Case ran fast enough that his lungs burned and his legs screamed. He cut downhill from the ridge, boots skidding on loose stone, momentum carrying him forward as tracer fire snapped overhead and chewed into the rock behind him.
At the first choke point—a narrow cut between boulders—he dropped to one knee, pulled a block of C4 from the rucksack, slapped it against exposed stone, and clipped the detonator in place, and then, set the timer to twenty seconds.
He was moving again before the charge was fully seated.
Shouts echoed above him. The Legion was coming hard now—specialists pushing downhill with their rifle firing blindly against the dark figure running in the desert. Two rucksacks bounced against his shoulders—one heavy with remaining explosives, the other dragging with ammo and gear. The marksman rifle was slung tight across his chest; the machine gun rode awkwardly over his back, weight threatening to throw him off balance if he misstepped.
The terrain flattened abruptly—no more ridges, no gullies, no broken stone to hide behind. Just hard-packed desert stretching all the way to the Colorado River. Tracer fire snapped past him, bright lines slicing through the dark. Rounds kicked up dust at his heels, close enough that he felt the impacts through his boots. The Legion had clear sightlines now, and they knew it.
It was a crazy plan—borderline suicidal—but there hadn't been another option.
If the artillery managed to fire on Cottonwood Cove or Searchlight, it would be over. The Rangers would be dealing with heavy casualties and a Legion push at the same time. If he died tonight, at least it would mean something.
Case adjusted his angle, zigzagging just enough to spoil their aim without bleeding speed. His breathing turned ragged, every inhale burning his chest raw. The weight of the two rucksacks dragged at him, the machine gun hammering against his spine with every stride.
Behind him—
BOOM.
The first charge detonated.
He kept running, dropping C4 as he went. The Legion should have known better than to follow, but rage overruled discipline. They wanted blood—retribution for the men they'd lost.
Case risked a glance back.
Tall figures in red and gold armor were sprinting after him, rifles shouldered, firing as they ran.
BOOM.
Another charge went off, followed by shouts and screams. The blast caught some of them—sent bodies tumbling—but not enough. The Legion kept coming.
Bullets continued to chase him, snapping past his shoulders, ripping lines through the dust. One passed close enough that he felt the heat of it graze his arm. He stumbled, barely kept his footing, then forced himself upright.
The combat armor should have been able to stop a 5.56 bullet, but he caught a glimpse that one of them was equipped with a sniper rifle. This was bad, real bad, if there was a legion using an anti-materiel rifle, he would have done for.
"COME BACK HERE, YOU FILTHY RANGER!" A legionnaire shouted.
"WE WILL WEAR YOUR HEAD LIKE A TROPHY!"
Boots hammered the desert, each step jarring his bones as tracer fire tore past him. The shouting grew louder—closer—rage carrying their voices farther than discipline ever could. He yanked another block of C4 free without slowing, thumbed the timer down by feel, and let it drop into the dirt behind him.
BOOM.
The blast punched the air, throwing dust and bodies upward in a filthy cloud. The shockwave slammed into his back like a physical shove, nearly pitching him forward. Case staggered, boots skidding, then forced himself upright and kept running.
The rucksack felt lighter now.
He'd burned through most of the C4. What remained, he bundled together
The rucksack hit the ground amid the pursuing Legionnaires.
Case didn't slow.
A heartbeat later, he keyed the detonator.
"That's it," Case muttered between gasps. "Last of the C4."
The night behind him vanished in fire.
He tore the machine gun off his shoulder and fired blind over his back, long ragged bursts meant less to hit than to slow. Tracers ripped through the dark, kicking dust and forcing heads down—but still they came. Shadows ran through smoke and debris, silhouettes multiplying instead of thinning.
How many of them are there? he thought, panic threatening to claw its way in.
Then he saw it—far to the east. A broad plume of dust rising against the firelight, moving fast.
Vehicles.
Or something worse.
No time.
Case hit the riverbank hard, boots skidding on loose dirt. The Colorado stretched black and wide below him, churning softly. The rope was still there—thank God—anchored tight, swaying faintly in the night air.
He snapped the harness on with shaking hands.
Pain exploded through his fingers.
He hissed as a round grazed his hand, skin splitting, blood slicking the grip. Case turned back toward the ridge, raised the machine gun, and emptied what was left of the belt in a furious roar of fire. Legionnaires dove for cover as rounds chewed the riverbank apart.
He kept firing.
Reloaded.
Fired again.
Another reload—hands clumsy now, slick with blood.
The machine gun clicked empty.
"Fucking hell!"
Case dropped it and yanked up his marksman carbine, turning just as something slammed into him—
A blunt, crushing impact, like being hit by a truck. He felt some warm liquid flowing down his head.
The world tilted. The river lurched upward. His feet lost the edge.
For a split second, he was weightless.
Then the Colorado swallowed him whole.