Chapter 10
KANE
Iwake to the feeling of Willa's breath against my chest, warm and steady. For a moment—one perfect, stolen moment—I let myself pretend this is normal. That I'm a man who gets to wake up next to a woman he cares about without calculating threat vectors and exit strategies.
Then reality intrudes.
Willa stirs against me, her hand splaying across the burn scars on my ribs. Even in sleep, she touches the damaged parts without hesitation. I need to check on Cray. Should've checked on him hours ago. But I'm still here, watching her breathe.
"Kane?" Her voice is rough with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Early. You should rest."
She props herself up on one elbow, hair falling across her shoulders. In the dim emergency lighting, she's beautiful in a way that makes my tactical brain short-circuit. "You're thinking too loud."
"Occupational hazard."
"What are you thinking about?" Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, following the path of scar tissue.
How keeping you here might get you killed. How last night was the best mistake I've made in five years. How I'm already calculating how to protect you from threats I can't predict.
"Cray," I say instead. "He should be awake by now."
She gets it. I see the moment she figures out what I'm not saying—that leaving a potentially valuable intelligence asset unmonitored for this long is tactically stupid, and I did it anyway because I couldn't pull myself away from her.
"We should check on him." She starts to rise, but I catch her wrist.
"Willa." Her name comes out rougher than intended. "About last night...”
"Don't." She cuts me off, eyes fierce. "Don't you dare tell me it was a mistake. Don't tell me we shouldn't have. Don't start listing all the tactical reasons why this complicates things."
"It does complicate things."
"I don't care." She leans down, kisses me hard enough to make my point dissolve. When she pulls back, her voice is steady. "I meant what I said last night. I'm not running. Not from this. Not from you."
She says it like she means it. Like she's not going anywhere. Five years I've been on this mountain, keeping everyone at arm's length. She's the first person who made me want to stop.
"Get dressed," I say, because if I don't move now, I'll pull her back down and the Committee can wait until noon. "Let's see what our cleaner has to say."
The med bay is quiet when we enter. Too quiet.
Khalid sits in the corner, reading something on a tablet, Odin's massive head resting on the boy's leg. The dog's eyes track us with that unsettling awareness dogs have. Sarah's at the monitoring station, vitals displaying across three screens.
Cray lies still on the gurney, breathing steady. Alive. For now.
"Status?" I ask Sarah.
"Stable. Heart rate elevated in the last hour—probably coming around." She glances between Willa and me, and I see the moment she registers what's changed. A small smile touches her lips before she looks away. "Tommy said to tell you he's got something when you're ready."
"I'll check in with him after." I move to the gurney, studying Cray's face. Even unconscious, there's something predatory about him. "How long until he's fully conscious?"
"Minutes, maybe." Willa moves to the opposite side, checking the IV line with professional efficiency. "We pulled the sedation drip—figured you’d want him coherent for questioning."
"Do it."
Her hands are steady as she adjusts the line. She saved his life. Now she's prepping him for interrogation. I should be bothered. I'm not.
Within ten minutes, Cray's eyes flutter open. The disorientation lasts maybe three seconds before calculation takes over. His gaze sweeps the room—me, Willa, Sarah at the monitors, Khalid in the corner with Odin lying at his feet—cataloging threats and assets.
"Kane." His voice is rough but clear. "I'd heard you survived Kandahar. The Committee will be disappointed I failed to confirm otherwise."
"Talk." I keep my voice flat. "Protocol Seven. How many names on the list?"
"Classified." A thin smile. "Even if I knew, why would I tell you?"
"Because you're bleeding out slowly in an underground bunker surrounded by people you tried to kill." I lean closer. "Because the Committee left you for dead the second you failed. Because whatever loyalty you think you have to them is worth exactly nothing."
Something flickers in his eyes. Not fear—men like Cray don't scare easily. But recognition, maybe. Understanding that his situation is exactly as bad as I'm suggesting.
"Sixty-three names," he says finally. "Last I heard. But that was before Morrison's death. They'll have added more by now."
"Who authorized it?"
"Above my pay grade. I get target packages and payment schedules. Everything else is compartmentalized."
"Convenient." Rourke's voice comes from the doorway. I didn't hear him enter—a reminder that even after five years, my team moves like wraiths. "Who sent you after Dr. Hart?"
Cray's eyes find Willa, and I see him reassessing. "You're tougher than your file suggested. Most civilians don't drop trained operatives without hesitation."
"My father was a Marine," Willa says, voice cold. "He taught me to shoot before I learned to drive. Answer the question."
"Direct tasking from the Committee's enforcement division." Cray shifts slightly, testing his restraints. "You saved the dog. The dog knows too much. Standard sanitization protocol."
"Except it's not standard," I say. "Protocol Seven isn't about one dog and one veterinarian. It's scorched earth. So what makes Odin special enough to trigger that level of response?"
Cray's silent for a long moment. Then: "He was at the facility.
The one outside Whitefish. He alerted on compounds that don't officially exist. Chemical weapons development, pre-positioned for domestic deployment.
If that dog leads anyone to that cache, if someone connects those dots publicly, the Committee loses plausible deniability. "
The room goes cold.
"Domestic deployment," Sarah repeats quietly. "They're planning to use chemical weapons on US soil?"
"I don't know the operational details. I just know the dog became a priority target the second Dr. Hart found him behind her clinic." Cray's eyes find mine. "But there's something else you should know. Something the Committee's particularly interested in."
"What?"
"Dr. Hart's father. Gunnery Sergeant Michael Hart. He was involved in something years ago—classified op, never went public. The Committee has files on him. And when his daughter showed up on their radar..." He trails off meaningfully.
Willa goes absolutely still beside me. "What about my father?"
"Ask Kane." Cray's smile is cold. "His people were there too. Black ops cleanup team, working parallel to the Committee's interests. Small world, isn't it?"
My blood turns to ice. The Yemen operation. The one that went sideways when we discovered a rogue chemical weapons cache that wasn't supposed to exist. We'd burned it down, killed everyone involved, and buried the evidence deep.
Gunnery Sergeant Hart had been one of the Marines on site. I remember him—tough as nails, asked too many questions, wanted to know why a black ops team was torching evidence instead of reporting it up the chain.
We'd told him the same thing we told all witnesses: forget what you saw, or you won't like what happens next.
"Kane?" Willa's voice cuts through the memory. "What is he talking about?"
Before I can answer, Tommy's voice crackles through the intercom. "Kane, we've got a problem. You need to get to operations now."
"On my way." I look at Rourke. "Watch him. If he stops breathing, revive him. We're not done."
I'm already moving, Willa right behind me. The corridor feels longer than usual, every step measured against whatever threat Tommy's found.
The operations center is chaos—controlled, professional chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Tommy's at the main console, screens filled with surveillance feeds and data streams. Stryker and Mercer flank him, both armed.
"What've we got?" I ask.
"Someone made a delivery to Dr. Hart's clinic an hour ago.
" Tommy pulls up security footage—grainy but clear enough.
A figure in nondescript clothing approaches the back of the clinic, leaves a package by the rear entrance, and disappears.
"Local PD hasn't responded yet. But Kane.
.." He switches feeds. "The package has your names on it. "
My stomach drops.
Tommy zooms in on the package. Written in neat block letters across the brown paper: WILLA AND KANE.
Not her full name. Not my full name. Just enough to make it personal.
"What's inside?" Willa asks, voice steady despite what I hear underneath—the fear she's fighting to control.
"Unknown. Could be explosives. Could be surveillance intel. Could be a message." Tommy's fingers fly across keys. "But whoever delivered it knew exactly where to find the clinic, and they know you're together."
"Run the footage through facial recognition," I order. "Cross-reference with known Committee assets and contractors. And get me thermal imaging of that package—I want to know if there's anything electronic or chemical inside before we go near it."
"Already running." Tommy switches screens. "But Kane? This doesn't match Committee methodology. They don't leave packages. They don't send messages. They just eliminate targets."
He's right. The Committee's whole operational philosophy is efficiency and deniability. Leaving evidence, creating connections, sending messages—it's antithetical to how they work.
"Then who?" Willa moves closer to the screens, studying the figure. "Who knows about us? Who wants us to know they know?"
"Someone with a personal stake." Mercer's voice is grim. "Someone who's not just following orders."
Stryker crosses his arms. "The enforcer. He’s the one we've been hearing rumors about. Some say he has ties to Willa’s father."