RAVEN’S HUNT

Eastern Cordillera,

Fifty klicks northwest of Bogotá, Colombia,

Eighteen months ago…

The dull, yellowed light blinked out three seconds before the men upstairs started yelling.

Tierney O’Rourke jolted upright, the chain shackled around her right wrist rattling against the metal frame of the rusty cot for one, heart-stopping moment before she grabbed the length and lifted it clear of the edge. Darkness swallowed the damp, concrete cell, the heavy shadows a jarring change after weeks of having that single, bare bulb forever swaying overhead, spinning the room in nauseating circles. 

The utter blackness accentuated the staccato rhythm of the rain hammering the roof, the latest in a string of storms that had rolled through the compound since she’d woken in the locked room a month ago. But there was something different about the way the thunder boomed across the sky, shaking the foundation with each rumbling beat. A charge in the air she hadn’t felt before. As if the mountain, itself, had declared war on the mercenaries holding her captive.

Somewhere, in the yard outside, the backup generator coughed then sputtered without catching, leaving a void in the air she knew wouldn’t go unanswered. It had choked and spat a dozen times over the past week when the unrelenting rain and wind had blown through the compound like an omen, but it had always kicked back on. 

Until now.

Upstairs, one of the men barked out orders with the kind of tone that demanded action. Boots tapped overhead as the floorboards creaked, raining down dust motes that floated in the dim glow from the narrow window above her head. The one that had teased her with a hint of hope. Too small to escape from, but enough to see the road to freedom beyond the muddy grounds.

Tierney pushed to her feet, catching her weight on the wall when the room tilted, sliding left and right a few times before stabilizing slightly off kilter. Pain lanced through her stapled thigh, the metal pieces pulling on her flesh as she took a step, steadied herself. 

The simple movement stole her breath, her broken ribs protesting every shallow inhale, as fire burned through her shoulder where shrapnel had torn it open the night everything had changed. But this time, she welcomed the agony — used the stabbing pain to sharpen her senses. Keep her conscious when the weakness creeping into her muscles demanded rest.

For thirty-six days, she’d burned through fever, fought the rot in her thigh, and shivered through the kind of cold that settled in her bones, never quite leaving. All while the men who’d annihilated her team in the ravine kept her breathing just long enough to heal.

A targeted hit. Just not for the reason she’d assumed.

Tierney had braced herself for torture the moment she’d woken in the cell. Interrogation. Pain with purpose. Questions asked until answers became irrelevant. But the medic had simply patched her up, then walked away. The wrongness of that had festered under her skin, until a few words bled through the floorboards…

Buyer. 

Delivery. 

Merchandise.

That’s when it had hit her. She hadn’t been spared because she was valuable to question. She’d been spared because she was valuable to sell. The realization had hollowed out part of her soul, leaving behind only rage and a ticking clock. By dawn, they’d move her. If she was still in this cell when the transport arrived, she’d vanish into a world far worse than this one.

Footsteps hammered outside the cellar stairs. The mountain had finally given her an opening, and she was about to drive a knife through it.

A flashlight beam cut under the door, the bright light making the top of the old wooden stairs glow a sickly gray. Metal scraped as a key hit the lock, the telltale screech of the hinges sounding above the needling rain. She had about five seconds between when the door swung open and the guard descended the stairs before he’d be at her door.

Tierney gathered the length of chain between her hands as she limped across the room, stepped into the blind spot beside the frame. It wasn’t much. Maybe a foot of space, but enough to hide her until she had a chance to strike. 

She held her breath as she flattened her back against the damp stone. No doubt, the guy would expect the broken version of her. The one who’d barely moved. Not the woman who’d taken the guilt and the grief and burned it into blistering rage. 

Who’d show him exactly why she was worth so much money in the first place.

The wooden steps groaned, a series of squeaks tracking the guard’s progression. Boots scuffed the floor outside the barred door, that flashlight beam bouncing off the metal, only a fraction making it past the billets.

He cursed, keys jingling just beyond the doorway before the lock turned over, everything settling with a final thunk. The door shook, the rusted hinges protesting as he opened it an inch at a time, one hand braced on the metal, the other tracing the room with the flashlight. The beam swept along the wall, hit the empty cot, then froze.

The guard grunted, swung the light to where the chain had been anchored to the metal leg bolt, inhaling as the length coiled along the floor, the links glinting amidst the surrounding darkness. He tensed, reached for his knife, as she lunged forward — the cold metal grasped between her hands.

Her leg dragged, buckling enough she tripped a step, smashed into his back as she fought to catch her balance. The creep stumbled forward, lost his grip on the flashlight and it tumbled to the floor, rolling several feet away, that beam tracing circles along the far wall. 

Their combined weight drove them against the cot, the stench of smoke and cheap cologne overpowering the usual scent of wet cement and stale blood. He tried to shake her off, but she recovered enough to wrap the chain around his neck and pull.

Harsh gasps cut the still air as he got his feet under him, lifted her off hers before reeling backwards, slamming her against the wall. White dots exploded behind her eyes as pain tore through her shoulder, her ribs trapping her next breath in her chest. Pain rippled down her thigh, every muscle cramping, as he stepped forward, then launched backwards, again.

Her head cracked against the concrete, streaks of black edging her vision before she planted her bare feet on the wall, shoved. He tipped forward, smacked onto the floor with a sharp thud. Tierney got one knee in the center of the guard’s back, used it to lever her weight up and away.

The man thrashed beneath her, landing a few hits to her ribs, nearly shaking her loose as he got one hand wedged between the chain and his neck, released enough of the tension to suck in a breath. Her muscles ached, her strength waning before she changed tactics — scrambled for his sheath, freed the knife, then stabbed him in the throat.

Blood arced across her shirt, a series of wet, gurgling rasps sounding above the roll of thunder before he collapsed on the floor, blood quickly pooling beneath him. The storm raged outside, men shouting above her, as the guard’s legs twitched a few times before stilling.

Her hands shook, her thigh a fiery inferno as she braced her weight against the wall, sweat slicking her forehead and neck, the wind howling through the cracks in the cellar, chilling her skin until simply releasing the chain took conscious thought. The steel links rattled against the concrete, that flashlight still rocking back and forth, casting crazy shadows along the cement. 

Tierney let her head tip back, each breath like liquid fire, until the worst of the shaking had stopped. A wash of blood warmed her thigh, some of the staples had popped free, but at least she hadn’t died.

It took a minute to lever off the wall, stand without falling on her ass or blacking out. Another had passed by the time she’d found his keys, juggling them in the air a few times when her fingers refused to cooperate, before unlocking the shackle, dragging him over to the cot and tossing him onto the ratty mattress. It was messy, with blood smeared across the floor, but from a distance, the other guards might believe she’d hunkered beneath the cover.

She waited out a wave of nausea, hands still trembling, her thigh protesting every step as she tugged on the asshole’s jacket, tucked the keys in the pocket, then removed the knife, wiping the blade clean on his shirt before strapping the sheath around her good leg. She limped over to the flashlight, cursing when her skin pulled taut against the staples as she grabbed it off the floor, holding it close as she stumbled toward the door.

It groaned as she closed it behind her, hoping the sound was lost to the storm, before heading for the stairs. Voices sounded farther off in the compound, the floorboards still creaking as men stomped around the house. The occasional flashlight beam lit up the slit beneath the door, brightening the top step before moving on.

She climbed the stairs in slow, painful increments, using her left leg to carry most of her weight until she grabbed the handle. Listening, she waited for the next crash of thunder before slivering it open, hiding the screech of the hinges in the rattle that shook through the walls. 

Darkness filled a short hallway, with more stairs heading to an upper level off to her right. Lightning flashed in the windows at the far end, illuminating a row of boxes in another room.

Tierney switched off the flashlight as she crept down the corridor, constantly checking each direction before taking another step. Voices picked up off to the left, another beam cutting through the dark. She darted forward, nearly tripping when her right leg dragged again, then wedged herself into a small space beneath the stairs, knife at the ready. Boots appeared a second later as two men walked past, heading for the cellar door. The scent of earthy mud and cheap tobacco followed after them, blending with the lingering smell of day-old pizza and stale beer. The hinges sounded above the torrential rain beating the roof, the metal door clicking shut with a dull whoosh.

She cursed. If they found the dead guard…

Blood smeared the floor as she crawled out, limped down the hall and into the adjoining room. A few monitors lined the far wall, the screens reflecting the next burst of lightning. A narrow door opened onto an old, covered veranda, rain blowing past the windows on a forty-five.

She checked her six, then hobbled to the door, wincing when the damn thing squeaked as she eased it open. Another check before she slipped out, staying low as she limped to the far end, looked out across the grounds. 

Through the sheeting rain, she spied a cluster of men, one large, imposing figure barking out orders as he waved a flashlight, kicking a piece of equipment out of his way. He turned, and she swore he stared right at her before pointing at two of the men, sending them racing off. The guy stared at the sky for a moment, rain streaming down his face and jacket before he headed for the veranda.

She crouched lower, ready to dive behind a bamboo chair when another man shifted out of the shadows several feet away. He didn’t talk, just stood there, watching the other men race across the grounds, looking like an immovable force amidst the monsoon gales. 

The first man marched over to him, shaking his head as he stopped, said something she couldn’t make out. The other man merely nodded, lifting his right hand to his face. Snick-clink. A spark flashed in the darkness, followed by a flickering flame that illuminated the man’s hand along with the lower half of his jaw. In the brief burst of orange flame, the light glinted off the Zippo’s metal casing, displaying a polished silver scythe engraved on the matte back cover.

The first guy grabbed the lighter, used it to light a cigarette before handing it back, taking a long draw. They talked for a while before heading her way. She ducked behind the chair, praying the heavy cushion hid most of her body as the door flew open, wind and rain blowing in with the men as they sauntered inside — latched the door closed behind them.

The quiet guy shook off the rain, slicking his hair back from his face. “I told you we should have moved her before the storm set in. We’ll be lucky if the road doesn’t wash out.” Obviously British, with a hollow tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

The louder guy kicked off a clump of mud, knocking the bamboo chair in the process. She held her breath as it rocked, exposing her shoulder before settling back. 

He crossed his arms, water still dripping off his jacket. “Be thankful we have a buyer at all, chum. You nearly blew her leg off in that crossfire.”

Another Brit, only his accent sounded thicker. Harsher.

“She was trying to drag her dead squad leader out of the kill-zone. I had to drop her.” The quiet man pulled the Zippo from his pocket. Snick-clink. The silver scythe flashed again as he lit his own cigarette. “Her fever broke yesterday. She’s viable. By the time the broker takes delivery tomorrow, she’ll be fully transportable.”

“And if her leg gives out? We guaranteed the buyer an operative, not a cripple.”

The other man smiled, the embers of his cigarette illuminating cold, dead eyes. “With her file? The buyer doesn’t care if she walks. He’s paying for the MI6 pedigree and the fact she doesn’t break easily. He’ll enjoy breaking her himself.” He stopped, his head tilting slightly as he inhaled. “Do you smell that?”

“Antiseptic.” The large guy wrinkled his nose. “And José’s cheap-ass cologne.”

Zippo man snapped the lighter shut, plunging the veranda back into shadow. “It’s too strong for him to just be making exterior rounds. Go down to the cellar. Secure the merchandise. I want her ready to load before first light.”

The larger guy waved the other forward, their steps strong, determined. She waited until the cellar door opened and closed, their footsteps fading into the rain before scrambling to her feet, rushing outside. Not worrying if anyone saw her, not with the time quickly counting down before the entire camp knew she’d escaped. Instead, she limped across the storm-drenched ground, the rain needling her skin, the freezing mud numbing her feet until she couldn’t tell what burned more — her toes or her thigh.

She slipped, tripped onto one knee, mud splashing up her legs and across her face. She took a breath and locked down the pain, as she stumbled upright, pushing ahead. Stones bit into the soles of her feet, but she kept moving, using rusty barrels and overturned crates for cover. 

She’d just reached the tree line when the lights flickered, the generator roaring back to life, flooding the yard with spotlights. An alarm sounded inside, the shrill noise drowning out the next roll of thunder.

Men exploded from the house, shouting a mix of English and Spanish. Dogs barked from the kennels, angry growls resonating with the raging storm, as the entire compound mobilized in a coordinated response. 

Lights appeared farther down the road, sweeping back toward the house as more men closed in from the opposite side. The rain kicked up, running in streams across the muddy gravel, a hollow roar sounding beyond the trees.

Tierney tore through the underbrush, tripping over vines and bramble, scrambling across boulders before stopping at the edge of a massive gorge. Black water frothed at the edges, churning white as it surged down the quebrada, sweeping branches and debris off the sides. Logs bobbed along the rapids, cracking apart as they smashed against buried rocks before continuing downhill, the pieces quickly vanishing beneath the surface.

Dogs bayed behind her, more lights bouncing through the brush as the men closed in, a few speculative rounds sparking off limestone and punching into bark. 

Either the men would kill her, or the mountain would.

Tierney took a moment to map out a route — watch how the debris swirled through the chaos before sucking in a breath and launching herself into the dark water.

The searing cold hit her like concrete, punching any oxygen from her lungs as the current swept her under. She tumbled amidst the rocks, swallowing muddy water before scrambling to the surface, gasping in a choking breath only to be pulled down, again, when her bad leg buckled.

She rolled, ribs grinding, the shrapnel wounds on her shoulder and side breaking open as she bounced off rocks and stumps, finally cresting the rapids where the gorge turned, crushed her against a limestone wall. She clawed at the rock, fingers bleeding, coughing up mud and water before pulling herself out of the main torrent, then wedging her body in a narrow, suffocating air-pocket beneath a shale overhang.

Above her, boots crunched on the edge of the rock, raining silt and pebbles over the lip. A high-lumen flashlight pierced the murky depths, sweeping across the river an inch from where her head barely hid beneath the outcrop. Water rushed past, the unrelenting current nearly dragging her away, until she shoved her fingers into a small crevice, used it to hold her ground. 

Pain throbbed through her thigh, more staples pulling tight, the metal cooling faster than her skin. She held on, arms shaking, muscles cramping from the cold as the beam made another pass, stopping where the edge of her palm pressed against the lip. She waited, ready to just let go when the light moved down the rapids, finally darting across the bank.

The guy grunted, kicking a few more stones into the water. “No one could survive that river. The rocks will grind her into dust. The boss can search for her body tomorrow if he wants.”

Another slow sweep, then the light vanished, just the roar of the water and the rain piercing the surface.

Tierney held on, aware she wouldn’t last much longer with hypothermia creeping in, all her strength bleeding into the river. But if she didn’t get clear of the search radius, she’d end up back in the cell, or worse… On that transport in the morning.

She took a shuddering breath, then shoved off, twisting in an effort to protect her head. Black water churned around her, the current dragging her under, then spitting her back up. The river roared, drowning out everything but the pounding of her pulse in her head, the occasional echo of gunfire behind her.

The path bent to the right, shifting the torrent, forcing her to kick off boulders, take hits to her ribs and shoulders. She clawed for a handhold, gulping down more water when the current picked up, funneling her toward a narrow pass. White water frothed over her head, the walls closing in, pressing on her ribs before the rapids shot her out.

She hung in the air, breath locked tight, pulse racing before dropping into the pool below. She hit the bottom, the force tearing at her thigh before she kicked to the surface, riding the current for a while until the river slowed, the banks widening. Black dots frayed her vision, her arms barely moving as she swam toward the edge and dragged herself onto the muddy embankment. 

Roots scratched at her hands and feet as she crawled higher, collapsing in the tall grass lining the bank. The clouds thinned, a hint of moonlight peeking through as she glanced back at the jagged rock face. 

She pressed her hand over the bleeding wounds, tasting rain and copper as she forced herself to her feet. She started walking, because stopping here was just another form of death, and she hadn’t survived this long just to die in the mud. She’d follow the river. Find a remote farm or small town — bleed out the remaining infection for a day or two before disappearing completely.

She wouldn’t trust official channels. Someone at Interpol or MI6 had sold the route — sold her to a group of mercenaries like a piece of high-end inventory.

They believed the river had taken her tonight. Good. Let the man with the silver scythe think she was dead. Let the buyers cancel the transaction.

The woman they’d put a price on had died in the water. What crawled out was something else entirely.