Response teams reached the cabin within minutes. The second fugitive was taken into custody in the woods after a short search. The first was alive when medics reached him. My round had struck high in the shoulder and upper chest, stopping him before he could fire. I did not ask for more detail.
I had learned in Seattle that a justified shot could still live inside you like an injury.
Vance climbed the ledge forty minutes later.
His spotless boots were gone.
Mud covered him from the knees down. His orange vest was torn at one shoulder. There was a shallow cut along his forehead where he had hit the truck.
He stopped three feet from me.
For once, he did not have a joke.
“You hit?”
“No.”
He looked at my face.
“Your eye.”
I turned away too late.
The swelling that I had hidden for three days had grown worse from recoil and strain. My vision pulsed at the edges.
Vance’s expression changed.
“How long?”
I said nothing.
“Candidate. How long has your eye been injured?”
“Three days.”
The anger returned to him instantly.
Not the theatrical cruelty from the catwalk.
Something colder.
“You concealed a possible orbital fracture during live-fire selection?”
“I could still shoot.”
He stared at the empty chamber of my rifle.
“That is not the point.”
“It was thirty minutes ago.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
His jaw clenched.
“Medical is coming.”
“If they pull me now, I’m out.”
