Chapter 19 #2
"Is it?" His voice is raw. "Because it doesn't feel like enough. None of this feels like enough. We lost Mercer. Nearly lost Sarah. The Committee is breathing down our necks and we're running out of time to stop whatever they're planning."
I step fully into the room, closing the door behind me. "You're right. It's not enough. But it's all we have right now. We work with what we have, make the best decisions we can, and we keep moving forward. That's the job."
"The job," he repeats bitterly. "Yeah. The job that keeps taking everything from us."
I don't have an answer for that. Because he's right. This life—the black ops, the classified missions, the constant state of warfare against enemies most people don't even know exist—it takes everything. Relationships. Normalcy. Peace. Sometimes it takes lives.
But it's also the only thing standing between the Committee and complete control of the country.
"Get some rest," I tell him. "Khalid’s with Sarah now. You're no good to her exhausted."
He finally looks up at me, his eyes red-rimmed. "You need to get Mercer back, Kane. Whatever it takes. Just bring him home."
"I will," I promise.
Echo Base Command Center
Tommy and Willa are already deep into analysis when I arrive. The command center's main screen displays a tactical map of the surrounding region, marked with known Committee facilities, possible detention sites, and estimated patrol patterns.
"Talk to me," I say, moving to stand behind them.
"I've been analyzing the intercepted communications from the tactical radios," Tommy begins, his fingers flying across multiple keyboards simultaneously. "The encryption is sophisticated, but I found something interesting. Look at these transmission patterns."
He throws data onto the screen—strings of code and communication logs that mean nothing to me but apparently tell Tommy everything he needs to know.
"Three distinct communication networks," he continues. "Each using slightly different encryption protocols. Each with different operational priorities."
"Internal factions," Willa says. "The Committee isn't a monolithic organization. They're fragmented. Fighting amongst themselves."
"Exactly." Tommy highlights different sections of data.
"This group here is focused entirely on neutralizing Echo Ridge.
But this second faction seems more interested in something called Project Blackout—some kind of operational timeline tied to the inauguration.
And this third group is actively countermanding orders from the other two, trying to maintain what they call 'structural integrity. '"
"A power struggle," I conclude. "They're fighting for control."
"Which could work in our favor," Willa suggests. "Divided enemies are weaker. More vulnerable to infiltration and exploitation."
"Maybe," I agree. "But it also makes them unpredictable. We don't know which faction has Mercer, or what their specific agenda might be. One faction might want him alive for intelligence. Another might see him as a liability to eliminate."
The implications of that hang heavy in the air. Mercer could already be dead. A bullet to the head, body dumped in some remote location where it'll never be found.
Or he could be somewhere much worse—a black site facility where they can take their time breaking him down, extracting everything he knows about Echo Ridge's operations, capabilities, and personnel.
"Can you trace where they've taken him?" I ask Tommy.
His expression darkens. "I'm trying. But they've gone completely dark since the capture. No communications mentioning his location, no movement through any of their known facilities. It's like he vanished."
"They're keeping him off-grid," Willa says. "Somewhere isolated. Somewhere they can work on him without interference from rival factions or oversight from anyone in their organization who might have ethical concerns about their methods."
I don't like where this is going. Isolated means no rules. No limits. No boundaries on what they might do to extract information.
"Keep digging," I tell Tommy. "Any scrap of intel, any communication pattern that might tell us where they've taken him. I don't care how thin the thread is—we follow it."
He nods, already turning back to his screens with renewed focus.
I move to the tactical display, studying the map of potential Committee facilities within a five-hundred-mile radius. Dozens of marked locations, each one a possibility. Too many to hit systematically, and every hour we waste searching is another hour Mercer spends in their custody.
"We need leverage," I say aloud. "Something to force their hand. Make them reveal his location or at least narrow down the possibilities."
"Like what?" Willa challenges, moving to stand beside me. "We've already taken out one of their staging facilities. Killed two dozen of their operatives. What else can we threaten them with that they'll actually care about?"
I'm about to answer when Tommy makes a sharp sound of surprise.
"Kane. You need to see this."
I'm at his station in three strides. "What is it?"
"Encrypted transmission. Came through on a frequency we've been monitoring but never saw active before. It's... someone's trying to contact us. Specifically us."
"Show me."
The screen displays a text-only message, heavily encrypted but bypassing every security protocol we have in place like they don't even exist. The sender's identity is completely masked, but the message itself is crystal clear:
MERCER ALIVE. BLACK SITE DESIGNATION WHISKEY-SEVEN. WYOMING SECTOR. 48 HOURS UNTIL TRANSFER TO PERMANENT FACILITY. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WINDOW. COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.
—A FRIEND
Then, seconds later, a second message appears with GPS coordinates.
"It's a trap," Willa says immediately.
"Probably," I agree. But my mind is already working through the angles, calculating odds and probabilities. "Or it's someone inside the Committee trying to play both sides. Or it's a rival faction trying to use us to eliminate competition. Either way, it's the only lead we have."
"Whiskey-Seven." The voice comes from the prisoner’s cell, where Dominic Cray is still ensconced. Kane unlocks the door and Cray moves past him.
He’s moving better now, the gunshot wounds he received are healing nicely. His face is still pale, but his stance is steady. Operational. He's wearing clean tactical pants and a dark shirt, looking more like the professional killer he was before I put rounds in him.
"I know that facility," Cray continues, moving into the command center without waiting for permission.
"Why should we trust anything you say?" Stryker's hand drifts toward his sidearm.
"Because despite everything, I respect what you're doing here.
You don't abandon your own." Cray moves to the tactical display, studies the coordinates Tommy has pulled up.
His movements are practiced, professional—this is a man who's spent years analyzing facility layouts and planning operations.
"And because Mercer's one of yours. That means something. "
"You've been to Whiskey-Seven?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral despite the suspicion crawling up my spine.
"Interrogated two targets there myself last year.
Before I figured out the Committee wasn't what I thought it was.
" He traces routes on the map with practiced efficiency, his finger following terrain features and approach vectors like he's done this a hundred times.
"It's a black site facility built into an old mining complex.
Former Cold War installation, repurposed for modern use.
If they're moving him in forty-eight hours, that's not a bluff.
That's standard protocol for high-value detainees. "
"What's the security like?" Willa moves closer to the display, studying Cray's face for any sign of deception.
"Thirty to forty operatives minimum on normal rotation. But given Protocol Seven's status?" Cray zooms in on the facility's perimeter. "Probably fifty or sixty now. They're not taking chances with anyone on the termination list."
His finger traces the boundary lines. "Three official entry points, all monitored. Biometric access on interior doors. Reinforced structure built directly into the mountainside. Helicopter pad on the north side for rapid extraction—which they'll use if they detect any assault."
"Sounds impenetrable," Stryker observes, his suspicion evident in every word.
"It's designed to be." Cray zooms in on a section of the map, highlighting an area that doesn't appear on the official schematic.
"But there's a weakness. The old mining tunnels.
They connect to the facility's lower levels but aren't on any official schematic.
The Committee assumes they're collapsed or unstable. "
"Are they?" I ask.
"Not all of them. I used them once to bypass a biometric checkpoint during an operation.
" He meets my eyes directly, and I see something there that might be genuine.
"The main tunnel entrance is here, about half a klick from the facility.
It runs parallel to the access road before branching into three separate passages.
Two are collapsed. But the third connects directly to the facility's sub-level detention area. "
"You're certain about this?" Rourke asks through comms, clearly listening to the entire exchange.
"I've been through those tunnels personally.
Mapped them as an emergency extraction route in case an operation went sideways.
" Cray pulls up a hand-drawn schematic from memory, sketching it onto a tablet.
"The passage is narrow—single file only in most sections.
You'll need climbing gear for one vertical section, about twenty meters.
But once you're through, you come up inside the detention block. Behind their security perimeter."
"Why?" The question comes from Willa, her voice carrying the skepticism we're all feeling. "Why help us?"