Callighan ran with Ryan clinging to his back, forcing his legs to carry them farther down the uneven path.
The pain in his right knee had become difficult to distinguish from the strain everywhere else. Each time his foot struck the ground, he felt a jolt through his thigh and into his hip, but he no longer had the luxury of testing his footing. He stumbled, recovered, and kept moving, one arm braced beneath Ryan while the other pushed branches aside.
Behind them, Brigantine was waking.
Shouts carried between the houses. Gunshots broke through the darkness, followed by the pounding of feet on ground that lay far too close to their path. Then an engine started.
Callighan's expression darkened.
He could perhaps stay ahead of men searching on foot for a little longer. He could not outrun a vehicle, not like this, and the noise was already drawing more people toward the shore.
"I suppose a quiet exit was too much to ask," he muttered.
