Recursion Protocol

Chapter 6: Escape

Hayes recognized the sound of suppressed gunfire.

The crack-thump echoed across the warehouse complex as emergency lighting bathed everything in red.

Blake was already moving, grabbing hard drives from workstations while Hartford spoke rapidly into his radio.

"Perimeter compromised. Execute protocol seven. All data to secondary location."

Hayes clutched his equipment case. "What's protocol seven?"

"Controlled destruction," Blake said, yanking cables from computers. "If we can't preserve the evidence, we make sure they can't have it either."

More gunfire. Closer now.

Hartford pointed toward a rear exit. "Dr. Hayes, that corridor leads to the vehicle bay. Keys in the blue Land Rover. If we're separated—"

The warehouse's main door exploded inward.

Six figures in tactical gear poured through the breach, moving with military precision. No identifying patches, no flags, no markings.

Hayes dropped behind a workstation as bullets sparked off metal surfaces. Blake had vanished somewhere in the maze of equipment. Hartford returned fire from behind an overturned table, his pistol completely outmatched by assault rifles.

"Hayes!" Hartford shouted over the gunfire. "Move!"

Hayes crawled toward the rear corridor, dragging his case. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Behind him, Hartford's gunfire stopped abruptly.

Hayes reached the corridor and risked a look back. Hartford was down. Blake was nowhere visible. The tactical team was advancing methodically, checking corners, clearing the space like they'd done this many times before.

Hayes ran.

The vehicle bay contained three vehicles: the blue Land Rover, a black sedan, and a motorcycle. Hayes chose the motorcycle—smaller target, better maneuverability, harder to track.

The engine roared to life as the bay door began opening. Through the widening gap, Hayes saw vehicle headlights approaching fast across the dark countryside.

He gunned the motorcycle through the door as bullets shattered the opening mechanism behind him. The bike leaped forward into the night, headlight cutting through darkness as Hayes aimed for the tree line.

Behind him, engines started. Pursuit vehicles, at least two, possibly three.

Hayes hit the forest at seventy kilometers per hour, weaving between trees on what appeared to be an old logging trail. The bike's suspension absorbed roots and rocks while branches whipped past his helmet.

A spotlight beam swept through the trees behind him. They were close.

Hayes killed his headlight and relied on moonlight filtering through the canopy. Dangerous, but it made him invisible. The pursuit vehicles had to use lights, making them easy to track while Hayes became a ghost.

The trail branched. Hayes took the left fork, heading generally north toward the A14. If he could reach a major road, he could blend into traffic, lose himself among normal travelers.

Two kilometers through forest, Hayes emerged onto a country lane. Behind him, no lights. Either he'd lost them or they were being very careful.

Hayes checked his GPS. Six kilometers to the A14. He opened the throttle, racing down the narrow lane between hedgerows.

The headlights appeared in his mirrors just as he crested a hill.

Two vehicles, closing fast. Hayes pushed the bike harder, engine screaming as he took curves at dangerous speeds. The Kawasaki held the road beautifully, but the pursuit cars were gaining.

Three kilometers to the highway.

Hayes saw the trap too late. Another vehicle emerged from a side road ahead, blocking the lane. He had seconds to decide: crash into the roadblock, brake and surrender, or...

Hayes aimed for the narrow gap between the blocking car and the hedge. The bike squeezed through with centimeters to spare, but Hayes felt the case containing his specimens catch on something.

The strap snapped. His equipment case tumbled onto the road behind him.

Hayes watched in his mirror as tactical figures emerged from the vehicles and secured his case. Months of work. Irreplaceable specimens. Gone.

But Hayes was still moving, and two kilometers ahead lay the A14 with its promise of anonymity.

He reached the highway and merged into sparse late-night traffic. In his mirrors, no pursuit. They had what they came for—his specimens. Hayes was secondary now.

He rode east for twenty minutes before pulling into a petrol station. In the harsh fluorescent lighting, Hayes examined himself. Cuts from branches. Torn jacket. Bruised hands from gripping the handlebars.

But alive.

Hayes pulled out his phone, then stopped. Blake's warning echoed: don't contact anyone from your previous academic life. Don't use devices they could track.

Hayes turned off his phone and walked into the shop. He needed some food, and time to think about what came next.

The clerk barely looked up as Hayes paid for energy bars and a map of East Anglia.

As Hayes walked back to the motorcycle, he realized something: Dr. Brandon Hayes, respected archaeologist, was officially dead. What remained was someone who'd seen proof that human history was a lie, and that the only evidence capable of revealing the truth had just been destroyed.

Hayes started the motorcycle and headed east, carrying nothing but questions and a growing certainty that everything he'd believed about human civilization was wrong.

Behindhim, the petrol station's security camera recorded his departure. Twelveminutes later, a black sedan pulled into the same parking lot.