Chapter 7
WILLA
Idon't sleep.
The narrow bunk in the quarters Stryker assigned me is comfortable enough, but every time I close my eyes, I see muzzle flashes.
Feel the rifle kick against my shoulder.
Hear that wet thunk of bullets finding flesh.
I’ve killed four people since this nightmare began.
Two human beings who woke up this morning not knowing they'd be dead by midnight.
The clinical part of my brain—the trauma nurse who spent too many years in the ER—knows it was self-defense. They came to kill me. I responded with appropriate force. Textbook justified.
The human part of my brain doesn't care about textbooks.
I give up on sleep at 0330 and make my way to the operations center. The base is quiet at this hour, just the hum of equipment and the occasional drip of water somewhere in the tunnels. Emergency lights cast everything in harsh shadows that make the carved rock walls look like they're closing in.
Tommy's still at his console, fingers moving across keyboards with practiced efficiency. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I ask.
"Never do before an op." His voice is younger than his expertise suggests. "Coffee's fresh if you want some."
I pour a cup from the industrial-sized pot, the smell alone providing comfort. "How long have you been with them?"
"Nine months." He pulls up a new screen, code scrolling too fast for me to follow. "Found out the Committee was running an illegal surveillance program targeting US citizens. Made the mistake of thinking someone in government would care. Turns out the someone I told was on the Committee's payroll."
"They tried to kill you."
"Twice before Kane found me hiding in a server farm in Seattle." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are older than twenty-three should allow. "I thought I could handle it—the running, the looking over your shoulder, knowing the wrong mistake gets you killed."
"You can't." I lean against the console. "Six years and I still check the locks three times before bed. Still jump at car doors slamming. Still plan my exits before I enter a room."
"Does it get easier?"
"No." The truth tastes bitter. "You just get better at pretending it does."
The honesty cuts deeper than intended. I thought I was done running when I came to Montana. Thought I'd finally found peace.
Then I saved a dog.
"The briefing's at 0500," Tommy says. "Kane wants everyone combat-ready. Full kit, weapons check, contingency planning."
"I should get ready then."
"Doc?" He stops me before I reach the door. "What you did tonight—engaging those operatives—that took guts. Most civilians would've frozen."
"My father didn't raise a civilian." The words come automatically. "He raised a survivor."
"Good." Tommy's expression is serious. "Because what you're about to do tomorrow makes tonight look like target practice."
The weight of that settles over me as I head to the armory. Stryker's already there, field-stripping weapons with methodical precision. He doesn't acknowledge my entrance, just continues his work with the focus of someone performing a religious ritual.
I select an M4 from the rack, the one I used earlier. It's been cleaned and maintained, ready for whatever comes next.
"Your father was a Marine," Stryker says without looking up. "Gunnery Sergeant, you said?"
"Second Battalion, Sixth Marines. Three tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan." I begin my own weapons check, muscle memory taking over. "He made sure I knew how to protect myself before he died."
"Smart man." Stryker assembles a pistol with practiced ease. "Most fathers teach their daughters to be victims. Teach them to be nice, to not make waves, to trust that someone else will keep them safe."
"My father knew better." I chamber a round, then clear it. "He said the world was dangerous and pretending otherwise was suicide."
"He was right." Stryker finally looks at me. "Kane told you about Kandahar?"
"Some. That someone in your chain of command sold you out."
"Not just us. Nine good men went into that operation. Only six came out, we left three good men and pieces of ourselves behind." He sets the assembled pistol aside. "Morrison thought he could make it on his own. Thought if he kept his head down, stayed small, the Committee would forget about him."
"They didn't."
"They never do." Stryker's jaw tightens. "That's why what you're doing tomorrow—walking back into Whitefish, making yourself visible—that's either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. I haven't decided which."
"Maybe both." I finish my weapons check. "But I'm done being hunted. If I'm going to die, I'd rather it be on my terms."
"Kane won't let you die." The certainty in his voice surprises me. "He came for you in a blizzard when the smart play was staying dark. He brought you here when we should've sent you running. Whatever else happens, he's not going to let the Committee take you."
I think about Kane's hand on my face, his thumb tracing my jaw, the moment that almost happened before the comm interrupted.
"It's not like that," I say.
"Isn't it?" Stryker's grin is knowing. "Doc, I've known Kane for a long time. Served with him through hell that would break most men. I've never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."
"He barely knows me."
"Sometimes knowing someone has nothing to do with time." Stryker stands, gathering his gear. "Sometimes you just recognize something in another person. Something that matters."
He leaves before I can formulate a response, his words echoing in the armory's silence.
By 0445, the team is assembled in the war room.
Kane stands at the map table, already in full tactical gear.
His burns catch the harsh light, tissue pulled tight across his neck and jaw.
Mercer and Rourke flank him, both checking weapons with automatic precision.
Sarah sits at a console despite her injuries, fingers flying across keys.
Even Khalid is there, watching with those ancient eyes.
Odin lies at the teenager's feet, the dog's presence somehow grounding in the chaos.
Kane's eyes find mine as I enter. Recognition passes between us—not just acknowledgment, but the ghost of that almost-kiss we both know can't happen.
"Listen up," Kane begins. "The Committee's activated Protocol Seven with a seventy-six-hour countdown. That means we have approximately seventy-two hours left before they execute everyone on their list. Dr. Hart is number twelve. We're all on there somewhere."
He pulls up satellite imagery on the main screen.
"The plan is simple. Dr. Hart returns to her clinic in Whitefish at 0900.
She's loud, visible, and acts exactly like a civilian who doesn't understand the danger she's in.
She files a report with animal control about Odin's injuries and the chemical compounds she detected.
She makes calls to veterinary colleagues about the unusual case.
She creates a paper trail that makes her too public to disappear quietly. "
"And when the Committee responds?" Mercer asks.
"We respond faster." Kane zooms in on the clinic's location.
"Overwatch positions here, here, and here. Stryker and Rourke on rooftops with clear sightlines. I’ll be mobile in a vehicle.
Mercer will be at the clinic posing as a pharmaceutical rep.
Tommy runs surveillance from here, monitoring all communications. "
"What about Cray?" I hear myself ask. "The cleaner they brought in?"
"Cray's the wildcard." Kane's expression darkens. "He's a ghost. No pattern, no signature, no predictable methodology. He could be anyone, anywhere. Which is why we're wired for full tactical response. The second anything feels wrong, we extract and abort."
"And if I don't agree to abort?" The question comes out harder than intended.
Kane's jaw tightens. "Then we have a problem."
"We already have a problem." I move to the map table.
"The Committee has chemical weapons. They're willing to kill dozens of people to hide it.
One more body won't matter to them. So respectfully, Commander, if this operation has any chance of exposing them, I'm not aborting because you get nervous. "
The room goes silent. Every eye turns to me.
"Doc...” Stryker starts.
"And I mean what I said. I'll follow reasonable tactical orders. But I won't run just because the plan gets complicated."
Kane stares at me for a long moment. His expression shifts.
Respect, maybe. Or recognition. "Fair enough.
But understand this—if Cray shows his face, if we get compromised, if anything goes sideways, you follow my orders without question.
I don't care if you think it's reasonable.
I don't care if you disagree. In the moment, my word is law. Are we clear?"
The command in his voice brooks no argument. This isn't Kane the man who almost kissed me. This is Kane the operator who's kept his team alive through impossible odds.
"Crystal," I say.
"Good." He returns to the map. "Tommy, show her the equipment."
Tommy produces a small case filled with electronics. "Tracking devices in your clothing, your shoes, even embedded in your belt. GPS accurate to three meters. We'll know exactly where you are at all times."
"Audio surveillance?" I ask.
"Microphone in your collar, backup in your watch. We'll hear everything." He hands me an earpiece smaller than a pill. "And you'll hear us through this. It's bone conduction—sits in your ear canal and transmits sound through your skull. No one will see it."
I take the equipment. Tommy's words follow me down the corridor.
"What happens if someone searches me?" I ask.