Chapter 12
WILLA
The operations center empties fast once Kane gives the order.
Stryker and Mercer move in sync—vests on, magazines checked, weapons secured—all without a wasted motion or spoken word.
Rourke heads to coordinate perimeter defense.
Tommy stays at his console, fingers flying across keyboards, coordinating what I'm starting to realize is a much larger operation than I understood.
Kane pulls on his tactical vest, checking magazines by touch. His movements are automatic, muscle memory from years of operations I know nothing about. The burns on his neck catch the harsh lighting as he adjusts the straps.
"Stay here with Tommy and Sarah," he says without looking at me. Commander voice. The one that expects obedience. "We'll clear the search teams before they get close enough to find the access points."
"How many teams?" I ask.
"Eight signatures scattered across five miles." He chambers a round in his sidearm. "Maybe more we haven't detected yet."
Eight trained operatives. Maybe more. And he's planning to go hunt them in the dark.
"That's suicide," I say.
"That's Tuesday." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are already distant. Already in combat mode. "We've done worse with less."
Before I can argue, he's gone. Stryker and Mercer follow, the three of them moving through the corridor like shadows. The heavy door seals behind them with a pneumatic hiss that sounds too final.
Silence settles over the operations center. Tommy's hands blur over the keys. Sarah shifts in her chair, wincing as the movement pulls at her healing wounds. Khalid sits in the corner with Odin's head in his lap, watching everything with those too-old eyes.
I should feel safe here. Underground, hidden, surrounded by reinforced stone and security systems. But all I feel is restless. Useless.
I'm not built to wait while other people fight.
"How long have they been doing this?" I ask Tommy.
His fingers don't stop moving. "Depends on what you mean by 'this.'"
"Going out to eliminate threats. Running operations. Fighting a war nobody else knows exists."
"Kane's been operational for twenty years. The team as it exists now? Ever since Kandahar." Tommy pulls up surveillance feeds showing thermal signatures moving through the forest. "But the war against the Committee? That's been going on a lot longer than any of us."
I move closer to his console, watching the screens. Eight heat signatures spread across the mountain range, searching in a pattern that looks almost random but probably isn't. And somewhere out there, three more signatures—Kane, Stryker, Mercer—moving to intercept.
"Tell me about Kandahar," I say.
Tommy's hands finally still. He glances at Sarah, who nods slightly.
"Black ops mission gone bad," he says. "Someone in their chain of command sold them to the Committee. They walked into an ambush in Kandahar. Nine men went in, six came out—barely. Morrison thought he could disappear after. The Committee found him three weeks ago in Kalispell."
"Kane mentioned him." I remember the flatness in Kane's voice. "He died?"
"Screaming. Kane and Rourke got there too late to save him."
The clinical part of my brain catalogs the information. The human part struggles with what it means—that Kane has been living with this for five years. That every person in this base is here because someone betrayed them. That the Committee has been hunting them like animals.
"How many?" I ask. "How many people has the Committee killed trying to silence witnesses?"
"We've confirmed forty-seven in the last two years." Sarah's voice is hoarse from disuse. "But the real number's probably triple that. The Committee's been operating since the Cold War. Cleaning up inconvenient truths. Eliminating anyone who threatens their operations."
Forty-seven confirmed. Over a hundred probable. And I'm number twelve on their current list.
My father knew. He saw what they were doing in Yemen and kept quiet because speaking up would have gotten him killed. Would have gotten me killed. He carried that secret until it literally killed him—stress-induced heart attack at fifty-three.
The weight of it sits heavy on my chest.
"Kane thinks I should run," I say. "Leave Montana. Get as far from this as possible."
Tommy finally looks at me. "He's probably right."
"But you don't think I will."
"No." He returns to his screens. "You're still here. That says something."
What it says is that I'm either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Maybe both.
The comm system crackles to life. Not the open channel—something encrypted. Kane's voice comes through, distorted by whatever security they're using, but unmistakable.
"Stryker, what's your position?"
"North ridge, three hundred meters from target cluster alpha. I've got eyes on two tangos. They're setting up some kind of monitoring equipment."
"Mercer?"
"South approach. One tango, currently stationary. Looks like he's on comms with someone."
I shouldn't be listening to this. Tommy notices me standing by the console but doesn't tell me to leave. Maybe he understands that being kept in the dark is worse than knowing.
"Copy both positions." Kane's voice is pure tactical assessment. "Stryker, can you take both targets from your position?"
"Affirmative. Clean shots. But Kane, this equipment they're setting up—it's sophisticated. Ground-penetrating radar maybe. They're not just searching. They're scanning."
My stomach drops. Ground-penetrating radar. They're trying to find the cave systems. Trying to locate Echo Base.
"How long until they can map the tunnel network?" Kane asks.
"If they get that gear operational? Six hours. Maybe less."
"Then we don't let them get it operational. Mercer, stand by. Stryker, you're cleared to engage on my mark. I'll take the monitoring station. Three, two, one—mark."
The comms go silent except for the faint sound of suppressed gunfire. Three shots. Maybe four. Then Kane's voice again, steady and controlled.
"Targets down. Stryker, secure that equipment. I want Tommy analyzing it."
"Copy. Kane, you seeing what I'm seeing on thermal? More signatures incoming. At least four, maybe six."
"Yeah, I see them. They're responding to the gunfire. Mercer, collapse back to secondary position. We're about to have company."
The transmission cuts to silence.
I realize I've been holding my breath. Tommy's expression is grim as he tracks the new thermal signatures on his screen.
"They sent backup," he mutters. "Smart. Anticipating counterattack."
"How many now?" I ask.
"Twelve confirmed. Could be more jamming our sensors." His hands work the keyboards. "Kane, Stryker, Mercer—you've got twelve tangos converging on your position. Recommend immediate extraction."
Kane's response comes through tense but controlled. "Negative. We extract now, we lead them straight back to base. We're going to ground. Switching to dark protocol."
The comms go completely silent. Even the static disappears.
"What's dark protocol?" I ask.
"Radio silence. No comms, no electronics that can be tracked. They'll operate on pre-established contingencies until they can safely re-establish contact." Tommy's jaw tightens. "Could be thirty minutes. Could be three hours."
Three hours. Three hours of not knowing if Kane's alive or dead. If the Committee found them. If I'm about to lose the first person in six years who made me feel something other than afraid.
I can't do this. Can't stand here watching screens and waiting for bad news.
"I need air," I say.
"Bad idea." Tommy doesn't look away from his monitors. "You should stay in the secured areas."
"I'm going to the cavern. The one Kane showed me. I'll stay inside the base perimeter."
He considers it, then nods once. "Take a radio. If I call, you come back immediately."
I grab a handheld radio from the equipment rack and head into the tunnels. My boots echo on stone as I navigate the corridors by memory. Left at the first junction, right at the second, down the long passage that slopes gradually deeper into the mountain.
The cavern door is where I remember it. I punch in the code Kane taught me and slip inside.
The underground lake stretches out in absolute darkness, only visible where emergency lights reflect off the still water. It's cold here, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, but it's also peaceful. Quiet. A place where I can think without screens showing me threats I can't fight.
I sit on the smooth stone at the water's edge and try to process everything I've learned in the past hour.
Kane's not just a man hiding from the Committee. He's part of something bigger. A team. A brotherhood. Men who've been betrayed by their own government and are fighting back the only way they know how.
Forty-seven confirmed kills in two years. Over a hundred probable. And they're trying to add me to that list because I saved a dog.
The absurdity of it would be funny if it wasn't so terrifying.
My father died keeping secrets about Yemen. About chemical weapons. About operations that weren't supposed to exist. And now his daughter is caught in the same web, marked for death by the same organization that probably contributed to his heart attack.
If he were here, what would he say? Run? Fight?
I already know the answer. Dad didn't raise me to run from threats. He raised me to face them head-on, to stand my ground, to protect what matters.
And Kane matters.
I've known him for less than a week, but he matters. The way he came for me in that blizzard when he didn't have to. The way he looks at my scars and sees someone worth protecting instead of someone damaged. The way he claims me like I'm something precious instead of something broken.
I'm not running. Not from the Committee. Not from Kessler. Not from whatever war Kane's been fighting.
The radio crackles. Tommy's voice, urgent: "Willa, you need to get back here. Now."
My heart stops. "What happened? Is Kane...”
"Just get back here."