred at the edges, trying to pretend he didn't feel like he was falling apart inside. He wanted to look away. Wanted to close his eyes. Wanted to shove his hands over his ears and drown out the sound of Anderson's rhythmic, unforgiving movements, the sound of Layla's silence, the sound of his own breath hitching in his throat.
But he couldn't.
He could only watch.
And for the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to be powerless.
Anderson did.
He moved quickly, pushing T.B. aside, not unkindly but firmly, because there was no time for grief, no time for fear, only time for action. His hands were steady as he placed two fingers against her throat, searching for the pulse that wasn't there. He leaned down, pressing his ear against her chest—nothing. Silence. A void where there should have been rhythm.
His mind dissected the possibilities, each one leading to the same conclusion: her heart had stopped. Whether it was from the impact of the rifle butt, the shock of the fall, or the suffocating grip of the cold river, the result was the same. No blood was moving through her veins. No oxygen was reaching her brain. If he did not restart her heart now, within minutes—perhaps within seconds—she would not just be unconscious. She would be gone.
Anderson placed his hands over her chest, fingers interlocked, arms locked straight. He took a breath—not to calm himself, but to prepare to rescue her.
The beating heart. That was what he needed to bring back.