Chapter 6
KANE
Not the full klaxon that means breach, but the low pulse that means motion detected at the cabin perimeter. Could be elk. Could be a mountain lion. Could be Committee operatives checking out the hermit's place at the base of the ridge.
The base operations center is already lit when I arrive. Tommy's at the main console, fingers flying across three keyboards simultaneously. Mercer's pulling on a tactical vest. Rourke's checking his sidearm with the methodical precision of a man who's done this a thousand times.
"Sitrep," I say.
"Motion sensor at your cabin triggered." Tommy doesn't look up. "Two contacts approaching from the north. Moving slow and deliberate. Spacing's wrong. Too tactical."
"Show me."
The thermal feed loads. Two heat signatures moving through the trees toward the cabin at the base of the ridge. They're using cover professionally, advancing in bounds. One moves while the other provides overwatch.
"Range?" I ask.
"Three hundred meters from the cabin. They're sweeping the area, looking for something."
I study the movement pattern. Professional.
Disciplined. But something feels off. They're coming from the north, which makes sense if they tracked Willa's truck from the highway ambush.
But the spacing's wider than standard two-man recon.
They're investigating the cabin—my cover position—looking for proof that the hermit who supposedly lives there is something more.
"Could be a probe," Stryker says from the doorway, already in full kit. "Testing to see if anyone's home. Or if that hermit story holds up."
"Or bait." Rourke chambers a round. "Draw us out, hit us when we're exposed."
Both good theories. Both potentially fatal if we guess wrong. But they don't know about Echo Base. They're sniffing around my cover, not the actual operation.
"Where's the vet?" I ask.
"Still training. Been at it for four hours straight."
Four hours. Most civilians would've quit after one.
"Get her to the safe room with Sarah and Khalid."
"She's not going to like that."
"I don't care what she likes. This is a tactical situation."
The words taste wrong. She proved herself when the Committee sent teams to track her down. Held her position, took out two men without hesitation. But that doesn't change the fact that she's not trained for this.
"I'll inform her of your decision," a voice says from behind me.
I don't need to turn to know it's her. Don't need to see her face to hear the steel in those words.
"Dr. Hart...”
"I heard the alarm. I'm ready." She moves into the light, and I see she's already wearing a tactical vest. Probably Stryker's spare from the size. The M4 in her hands is held with proper discipline, finger off the trigger, muzzle pointed at a safe angle. "Where do you need me?"
"In the safe room. With Sarah and Khalid."
Her jaw tightens. "I'm not hiding while you fight my battle."
"This isn't your battle. It's ours. You stay here where it's secure."
"Two contacts on the north ridge." She moves to the display, studying the thermal images. "They're moving too slow for a direct assault. Either they're recon, or they're a diversion."
"Which is exactly why I need you secure. If this is a diversion, the real attack comes from a different vector."
"And if they breach while you're down three guns because you've got people babysitting me in a bunker?" She meets my eyes. "I can shoot. You know I can. Your call, Commander."
The logic is sound. I hate that it's sound. I hate that she's right even more.
"Boss." Tommy's voice cuts through. "Contacts have stopped advancing. They're holding position at the tree line. Just... waiting."
That confirms it. This is a probe. They're testing to see what response they get. Count our numbers, gauge our capabilities, map our defensive positions. Standard recon doctrine.
Which means the real question is whether we respond at all or stay dark and let them wonder.
"Mercer, you're on the north overlook. Eyes on the cabin and those two contacts. Do not engage unless they breach the structure." I turn to Rourke. "East perimeter. If this is a diversion, they'll try coming from another angle. Make sure they don't."
"And me?" Stryker asks.
"West tunnel entrance. If they're smart enough to find the alternate access points, I want you there to greet them."
"Copy that." He moves out, grabbing extra magazines from the weapons locker.
I look at Willa, seeing the determination in her eyes. The same stubborn courage that made her save a dog when the smart play was euthanasia. The same refusal to be a victim that brought her here instead of running.
"You're with me," I say finally. "East overlook. Secondary overwatch position. You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. No improvisation. No heroics. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"And if I say run, you run. No argument. No negotiation. You get to the safe room and you lock that door behind you. Understood?"
"Understood." She says it like she means it, but I see the lie in her eyes. This woman won't run. Not anymore. She's done running.
That's what worries me.
We move through the base corridors to an observation point. A concealed position that gives clear sightlines to the cabin below without exposing our actual location. I key in the access code and we slip out into the night.
The cold hits immediately. Twenty degrees, maybe less. Wind drives snow horizontally. Visibility's down to maybe fifty meters.
"Stay low," I tell her. "Use the rocks for cover. If shooting starts, focus on your sector."
She nods, moving into position. Her stance is good, breathing controlled.
I settle in beside her, bringing my rifle up to scan the area around the cabin. The thermal overlay shows Mercer's position to the north. The two unknowns have stopped advancing. They're holding position at the tree line, watching the cabin.
"What are they waiting for?" Willa asks.
"Us to make a mistake." I adjust my position. "Standard recon doctrine. Probe the defenses, map the response, withdraw before contact."
"So we just wait?"
"We wait."
The minutes crawl past. Wind howls through the rocks. Snow accumulates on my shoulders, on the rifle, on Willa's dark hair. She doesn't complain. Doesn't shift position.
"Your father would be proud," I say.
"Maybe." Her breath plumes in the cold. "Or maybe he'd say I should've left Montana the second that dog showed up at my clinic."
"Smart men don't always give the right advice."
She almost smiles. "He'd have liked you anyway."
"Sounds like a good man."
"He was the best man I ever knew." She pauses. "Then I met Jack and came to realize how rare men like my father really are."
The bitterness in those words cuts deeper than she probably intended. I've heard that tone before, in the voices of people who've learned the hard way that evil doesn't announce itself. It just smiles, shakes your hand, then waits for you to turn your back.
"Your ex. How long?"
"Six years since I ran. Eight since the first time he put his hands on me." She delivers it like a diagnosis, doctor's detachment keeping the pain at arm's length. "I don't know why I stayed as long as I did before I finally accepted that he wasn't going to change."
I've killed men for less than what she's describing. Killed them and slept fine afterward because the world's better without predators who prey on the people who trust them.
"Did he ever find you?"
"I’m not sure he looked. I went underground—sort of.
I didn’t change my name, but I moved to Montana, became a veterinarian, and built a life that had nothing to do with the woman I used to be.
The trauma nurse who lived with Dr. Jack Williamson, cardiologist and respected pillar of the medical community simply disappeared.
" The sarcasm cuts like broken glass. "I thought I was safe.
I thought I might finally have outrun the monsters. "
"And then you saved a dog and found new monsters."
"And then I saved a dog." She almost smiles. "Story of my life. I can't leave broken things alone. Even when leaving them alone is the smart choice."
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. Because we both know she's not just talking about the dog anymore.
"Willa...”
"Contact moving." Her voice snaps into focus, professional and controlled. "North sector. One signature breaking from the tree line."
I swing my optic to confirm. She's right. One of the contacts is advancing toward the cabin while the other holds overwatch. Still tactical, still controlled, but they're moving into engagement range.
"Tommy, I need an ID on these contacts," I say into my comms.
"Working on it. Facial recognition is useless with the storm, but I'm running gait analysis and movement patterns against known Committee operatives." His fingers clatter across keys. "Give me thirty seconds."
We don't have thirty seconds. The contact's moving faster now, closing the distance with purpose. Two hundred meters from the cabin. One-fifty. One hundred.
"He's heading straight for your place," Willa observes.
She's right. The approach vector puts him on a direct line for the cabin. They're not looking for Echo Base—they don't know it exists. They're looking for the hermit who supposedly lives alone in the wilderness. Looking for me.
Or looking for evidence that I'm something more than a hermit.
"Mercer, do you have a shot?" I ask.
"Affirmative. Clean line. Eight hundred meters. Wind's tricky but manageable."
"Hold fire. Let him get close. I want to know what he's after."
"Kane." Willa's voice carries a warning I don't like. "If he reaches the cabin...”
"The cabin's clean. Nothing there that proves anything except a guy who likes his privacy." I watch the contact advance. "He's looking for proof. Let's not give him any."
The contact reaches the cabin. Through the thermal imaging, I watch him circle the structure, checking windows, testing the door. Professional. Thorough. This isn't some hired gun. This is someone with training.