Chapter 20
WILLA
Eighteen hours of planning, prep, and attempted rest have passed since we got the intel on Whiskey-Seven.
Now, with five hours until the inauguration, sleep pulls at me—heavy and insistent.
My body wants to shut down, to recover from seventy hours of adrenaline and violence.
But my mind won't cooperate, cycling through everything that could go wrong.
Mercer's been in Committee custody for eighteen hours now.
Eighteen hours of interrogation, enhanced techniques, psychological manipulation.
I've had enough trauma medicine training to know what the human body can endure before breaking.
More importantly, I know what the mind does to protect itself—dissociation, compartmentalization, the fracturing that happens when pain exceeds tolerance.
And Kessler is the one holding him. That makes it personal in ways I don't want to imagine.
Kane is in the command center with Tommy and Stryker, finalizing approach vectors and contingency plans. Rourke coordinates with whatever contacts he has inside federal law enforcement to run interference if we trigger alarms.
I should be sleeping. Need to be sharp for the operation. But lying here in Kane's quarters—our quarters now—my thoughts won't settle. Every time I close my eyes, I see possible outcomes.
Mercer alive but broken. Mercer dead. The whole thing a trap and we walk right into it. Success but with casualties. Failure with all of us in body bags. Every scenario I imagine ends worse than the last.
"I can hear you worrying from the hallway." Sarah appears in the doorway, medical kit in hand, moving better despite her injury. "Figured you might need company."
I sit up, grateful for the interruption. "Thought you'd be resting. That wound...”
"Is fine." She settles into the chair beside the bunk, studying me the way she studies wounded soldiers. "Field stitches held. No infection. I'll be operational if things go sideways." A pause. "But I'm not here about my wound. I'm here about yours."
"I'm not injured."
"Physical wounds heal, Willa. It's the other kind that kill you."
I want to deflect, to maintain the facade that I'm handling everything fine. But Sarah's seen too much, knows too much. She was there when I made the call to complete the data upload while under fire. She saw me choose the mission over personal safety.
She knows exactly what that costs.
"I killed people," I say quietly. "At the staging facility. During the siege. I killed them and I didn't hesitate and I don't feel guilty about it." The admission tastes strange. "What does that make me?"
"Alive." Sarah's voice is matter-of-fact. "And part of this team. You think any of us didn't go through the same realization? That moment when you understand you're capable of taking a life and sleeping afterward?"
"Kane said I'm adapting too easily."
"Kane's terrified you'll become what he is—someone who's killed so many times it stops registering as significant." She leans forward. "But that's not what's happening here. You're not losing your humanity, Willa. You're expanding your capacity to survive. There's a difference."
"Is there?" The words come out sharper than I intend. "Several weeks ago I was a veterinarian treating sick animals in a small Montana clinic. Now I'm planning tactical assaults on black site detention facilities and my biggest concern is whether we have enough ammunition for the operation."
"And that should horrify you?"
"Shouldn't it?"
Sarah considers this for a moment. "Maybe.
Or maybe it just means you've accepted who you need to be to stay alive.
To protect the people you care about." She stands, checking the field dressing on her own wound.
"The transformation feels inevitable because it is.
You can fight it, or you can embrace it and stay sharp enough to survive what's coming. "
"Get some sleep," she adds. "Five hours until we roll out. You need to be sharp."
After she leaves, I lie back down, Odin curled against my legs. The dog's breathing is steady, unconcerned. He doesn't worry about the ethics of violence or the cost of survival. He just exists in the moment, trusting that his people will handle the complicated parts.
Maybe that's wisdom. Maybe that's just being a dog.
Either way, I close my eyes and force my mind to quiet. Tomorrow we go to war again. Tonight, I need rest.
Sleep finally comes, dreamless and deep.
I wake to Kane's hand on my shoulder, his voice low. "Time to move."
The chronometer reads 0400. Two hours until dawn. Three hours until the attack is planned to begin. Five hours until whatever the Committee has planned reaches its endpoint.
We're out of time for preparation. Out of time for doubt.
In the operations center, the team is already geared up.
Stryker checks weapons with mechanical precision.
Rourke reviews the infiltration route one final time.
Khalid secures Odin's tactical vest, the dog alert and focused.
Tommy monitors communication channels, looking for any indication the Committee knows we're coming.
Kane briefs us one last time. "Whiskey-Seven is a black site facility built into an old mining complex outside Missoula.
Single access road, defensible position, estimated fifty hostiles minimum.
We're going in through the mining tunnels—breach from below where they won't expect it.
Locate Mercer, extract before they can organize effective resistance. "
"And if it's a trap?" Stryker asks.
"Then we adapt." Kane's face shows nothing. "We don't leave without Mercer. Whatever it takes."
The unspoken understanding settles over all of us: some of us might not come back from this. The Committee knows we're coming—they sent us the intel, after all. Whether it's legitimate or bait, we're walking into a situation designed to kill us.
But we're going anyway. Because that's what Echo Ridge does.
We load into vehicles—Stryker driving the lead Suburban, Kane in the passenger seat, me and Odin in back. Rourke and Khalid follow in the second vehicle. Tommy stays at Echo Base to provide remote support and coordinate communication.
The drive takes four hours through mountain roads already showing signs of dawn. Nobody speaks. We're all running through personal preparations—checking equipment, reviewing tactics, making peace with the possibility this is a one-way trip.
I scratch Odin's ears, feeling his warmth, his trust. Whatever happens today, he's with us. We're in this together.
Kane's hand finds mine across the seat, squeezes once. No words. Just acknowledgment that we're in this together.
Whatever comes next, we face it as a team.
The coordinates lead us to an abandoned mining complex thirty miles outside Missoula proper. From the outside, it looks exactly like what the intel suggested—old industrial infrastructure slowly being reclaimed by nature. Rusted equipment. Collapsed buildings. No visible security presence.
But Odin alerts immediately, his body going rigid in that particular way that means he's detected something dangerous.
"Chemical signatures," I confirm, reading his behavior. "Multiple compounds. Recent activity."
"Fan out," Kane orders. "Stryker, secure the perimeter. Rourke, overwatch position. Khalid, you're with me and Willa. We're going in through the tunnel entrance Cray marked."
We move fast, weapons ready, Odin leading the way. The tunnel entrance is exactly where Cray said it would be—hidden behind a collapsed equipment shed, barely visible unless you know where to look. The opening is narrow, just wide enough for single file movement.
"Tommy, we're entering the tunnel system," Kane reports through comms. "Going dark for approximately twenty minutes until we reach the facility connection point."
"Copy that. I'll maintain surveillance on the external perimeter. Any sign of Committee response, you'll know immediately."
We descend into darkness, headlamps cutting through the black. The tunnel is exactly as Cray described—narrow passages carved from living rock, still structurally sound despite being abandoned for decades. The air is cold and damp, carrying that distinctive mineral smell of deep underground spaces.
Odin moves ahead, his detection vest equipped with a small camera that feeds back to Tommy. If there are any chemical traces, any indication of recent Committee activity in these tunnels, the dog will find it.
We reach the vertical section Cray mentioned—a twenty-meter climb up what was once a ventilation shaft.
Kane goes first, testing the climbing anchors Cray promised would still be in place.
They hold. One by one, we ascend, weapons secured across our backs, trusting equipment and each other in equal measure.
At the top, the tunnel continues another hundred meters before opening into what Cray identified as the detention block's maintenance level. We pause there, weapons ready, listening for any indication the facility knows we're here.
Nothing. Just the hum of ventilation systems and distant machinery.
"This is it," Kane says quietly. "Beyond this point, we're inside their perimeter. No more stealth. We locate Mercer, we extract, and we don't stop for anything."
"Understood," we all acknowledge.
Kane breaches the maintenance door with practiced efficiency. The corridor beyond is exactly as Cray described—industrial, utilitarian, designed for function rather than form. Emergency lighting casts everything in harsh shadows.
And it's empty.
Too empty.
"Where is everyone?" Khalid whispers.
"Good question," Kane responds, his rifle tracking potential threats. "Stay alert. This feels wrong."
We move through the facility, clearing rooms one by one. Interrogation chambers with blood on concrete. Restraint equipment. Medical stations designed for chemical interrogation rather than healing. This is where they held Mercer. This is where they tortured him for information.