Chapter 19 #3
Cray is silent for a moment, studying each of us in turn. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. More reflective.
"Because I spent ten years believing I was protecting national security.
Eliminating threats. Following orders that came from people I trusted.
" He turns back to the display, and I see his jaw tighten.
"Then I found out the Committee was using me to silence whistleblowers and eliminate political inconveniences.
That they'd lied about everything. About who the real threats were.
About what we were actually protecting."
He zooms in on the detention block area.
"Mercer's there because he was doing what I should have been doing—fighting against a corrupt system instead of enforcing it.
If I can help you get him out, maybe that squares some of the debt I owe for all the people I hurt when I was still following orders. "
The room is quiet. Everyone's looking at me, waiting for the call.
I study Cray's face. Looking for deception. For the angle. For any sign this is another trap. Years of reading people in hostile environments, of detecting lies in interrogation rooms, of surviving by trusting my instincts about who's genuine and who's playing an angle.
All I see is exhaustion and something that might be genuine remorse. The kind that comes from realizing you've been the villain in someone else's story.
"You get us in," I say finally, my voice carrying the weight of command. "You provide the intelligence we need to extract Mercer. The tunnel routes, the security protocols, the detention block layout. Everything you know about that facility."
I pause, making sure he understands the terms. "And after that, we're even. You don't owe us protection, we don't owe you anything. You walk away and we never see you again. Deal?"
"Deal." Cray extends his hand.
I shake it, feeling the firmness of his grip. Operator to operator. A promise made and acknowledged. The kind of agreement that means something to people like us, even when trust is thin.
"Tommy, I need everything you have on Whiskey-Seven's current operational status," I order, already moving into mission planning mode.
"Satellite imagery, communication intercepts, anything that tells us what we're walking into.
Cray, work with him. Give him everything you know about the facility's layout and security protocols. "
"Copy that," they both say.
"Stryker, Rourke—start pulling together equipment manifests. We breach those tunnels, we need climbing gear, breaching charges, and backup power systems in case they've sealed sections we need to access."
"On it," Stryker confirms, already moving toward the armory.
"Willa, I need you working medical contingencies. If Mercer's been in their custody this long, we don't know what condition he'll be in. Prepare for everything from minor injuries to severe trauma. Chemical exposure. Psychological breakdown. Assume worst-case."
She nods, already moving toward Sarah's station where the medical supplies are organized.
I turn back to the tactical display, studying the satellite image of Whiskey-Seven.
The facility sits in a valley surrounded by mountains, a fortress built into the landscape itself.
Somewhere in that structure, Mercer is holding on.
Resisting interrogation. Buying us time with every second he refuses to break.
And Victor Kessler is probably there too. Watching. Waiting. Hoping I'll come charging in on emotion instead of strategy.
He wants me to feel what Hart felt. To watch someone I care about suffer because of choices I made.
But I'm not giving him that satisfaction.
"Cray," I say, not looking away from the screen. "This intel you're providing. If it gets any of my team killed because you're still working for the Committee, because this is some elaborate setup...”
"It won't," he interrupts firmly. "I'm done with them. This is me trying to do one thing right before I disappear. One thing that doesn't end with innocent people dead because I followed orders without questioning them."
I study him for a long moment, weighing his words against years of experience with liars and double agents. Then nod slowly. "Get to work. I want that tunnel route mapped down to the centimeter. Every obstacle. Every potential chokepoint. Every place they could have set up surveillance or traps."
"You'll have it," Cray promises.
As the team disperses to their assignments, Willa catches my arm.
"Do you trust him?" she asks quietly, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
"No," I admit honestly. "But I trust that he wants out. That he's tired of being the Committee's weapon. That somewhere under all that training and all those years of following orders, there's still a person who knows the difference between right and wrong."
"And if he's lying?"
"Then we adapt. We overcome. And we still bring Mercer home." I squeeze her hand. "Eighteen hours to plan and prep. Then we go get him."
She holds my gaze, searching for doubt or hesitation. Finding only determination.
"Together," she says.
"Always."
I watch her move toward the medical station, Odin at her heels. Then I turn back to the tactical display where Cray and Tommy are already deep in conversation, mapping tunnel routes and security protocols.
Eighteen hours. That gives us time to plan properly, gather intelligence on the facility, and prep equipment. We go in rested and ready, not exhausted and sloppy.
But even as I'm planning, even as I'm calculating approaches and extraction routes, part of my mind is stuck on Kessler. On the look in his eyes outside that burning facility. On his promise to take from me what I took from Hart.
He took Mercer. Made it personal. Made sure I'd come after him.
And when I do, one of us isn't walking away.