Chapter 14
WILLA
The operations center feels too bright after hours in the dark.
I stumble through the door behind Kane, Stryker supporting my left side while Mercer clears the corridor behind us.
Odin trots ahead, no longer alert, just exhausted like the rest of us.
My legs want to give out. My head pounds where I cracked it against rock during the collapse.
Every breath tastes like dust and chemicals.
But we're alive. That counts for something.
"Med bay," Kane orders, his voice rough. "Now."
"I'm fine," I start to argue.
"You've got a head wound bleeding through your hair and you're favoring your left ankle." His hand finds the small of my back, steadying me. "Med bay. Not negotiable."
For once, I don't argue. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard now that we're safe, and safe is a relative term when the Committee just tried to gas us.
Sarah meets us at the med bay entrance, already pulling supplies. "Sit," she orders, pointing to the exam table. "Both of you."
Kane helps me up onto the table, then leans against it beside me. His tactical vest hangs open, the right side dark with blood. The shrapnel wound I felt in the darkness looks worse in the light—a jagged cut across his ribs, still seeping.
"You first," I tell him.
"Ladies first."
"I'm a doctor. You're bleeding. Sit down and let me work."
Sarah watches our exchange with knowing eyes, then hands me a suture kit. "I'll prep the antiseptic. You've got steadier hands anyway."
I make Kane strip off the vest and shirt. The wound runs from his lowest rib almost to his hip—not deep enough to hit organs, but deep enough to need attention. He doesn't flinch when I clean it, just watches my face while I work.
"You're good at this," he observes.
"Lots of practice with field injuries." I thread the needle, grateful my hands are steady despite everything. "You'd be surprised how many farmers bring in animals with wounds that look exactly like this. Barbed wire, machinery accidents, you name it."
"Comparing me to livestock?"
"If the veterinary care fits." I start the first suture, keeping my touch gentle despite the circumstances. "Besides, you're tougher than most horses I've treated."
He almost smiles. "That a compliment?"
"That's me keeping you talking so you don't tense up and make this harder." Another suture. The wound is clean, no debris I can see, but I check carefully. Missing something now could mean infection later. "What happened out there, Kane? How did they know exactly where we'd be?"
His jaw tightens. "Kessler. Had to be. He knows my patterns, knows I'd check the cabin after the Committee activated Protocol Seven. He set the trap and we walked right into it."
"But we got out."
"Barely." His hand finds my wrist, stilling my work for a moment. "If you hadn't had that atropine, if your father hadn't prepared you for chemical exposure...”
"But he did." I resume suturing. "Dad never stopped looking over his shoulder after Yemen. All that time, he was preparing me for threats I didn't understand. Turns out he knew exactly what he was doing."
"He saved your life tonight."
"Yeah." The thought sits heavy. "He did."
I finish the last suture, tie it off, apply a clean dressing. Kane's ribs will ache for weeks, but the wound is closed, risk of infection minimal if he keeps it clean.
"Your turn," he says.
"It's just a head wound. They bleed a lot but...”
"Sit." Command voice. The one that doesn't allow argument. "Let me look at it."
I sit. He moves with practiced efficiency despite the fresh sutures, parting my hair to examine the gash. His fingers are gentle, surprisingly so for hands that have killed as many people as his have.
"Needs three stitches," he says. "Maybe four."
"Then do it."
He works in silence, each stitch precise and careful. I focus on breathing through the sting, on not thinking about how we almost died tonight, on definitely not thinking about how natural it feels to have Kane touching me like this.
"Done." He applies a dressing, fingers lingering for a moment in my hair. "How's your ankle?"
"Sprained, not broken. I can walk on it."
"That wasn't the question."
"It hurts. But I've had worse." I test my weight, wincing but mobile. "I'll wrap it. It'll hold."
Sarah returns with clean tactical pants and shirts for both of us. "Conference room in ten minutes. Everyone's waiting for the debrief."
Ten minutes to change, to look like we didn't just survive a coordinated assassination attempt. Ten minutes before we have to face the reality of what comes next.
Kane's hand finds mine as Sarah leaves. "You okay?"
"I killed more people tonight." The words come out flat. Clinical. "I can’t keep count anymore. What is it six? Seven? How many human beings won't go home because I pulled a trigger?"
"Human beings who were trying to kill you first." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "That's not murder, Willa. That's survival."
"The scariest part?" I look at our joined hands. "It's getting easier. That first one in the truck—I almost threw up after. Now I just reload and move to the next target."
"You're becoming someone who refuses to be a victim." Kane lifts my hand to his lips, presses a kiss to my knuckles. "Your father would be proud. I know I am."
The words settle something inside me. Not comfort, exactly. But acknowledgment. Permission to be both horrified and functional. To grieve the necessity of violence while accepting it as the price of survival.
"Come on," he says, releasing my hand. "Let's find out what Karina knows about this facility."
The conference room is packed when we arrive. Stryker and Mercer are already there, cleaning weapons. Rourke stands near the tactical display, arms crossed. Tommy's at his laptop, fingers flying across keys. Sarah sits beside Khalid, who has Odin's head in his lap.
And Karina Miles sits at the head of the table, looking far too comfortable for someone who breached our security six hours ago.
Cray is there too, still pale from his injuries but sitting upright, watching everything with those cold professional eyes.
"Nice of you to join us," Karina says without looking up from the files spread in front of her. "I was beginning to think the Committee actually managed to kill you."
"They tried." Kane moves to the tactical display, pulling up maps of the area around Whitefish. "That ambush was perfectly coordinated. Someone told them exactly where we'd be and when."
"Kessler," Cray says quietly. Everyone turns to look at him. "He's running point on Protocol Seven enforcement. Former Delta, worked with your Gunnery Sergeant Hart in Yemen. He's been waiting for the right moment to strike."
"How do you know this?" I ask.
"Because he recruited me for this operation." Cray's voice is flat. "Told me you were a high-value target, gave me the assignment to eliminate you. When I failed, he moved to the next phase—direct action with overwhelming force."
"The cabin ambush," Kane says.
"Exactly. He knew you'd check your cover position. Knew you'd bring Dr. Hart. Set up the kill box and waited." Cray meets Kane's eyes. "He's not going to stop. Not until you're both dead or he is."
The room falls silent.
"Then we make sure it's him," Stryker says finally.
Karina clears her throat. "If we're done discussing revenge, we have bigger problems. The Committee's been moving weapons out of the Whitefish facility for the past forty-eight hours."
She slides a folder across the table. Kane opens it, scanning contents. "How much is left?"
"Small cache. Maybe ten percent of what they produced. They're keeping it as insurance—proof of concept if the main deployment fails, or leverage if they need to negotiate."
"Negotiate with who?" I ask.
"Whoever's left alive after the attack." Karina's voice is cold. "The Committee doesn't just want to kill the current administration. They want to reshape American policy for the next fifty years. A successful chemical attack gives them that power."
"How are they transporting the weapons to DC?" Rourke asks.
Cray leans forward. "Private airports, chartered flights, security convoys disguised as legitimate government contractors. I can give you the specifics—which companies they use, which airports, how they move sensitive materials through customs without detection."
"Why help us?" Mercer's voice carries suspicion.
"Because they left me to die," Cray says simply. "Because I'm on Protocol Seven's list now. Because helping you is the only chance I have to survive."
Kane studies him for a long moment. "Talk. Tell us everything."
For the next hour, Cray details the Committee's logistics network. Private airfields in Montana, Idaho, Wyoming. Security companies with federal contracts. Shell corporations that own aircraft. The web is extensive, sophisticated, and designed to be invisible to standard law enforcement.
Karina pulls up a map on her tablet. "Tommy, can you display this on the main screen?"
Tommy works his magic and the map appears—a web of transportation routes converging on Washington, DC. Multiple redundant pathways, each one carrying a portion of the weapons cache.
"They're not putting all their eggs in one basket," Karina explains. "Even if we intercept one shipment, three others get through."
"Then we intercept all of them." Kane studies the routes with tactical precision. "Split mission. My team hits the Whitefish facility, secures the remaining cache and any evidence of what they produced. Rourke coordinates with Victoria Cross to intercept the DC shipments."
"Cross is expensive," Stryker points out. "And we're not exactly flush with operational funds."
"We'll pay her price." Kane's jaw tightens. "This is bigger than money."