Chapter 4
KANE
She doesn't move.
I should step back. Should put distance between us and whatever the hell this is that's building in the space we're both pretending doesn't exist. Instead, I stand here like an idiot with my hand still on her shoulder, looking at her while she watches me with an intensity I don't want to examine too closely.
The smart play is to send her away. Get her off this mountain, out of Montana, somewhere the Committee can't find her. Protocol Seven means scorched earth—they'll burn through every connection, every possibility, until she's ash and memory.
But standing here in the aftermath of a firefight, with the memory of gunfire still fresh and her hands steady despite the adrenaline crash, I know she won't go.
I saw it when she put rounds through trained operatives without hesitation.
Saw it in the way she stitched my head wound with surgeon's precision while Committee assets converged on our position.
Dr. Willa Hart doesn't run anymore.
Which means she's going to get herself killed.
I let my hand fall away and put space between us, letting the cold air fill the gap. "Get some rest, Doc. You’ll find several empty rooms down the hall. Pick one. We'll talk strategy once everyone's assembled."
She nods, exhaustion finally showing around her eyes. The adrenaline is wearing off, and reality is going to hit her hard when it does. Killing someone—even in self-defense, even when they're trying to kill you—leaves marks that don't show up on x-rays.
I watch her disappear deeper into the bunker, then turn to find Stryker waiting with that knowing look that makes me want to punch him.
"Don't," I say.
"Didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"Can't arrest a man for his thoughts." He grins, but it fades quick. "She did good out there, Kane. Real good. Most civilians would've frozen."
"She's not most civilians." I move past him toward the command center, needing distance and coffee in equal measure. "Get Mercer and Rourke. I want a full tactical review before Tommy briefs us on Protocol Seven."
"Already done. They're waiting in the war room."
Of course they are. My team doesn't need micromanaging. They know the drill, know what comes after contact with the Committee. We've been playing this game long enough that the moves are instinctive.
The war room is exactly what it sounds like—a carved-out chamber in the mine shaft that houses our tactical operations.
Maps cover every wall, digital displays showing satellite feeds, police scanners picking up chatter from six counties.
Tommy sits at the main console, fingers flying across three keyboards like a concert pianist on amphetamines.
"Status," I say, pouring coffee that's been sitting too long but still beats nothing.
"Committee's pulled back to regroup." Tommy doesn't look up from his screens. "Counted twelve hostiles total. You dropped seven. The rest scattered when the storm got worse."
"They'll be back."
"With more men." Mercer leans against the wall, arms crossed. The sniper always stands near exits, old habits from too many close calls. "They know we're here now. Know someone's protecting the vet and the dog."
"They don't know where 'here' is," Rourke corrects from his corner. He's got that feral energy he gets after firefights, needing to move, needing to act. "We kept them half a mile out. Far as the Committee knows, we could be anywhere in a ten-mile radius."
"Which buys us time." I drain the coffee, tasting bitter grounds. "Tommy, what do we know about Protocol Seven?"
His expression goes dark. He's twenty-three but looks younger, all nervous energy and genius-level intellect that the Committee tried to weaponize before he ran. He's been with us for nine months, and his intel has kept us alive more times than I can count.
"Protocol Seven is the Committee's scorched earth contingency.
" Tommy pulls up files on the main screen—classified documents, intercepted communications, kill lists with names and photos.
"They activate it when operational security is compromised.
Everyone who knows too much, everyone who's seen too much, everyone who's even peripherally involved gets marked for termination. "
"How many names on the current list?" Stryker asks.
"Forty-seven as of two hours ago." Tommy's voice goes quieter. "Dr. Hart's name is number twelve."
The room goes silent.
I knew it was coming. The second she saved that dog, the second Odin alerted on whatever chemical signature he detected, she became a liability. The Committee doesn't leave loose ends. They tie them off with bullets and shallow graves.
"Tell me about the dog," I say.
Tommy switches screens. Military working dog records, deployment history, training certifications.
"Odin. Belgian Malinois. Five years old.
Trained in chemical weapons detection at Ridgeway Air Force Base.
Deployed to Syria for eighteen months, then Afghanistan for another year.
Got injured in an IED blast, supposedly retired to a civilian handler. "
"Supposedly?"
"The handler doesn't exist." Tommy's fingers fly across keys. "The address on record is a shell corporation front. The discharge papers are fake. Someone wanted Odin disappeared, but they wanted it to look legitimate."
"Because he knows something." Mercer straightens, interested now. "What did he detect?"
"That's the question." Tommy pulls up another file—photos of a warehouse, rural location, snow-covered mountains in the background.
"Three days before Dr. Hart found him, satellite imaging caught unusual activity at a Committee facility outside Whitefish.
Trucks coming and going. Heavy security. Then nothing. Complete shutdown."
"They moved something," Rourke says.
"Or they're hiding something." Stryker moves closer to the screen. "Tommy, can you get us interior layouts of that facility?"
"Already working on it." More screens light up, schematics loading. "But here's where it gets interesting. Odin showed up at Dr. Hart's clinic the same day the facility went dark. He had chemical burns on his paws. Burns consistent with exposure to organophosphate compounds."
My blood goes cold. "Nerve agents."
"Nerve agent precursors," Tommy corrects. "The building blocks for chemical weapons. Nothing that would kill you on contact, and definitely nothing that should exist outside military research facilities."
"Christ." Mercer runs a hand through his hair. "The Committee's running a chemical weapons program?"
"Or stealing one." I set the empty mug down harder than intended. "Which means Odin can lead us to their cache. And they know it."
"That's why they want him dead." Stryker's expression is grim. "Why they want Dr. Hart dead. Why they're burning through Protocol Seven. If that dog alerts on their facility, if anyone follows that trail, the Committee's exposure goes from bad to catastrophic."
Silence settles over the war room, heavy and oppressive.
"So this isn't just about protecting a civilian who stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time," Mercer says quietly.
"No." Stryker's jaw tightens. "This is about a conspiracy that reaches into government agencies, military installations, shadow operations that don't officially exist."
"Weapons," Rourke adds, his voice flat. "Weapons that could kill thousands."
The weight of it sits on all of us. Not just one woman's life. Not just one dog's detection. An entire operation designed to manufacture death on a scale that makes our kill counts look like rounding errors.
"We need to get her out of here." I voice what everyone's thinking. "Send her somewhere the Committee can't find her. Mexico. Canada. Give her a new identity and enough money to disappear."
"She won't go." Tommy's tone suggests he already knows this. "I've been monitoring her communications for the past week. She ran away from an abusive ex six years ago. She won’t run again."
"She will if I order her to."
"Will she?" Rourke meets my eyes with that unsettling directness he uses when he's calling bullshit. "You saw her out there, Kane. She killed two men without hesitation. Kept her head when professionals were trying to put rounds through her. She's not some helpless civilian who needs saving."
"She's a target...”
"We're all targets." Stryker cuts me off. "Morrison was on that list. Sarah barely survived her extraction. Every person in this facility is marked for death by the Committee. Dr. Hart's name is just the newest addition."
"Which is exactly why we should get her clear before...”
"Before what?" The voice comes from the doorway, and I turn to find Willa standing there with fresh clothes and damp hair. She's showered, changed, and the exhaustion in her eyes has hardened into something sharper. "Before the Committee kills me? They're already trying to do that."
"How long have you been standing there?" I ask.
"Long enough." She moves into the room with the confidence of someone who's decided to stop asking permission. "Protocol Seven. Nerve agent precursors. A dog who knows where the Committee hides their chemical weapons. Did I miss anything?"
Tommy at least has the grace to look uncomfortable. "Dr. Hart, I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to hear...”
"But I did." She turns to me, and there's steel in her voice that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there, and I'm only now seeing it. "So let's talk about what happens next."
"What happens next is you leave." I cross my arms, falling back on command authority. "We get you out of Montana, set you up somewhere safe with a new identity. The Committee loses your trail, and you get to live."
"And Odin?"
"Stays here. We'll use him to find the Committee's cache, expose their operation, and shut them down."
"Without me."
"Without you."
She's silent for a moment, studying me with those eyes that probably spent years diagnosing problems people didn't want to acknowledge. Then she shakes her head.
"No."