The stolen Ford Fiesta rattled down a dark B-road, its engine whining in protest. DC Harris was driving, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his gaze flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. In the passenger seat, DI Miles Corbin was slumped against the door, his face pale and slick with sweat in the intermittent glow of passing streetlights. He had his jacket wadded up against the deep, ragged gash in his arm, but blood had already soaked through the thick fabric.
In the back, Dr. Evelyn Reed was unnaturally calm. Her academic curiosity had receded, replaced by a cold, practical focus. She watched the dark Essex countryside flash by, her mind processing the events of the last hour with chilling clarity.
"Pull in there," she commanded, pointing to a cheap, sign-lit motel just off the A12, one of those grim, transient places that smell of damp and regret.
"We can't, we need to keep moving," Harris argued, his voice shaky.
"The Inspector needs medical attention, not a police escort to the nearest A&E," she retorted sharply. "And he's losing blood. Pull in."
Harris complied. In a drab room with a peeling laminate headboard and a faint smell of bleach, the new reality of their situation became starkly apparent. They were fugitives.
"A hospital is out of the question," Corbin grunted, leaning against the wall as he inspected his arm. The Pathfinder's knife had been brutally effective. "A suspended officer with a knife wound? I'll be in a holding cell before they've even stitched me up."
"Indeed," said Dr. Reed, examining the wound with a clinical eye. "My field was forensic anthropology, Inspector. It involves a great deal more than dusty bones. I've seen my share of battlefield trauma and dissection." She looked at Harris. "Go to that 24-hour chemist we passed. I need antiseptic solution, butterfly closures, sterile gauze, and the strongest roll of bandage they have. And a bottle of vodka. Not for drinking."
Harris nodded and fled, glad for a task. The scene that followed was tense and surreal. In the grim light of the motel bathroom, Dr. Reed, the eccentric academic, transformed into a brutally efficient field medic. She cleaned the wound with an unflinching hand, her movements precise and economical. Corbin bore it with gritted teeth, the cheap vodka she used to sterilise the needle doing little to dull the searing pain as she expertly pulled the torn flesh together with butterfly stitches.
With his arm tightly bandaged, the three of them gathered around the room's single, wobbly table. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind shock and a cold, pervasive fear.
"They knew where we were," Harris said, finally breaking the silence. "The printer wasn't even plugged in. How is that possible?"
"We're not dealing with hackers anymore," Reed said calmly. "The Echo's abilities are… beyond conventional explanation. We must assume that any piece of modern technology is a potential spy."
"So we were right about the target," Corbin said, his voice low. "Dame Eleanor Swift. The gala. They attacked us to stop us from interfering." He looked at their faces. "Our old plan is in ashes. We can't go to her. We can't warn her officially. If we go near her now, we'd just be leading the pack of wolves right to her door. We'd be painting a target on her back."
The devastating logic of his words settled upon them. They couldn't act as a shield. They were a liability.
"So what do we do, Guv?" Harris asked, his voice full of despair. "We just let it happen?"
"No," Corbin said, a new, hard light in his eyes. "We change the game. We've been on the defensive since this began. Reacting. It's time we went on the offensive."
He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "They found us through technology. That's their strength. But it's also their only visible footprint. The Architect, The Pathfinder… they're ghosts until they strike. But The Echo… The Echo has to reach out. The Echo has to touch the digital world to see us."
A new, desperate plan began to form in his mind, a high-stakes gamble born from their new reality. He looked directly at Harris, whose expertise had suddenly become their most dangerous and most valuable weapon.
"You're going to let them hack you again," Corbin said, his voice quiet but firm.
Harris stared back, uncomprehending. "Guv?"
"On purpose," Corbin confirmed. "We're going to set a trap. We're going to give them a target to look at, and while they're looking, you're going to look right back at them." He leaned back, the decision made. "This time, you're going to be ready."