Chapter 2 #2
The teenager's eyes snap to mine, too old for his young face. "Khalid." He offers the name with deliberate precision, fingers gentle in Odin's fur. "He's beautiful."
"Military working dog," Stryker observes, professional assessment replacing dismissal. "Explosives detection by the training stance."
"Chemical weapons detection," I correct, surprising myself with how steady my voice comes out.
Dad taught me to stand up to dangerous men, and these are definitely dangerous men.
"Based on his reaction patterns and what I found in his blood work.
Organophosphate compounds. Nerve agent precursors.
Nothing that should exist outside military facilities. "
That gets their attention. All of them focus on me with intensity that makes me want to step back. I hold my ground, lifting my chin the way Dad taught me. Never show fear. Never back down when you're right.
"The burns on his paws had trace elements I've only read about in veterinary military medicine journals," I continue, channeling clinical detachment to keep the terror at bay.
"Whoever dumped him at my clinic expected me to euthanize him.
Standard protocol for animals exposed to chemical agents with no handler claiming them. "
"Christ," Stryker mutters. "The dog's evidence."
"The dog's a target," Kane corrects, finally pressing gauze against his head wound with more force. "Just like her now."
I clean the wound with practiced efficiency. This I know. This I can control.
"You need stitches. The wound's too deep, and you're going to have a scar."
"Then stitch it."
I thread the needle, focusing on familiar rhythm instead of chaos. "This will hurt."
"Had worse."
Stryker laughs, dark and bitter. "Haven't we all."
I work in silence for the first two sutures, letting the medical procedure settle my nerves. This is what I know. Clean the wound, assess the damage, fix what can be fixed.
"You're good at this," Kane observes.
"Former trauma nurse before switching to veterinary medicine." I tie off another suture. "Turns out I prefer patients who can't tell me where it hurts."
"Why the switch?"
The question catches me off guard. I focus on threading the next suture. "My ex had strong opinions about my career. Nursing school seemed... safer. Less threatening to his ego."
The temperature in the cave drops.
"Very ex," I add quickly. "Should have gotten a restraining order ex. Three states away ex."
Kane's eyes meet mine. "You ran down a trained operative tonight. Not much soft about that."
"Survival instinct. Dad didn't raise me to be a victim.
" I finish the third suture, checking my work.
"Gunnery Sergeant Michael Hart, Second Battalion, Sixth Marines.
He taught me to shoot before he taught me to drive.
Said the world was dangerous and his little girl needed to know how to protect herself. "
"Smart man," Stryker says with what might be approval.
I tie off the last suture with steady hands, then apply a clean dressing. "There. Try not to get shot at for the next week while it heals."
A phone buzzes—encrypted I’m betting—cutting through the moment. Stryker answers, his face darkening as he listens. He switches it to speaker.
"Protocol Seven's live," a voice says through static. Young, nervous, urgent.
“What’s Protocol Seven?” I ask.
"Full sanitization. Everyone on the list is a priority target. Move now."
"Tommy, slow down," Kane commands, standing despite the fresh stitches. "What triggered it?"
"Morrison's death spooked them. They're closing ranks, eliminating variables." A pause that stretches too long. "Doc Hart's on the primary list. They know she has the dog."
My legs want to fold. I lock my knees, refusing to show weakness in front of men who trade in violence. But my voice comes out smaller than I want when I ask, "What does that mean?"
"They're going to kill everyone who knows too much," Mercer says. "Including you and the dog."
Kane's jaw tightens. "Cross confirmed?"
Stryker nods. "Got the same intel through her channels. She says the timeframe's solid."
"Cross?" I ask.
"Victoria Cross," Kane and Tommy say in unison.
The name means nothing to me, but the way they reference her—like she's a known quantity, someone they trust—tells me she's part of whatever network these men operate in.
I stare at tactical maps covering the cave walls—red pins, blue safe houses, black confirmed kills. This is war against something vast and shadowed.
"I can't protect you from this," Kane says, meeting my eyes. "Protocol Seven means scorched earth."
"But together we might survive it," Rourke adds.
Odin presses against my leg. Khalid watches with longing. Mercer maintains his watch. Stryker cleans weapons. Kane stands ready.
These men are all that stands between me and execution. Damaged, dangerous, probably half-crazy.
But they're fighting for people like me who stumbled into horror through nothing more than refusing to kill a dog.
"I'm not running." The words come steady despite terror. "If you're fighting for people like me, you need someone who understands we're worth protecting."
Kane studies me. For an instant the command mask wears down and a man looks back. He nods once.
"You're a civilian," Stryker states.
"I'm a doctor. Different degree, same oath—do no harm, but take no shit. You need medical support. I need protection."
"This isn't a trade," Mercer warns. "It's a death sentence."
"Some fights you don't get to walk away from." I meet each of their eyes. "You either win or you die trying."
"Welcome to Echo Ridge," Kane says quietly.
Kane's satellite phone buzzes again. He answers, listens, his expression darkening.
"How many?" he asks.
Whatever the answer is, it's not good. When he meets my eyes, I see the truth before he speaks it.
"They're not waiting for Protocol Seven to start." His voice is flat, controlled. "They're coming for you now."