Chapter 6 #2
"Boss, I've got an ID." Tommy's fingers stop flying across the keyboard. "Former Delta. Dishonorable discharge three years ago. Multiple allegations of excessive force. He's been freelancing in the private sector since. Last known employer was...”
"The Committee," I finish.
"Yeah. And Kane? He's not alone. I'm picking up four more signatures moving into position around the cabin area. They were hidden in the thermal background, but now that they're advancing, I can see them. North, east, and west approaches. They're setting up to box in whoever's inside."
Son of a bitch. This wasn't a probe. This was the setup for an ambush. They tracked us to the general area, found the cabin, and now they're moving to surround and eliminate anyone inside.
"All units, weapons free," I order. "Engage at will. Willa, we need to move. Now."
"Where?"
"Back to base. We're too exposed here."
We're already moving when the first shot cracks through the night. Not aimed at us—at Mercer's position. Return fire comes immediately, the distinct crack of his precision rifle punching through the storm.
"Contact north ridge neutralized," Mercer reports. "But I'm taking fire from multiple positions. They've got me bracketed."
"Fall back to secondary position," I order, even as I'm pulling Willa toward the base entrance. "Rourke, status?"
"Two contacts south ridge. Engaging."
The firefight erupts across the mountain. Muzzle flashes strobe through the darkness like lightning. Bullets spark off rocks, whine through the air, punch through trees with wet thunks that sound too much like hitting flesh.
Willa moves beside me, her training evident in how she keeps her muzzle oriented toward threats while maintaining movement. We're twenty meters from the entrance when a figure materializes from the storm to our left.
Training takes over. I fire three controlled bursts center mass.
The first figure drops. A second emerges from cover to my left and I pivot, putting two rounds through his chest before he can acquire a target.
Willa engages the third, her shots finding home with precision that proves her father's training was solid.
We reach the entrance. I punch in the code one-handed while maintaining rear security. The door slides open and we pour through, Willa first, then me, spinning to check our six one final time before the door seals.
Inside, the sounds of combat are muffled by rock and steel. We're safe for the moment, but safe is relative when professional killers know approximately where you are.
"That wasn't a probe," Willa says, breathing hard. "That was an assault."
"That was a message." I move toward the operations center, already planning our next move. "They're telling us they know you're with us and that they've confirmed the cabin is involved. And they're not going to stop until we're all dead."
The operations center is controlled chaos.
Tommy's coordinating the team's withdrawal, tracking enemy positions, monitoring police and EMS channels for any indication this firefight is drawing unwanted attention.
Sarah's up despite her injuries, working a second console. Even Khalid’s there, watching with a gaze far older than his years.
"Casualties?" I ask.
"Rourke took a round in the vest. He's pissed but mobile. Mercer's clear. Stryker never saw contact at his position." Tommy pulls up a tactical map. "Five confirmed enemy KIA. Unknown number withdrew when we engaged. They're regrouping, not retreating."
"They'll hit the cabin again," Rourke says, moving into the operations center with his vest hanging open.
I can see the deformed plate where the round hit.
Center mass. If he hadn't been wearing armor, he'd be dead.
"Maybe not tonight, but soon. They know someone's living there.
They'll keep probing until they find out who. "
"Then we move the timeline up." I look at Willa. "The bait operation. We do it tomorrow. No more waiting."
"Kane...” Stryker starts.
"We're out of time," I cut him off. "Every hour we wait is another hour for them to bring in more assets, to map our defenses, to find a way inside. We go on the offense or we die on defense. Those are the options."
The room goes quiet. Everyone knows I'm right. Everyone also knows what I'm proposing is borderline suicidal. With a final look at one another, we begin to leave the ops center.
"I'll do it," Willa says. "Whatever you need. I'm ready."
My pulse kicks up. Not from the firefight. From the way she's looking at me. Like she trusts me not to get her killed. I should step back. Should maintain the distance that keeps people alive.
"You should get some rest," I tell her. "Tomorrow's going to be long."
"What about you?"
"I don't sleep much."
"Neither do I." She doesn't move. "Not since Jack. Not for six years. Every time I close my eyes, I see his hands. I feel his fingers on my throat. I wake up reaching for a gun that's never there."
The confession is raw. Honest. Makes me want to find her ex and put a bullet through his skull. But that's not what she needs from me.
"You're safe here," I say, and immediately hate myself for the lie.
"No, I'm not. None of us are." She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the gun oil and cold mountain air on her clothes. "But I'd rather be here, fighting beside people who see me as something more than a victim, than safe and alone somewhere wondering when the monsters will find me."
I should step back. Maintain professional distance. Keep her alive by keeping her at arm's length.
I don't step back.
My hand comes up to cup her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw where bruises have finally faded from that first encounter with the Committee. Her skin is warm despite the cold, soft despite the hard woman she's had to become.
"This is a bad idea," I tell her.
"Probably." She barely whispers it. "But I'm tired of good ideas that leave me alone."
The distance between us disappears to inches. Then less. I can feel her breath on my lips, can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, can smell the faint scent of disinfectant soap that clings to her despite everything.
My encrypted comm chooses that exact moment to shriek an alert.
I pull back, cursing the timing and hating the relief I feel at the interruption. Willa's expression shifts—disappointment mixed with understanding. She knows what just happened. What almost happened.
What can't happen.
I activate the comm. "Kane."
Tommy doesn't waste time on preamble. "Boss, I just intercepted Committee communications. Encrypted, but I cracked it. You need to hear this."
"Play it."
The recording is cold, clinical, and absolutely clear:
"Cleaner is in play. Full sanitization authorized. All assets, all witnesses, all connections. Seventy-two hours to completion. No exceptions. No survivors."
The line goes dead.
Seventy-two hours. Three days to eliminate everyone on Protocol Seven's list. Three days before the Committee erases us like we never existed.
I look at Willa. She understands what this means. This isn't just about her anymore. This isn't just about the dog or the chemical weapons or any single piece of the conspiracy.
This is about survival.
"We do it tomorrow," I say.
"It is tomorrow." She straightens, already shifting into operational mode. "We don’t have a choice. What time?"
"Dawn. We'll brief in a few of hours at 0500." I'm already running scenarios, calculating angles, identifying failure points. Seventy-two hours to win a war we didn't start against an enemy that owns everything from local law enforcement to federal agencies.
The cleaner's in play. That means we're not hunting anymore.
We're being hunted.