Chapter 7 #2
"They might." Rourke's voice is flat. "They know you had help in that firefight.
But your clinic hasn't been connected to us yet.
As far as they know, you hired private security or got lucky.
That's your advantage—they'll be watching for backup, not expecting you to be wired into a full tactical operation. "
"Until Cray figures it out," Mercer adds. "Then all bets are off."
"Which is why we move fast." Kane pulls up a timeline. "You're in position by 0900. You make your calls, file your reports, and you're out by noon. Three hours of exposure, maximum. That's all we need to draw them out."
"And then?" I ask.
"And then we follow whoever responds back to their facility." Kane's expression is grim. "We find where they're storing the chemical weapons, we document everything, and we send it to every journalist, every federal agency, every watchdog organization that might give a damn."
"The Committee will come for us," Sarah says quietly. "Once we expose them, they'll throw everything at us."
"Let them." Kane's voice carries steel. "We've been running from these bastards long enough. Time we made them run from us."
Around the room, I see it reflected in every face. These men have been hunted, betrayed, left for dead by the people they trusted. They're done being victims.
So am I.
"I'm ready," I say.
Kane studies me for a moment, then nods. "Gear up. We leave in thirty minutes."
The team disperses, each person moving to their preparations with practiced efficiency. I start toward the armory, but Kane's voice stops me.
"Willa."
I turn. He's close enough that I can see the exhaustion carved into his features, the weight of command he carries like armor.
"Yes?"
"If something goes wrong...” He stops, jaw working. "If you get compromised, if they take you, don't try to be a hero. Just survive. We'll come for you."
"Promise?"
"Promise." His hand finds my shoulder, warm and solid. "You're not alone in this. Not anymore."
For the first time in years—since Jack, since I ran from Chicago—I believe it. I'm not looking over my shoulder anymore. Not waiting for the next attack.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For coming for me. For not leaving me to die on that highway."
"I told you before—I had to." His eyes hold mine. "Something in me recognized something in you. And I couldn't let that go."
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. Then Kane steps back, professional distance reasserting itself.
"Get ready, Doc. We've got a war to win."
I watch him walk away, then head to my quarters to change. The tactical gear feels foreign and familiar in equal measure—vest, boots, tactical pants with too many pockets. I catch my reflection in a scrap of polished metal someone's hung as a mirror.
The woman staring back is harder than the trauma nurse who fled Chicago. Steadier than the veterinarian who thought she'd found peace. She's killed people and will kill more if necessary. She walks toward danger instead of running from it.
My father would be proud. Or terrified. Maybe both.
By 0530, we're loaded into two vehicles—armored SUVs hidden in the secondary tunnel system. Kane drives the lead vehicle with me in the passenger seat. Stryker and Rourke follow in the second.
The tunnel exit opens onto a mountain road that doesn't appear on any map. We emerge into dawn light, the storm finally broken. Snow covers everything, pristine and beautiful and completely indifferent to the violence brewing beneath its surface.
"You don't have to do this," Kane says as we navigate the winding road. "We could still get you out. Mexico, Canada, somewhere safe."
"We've had this conversation." I adjust the vest, feeling the weight of the tracking devices. "I'm not running."
"Stubborn."
"Determined."
"Same thing." But there's warmth in his voice. "Your father really did a number on you, didn't he?"
"He taught me to stand up for myself. To fight when necessary. To never let fear make my decisions." I watch the forest slide past. "Guess I'm finally living up to his lessons."
"He trained you well."
"Maybe." I touch the Glock holstered at my hip—Dad's Glock, cleaned and loaded, with two extra magazines. "Or maybe he'd say I'm an idiot for walking into a trap when I could be drinking margaritas in Cancun."
Kane almost smiles. "Probably both."
We drive in comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes. The roads are clear despite the storm, plowed by the county crews who keep Montana's highways passable through winter.
Three blocks from the clinic, Kane pulls into a convenience store parking lot where my truck sits waiting. "We made sure it's clean."
"You're not coming with me?"
"Can't risk it. These scars make me too easy to identify if they've got intel on us.
" He meets my eyes. "But Mercer will be waiting close by. He’s posing as a pharmaceutical rep waiting for an appointment.
If they're watching, and they are, you need to arrive alone.
Civilian veterinarian going about her day. "
I switch to my truck, feeling exposed the moment his vehicle pulls away. The familiar cab offers no comfort—at least Mercer waiting by the door. By the time I reach the clinic, the sun is fully up.
I pull into the clinic parking lot at exactly 0900. The building looks exactly as I left it—a modest single-story structure with my name on the sign: Dr. Willa Hart, DVM.
Home. Safety. The life I built after running from Chicago.
About to become the most dangerous place in Montana.
"Last chance to back out," Kane says quietly through the comms.
"Not backing out." I reach for the door handle.
"Willa. Be careful in there."
"I'm always careful, but I'm also done being scared."
I step out into the cold morning air. Down the block, Kane parks, waiting patiently to play his role when the time comes.
The clinic key fits in the lock like it always has. The door opens. Familiar smells wash over me—antiseptic, animals, the faint scent of hay from the barn out back.
I'm home.
And somewhere out there, the Committee's cleaner is watching. Waiting. Planning how best to kill me.
I flip on the lights and invite Mercer in, telling him he’ll have to wait until I have a free minute. Time to find out if I'm the hunter or the bait.
The first call goes to animal control.
"Hi, this is Dr. Hart at the Whitefish Veterinary Clinic.
I need to file a report about a Belgian Malinois that came in last week with unusual chemical burns.
The compounds I detected in his bloodwork are.
.. concerning. I think someone needs to investigate where he was before arriving at my clinic. "
The bureaucrat on the other end takes notes with the enthusiasm of someone filling out forms for a living. He promises someone will follow up. He won't. But the paper trail is started.
Call two goes to Dr. Alice Edwards, a veterinary colleague in Kalispell.
"Alice, it's Willa. Remember that case I mentioned last week?
The military working dog with chemical exposure?
I finally got the tox screen back and—Alice, this is serious.
Organophosphate compounds. Nerve agent precursors.
I don't know what this dog was exposed to, but it shouldn't exist outside military research facilities. "
"Nerve agents? Willa, how do you even know what those are?"
"My father was a Marine. Gunnery Sergeant, three tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan.
He made sure I understood chemical weapons detection protocols.
Said if I was going to work as a trauma nurse in the military, I needed to know what was out there.
" I keep my voice steady, clinical. "These compounds should never have been developed. "
Alice's concern sounds genuine now. She promises to consult with her contacts at the state vet board. Another thread in the web.
By call three, I'm hitting my rhythm. Each conversation adds another layer to the story—the concerned veterinarian who stumbled onto something dangerous and doesn't understand the implications.
Mercer sits in the waiting room, pretending to read a pharmaceutical catalog while actually monitoring every entrance. Through the bone conduction earpiece, I hear Tommy's periodic updates.
"No unusual activity. Traffic patterns normal. Thermal scans show no heat signatures near the building except clients and staff."
But Cray's out there. I can feel it. Predators leave impressions in the air, disturbances in the normal flow of things. Dad taught me that.
I'm finishing call six when the bell over the door chimes.
A man enters. Mid-forties, average height, forgettable features. He's wearing a workman's jacket and carries a clipboard. Everything about him screams "utility worker checking meters."
Everything except his eyes.
Those eyes are a killer's eyes. Cold. Calculating. Already measuring me for a coffin.
"Dr. Hart?" His smile doesn't reach those eyes. "I'm here to check your electrical panel. Routine inspection."
Every instinct Dad drilled into me starts screaming.
In my ear, Tommy's voice cuts through: "Willa, that's not a utility worker. Facial recognition just pinged...”
But I already know. I can see it in those cold, calculating eyes.
Dominic Cray just walked into my clinic.
Mercer's in the waiting room. Cray's at the counter.
And I'm caught between them with nowhere to run.