Chapter 16
WILLA
The tactical vehicle rumbles through the darkness, headlights off, running on night vision and Tommy's remote guidance.
I sit in the back between Kane and Stryker, rifle across my lap, body armor heavy on my shoulders.
Odin lies at my feet, alert but quiet, sensing the tension radiating from everyone in the vehicle.
I went from a quiet life in Whitefish—treating dogs and cats, going to work, going home, convincing myself the last six years of running from Jack were finally over—to riding toward a suspected chemical weapons facility with a team of former black ops soldiers.
I’m carrying enough firepower to start a small war.
I should be terrified. Instead, I feel awake for the first time since I walked out on my relationship with Jack.
"Five minutes," Kane says quietly. His hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezes once. A promise. A prayer. Maybe both.
I squeeze back, remembering earlier in the armory. The desperation in his touch. The way he said "I love you" like he was afraid he'd never get another chance. The promises we made to each other knowing we might not live to keep them.
"You good?" Stryker asks me.
"Yeah." I check my rifle for the hundredth time. Magazine seated. Safety on. Chambered round. Everything in place. "I'm good."
"You've come a long way, Doc." There's respect in his voice. "From running over your first hostile to breaching a facility with a full tactical team. Your old man would be proud."
My father. Gunnery Sergeant Michael Hart, who discovered these same weapons and kept his silence to protect me. Who died carrying secrets that should have been exposed. Who died before Jack, before the running, before any of this happened.
"I hope so."
The vehicle slows, then stops. Through the windshield, I can see the facility in the distance—a collection of industrial buildings silhouetted against the Montana night. Dark. Quiet. Exactly what Karina described.
Too quiet.
"Looks abandoned," Mercer says from the driver's seat.
Kane studies the complex through binoculars. "Tommy, what are you seeing on thermal?"
"Minimal signatures," Tommy's voice crackles through our comms. "Few heat sources in the main building. Could be security, could be automated systems. No obvious activity."
"Could be a trap," Rourke adds from the second vehicle.
"It is a trap." Kane lowers the binoculars. "Kessler knows we're coming. Question is whether we spring it anyway."
"The evidence is in there. The proof we need to stop the attack. We don't have time to wait for a better opportunity."
Kane looks at me, and I see the conflict in his eyes. The part of him that wants to protect me warring with the part that knows I'm right. That we're out of options and running out of time.
"We go in fast and hard." He makes the decision. "Stryker, you take perimeter security with Mercer. Rourke, you're overwatch. Willa and I go for the evidence. Odin comes with us—he'll alert if there's anything chemical we're missing."
Everyone nods. We've been over the plan a dozen times. Now we execute.
"Remember," Kane says, looking directly at me. "If this goes sideways, you run. No arguments. No heroics. You get yourself and that dog out and let us handle the rest."
"I'll consider it," I say, echoing my words from the armory.
Stryker laughs despite the tension. Kane shakes his head but doesn't push. He knows better by now.
We move out in formation, spreading across the open ground between the vehicle and the facility perimeter.
The Montana night is cold and clear, stars brilliant overhead, my breath fogging in the freezing air.
I keep my rifle up, scanning for movement, trusting Odin to alert if anything chemical threatens.
Nothing moves. No guards. No patrols. Empty buildings and silence.
We reach the fence line. Stryker cuts through the chain link with bolt cutters, creating an access point. We slip through one by one, weapons ready, moving toward the main production building.
Fifty meters from the entrance, Odin stops.
His body goes rigid. Ears forward. A low growl building in his chest.
"Contact?" Kane asks.
"Chemical. Multiple signatures. He's alerting on something inside."
Kane and Stryker exchange glances. "Karina said the facility was being sanitized," Stryker says.
"Maybe they haven't finished." But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Something feels wrong. The building looks abandoned, but Odin is alerting like the place is saturated with chemicals.
We approach the entrance. The door is unlocked. Not broken, not forced—simply unlocked, like someone left it open for us.
"Definitely a trap," Mercer mutters.
"Then let's spring it." Kane signals for Stryker to take point.
We breach the door with practiced efficiency, sweeping the entry corridor with weapons and lights. Empty. Abandoned equipment and overturned furniture suggest a hasty evacuation, but the deeper we go, the more Odin's agitation increases.
We round a corner into the main production floor, and I stop dead.
The facility isn't abandoned.
It's running.
Assembly lines hum with activity. Chemical processors cycle through production phases. Storage tanks line the far wall, filled with compounds I can identify by their color and consistency. Crates sit stacked near loading docks, ready for transport.
"Holy shit," Stryker breathes.
"They're not sanitizing. They're still producing."
Kane keys his comm. "Tommy, Karina—facility is hot. Repeat, facility is operational. Full production status."
"What?" Karina's voice cuts through, sharp with disbelief. "That's impossible. My source said they were sanitizing...”
"Your source was wrong," Kane interrupts. "Or the Committee fed you bad intel. Either way, we've got active weapons production here."
A pause. Then Karina again, quieter: "They played me. God, they knew I'd pass this to you. They wanted you to find it."
"We'll sort it out later." Kane cuts the connection. "Right now we need samples and data."
I move closer to the nearest workstation, studying the chemical formulas displayed on monitors. "This isn't just storage. It's an active production facility."
"And staging area." Kane points to the crates. Each one is labeled with shipping codes and destination markers. "They're preparing for distribution."
My medical training kicks in as I examine the production specifications.
The molecular structures on screen make my blood run cold.
Binary chemical weapons—two separately harmless compounds that become lethal when mixed.
Component A is being synthesized on the left side of the facility.
Component B on the right. Neither particularly dangerous on its own.
But combined, they form something worse than anything I studied in school.
Worse than VX nerve agent. Worse than sarin.
The compounds are designed to bind to acetylcholinesterase receptors with such efficiency that a single drop on exposed skin would cause complete neuromuscular paralysis within seconds.
Respiratory failure. Cardiac arrest. Death in under two minutes with no effective treatment.
And they're making it by the barrel.
"This is worse than nerve agents. These are binary weapons.
Impossible to detect separately. Easy to transport.
Can be assembled anywhere, anytime." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Kane, if they deploy this at the inauguration with even moderate efficiency, the casualty count won't be in the hundreds. It'll be in the tens of thousands."
His face goes pale in the emergency lighting. "Then we make sure they don't get the chance."
"And we found the assembly line." I watch as Kane's face becomes grim. "Stryker, secure the perimeter. Willa and I are going for samples and data. We need everything we can carry—chemical compositions, production schedules, distribution plans."
"Copy that." Stryker and Mercer peel off, moving to establish defensive positions.
Kane and I approach the main computer terminal. I pull out the portable drive Tommy equipped me with, inserting it into the system. Files begin copying immediately—thousands of documents, spreadsheets, production logs.
"This is going to take five minutes." I watch the progress bar crawl forward.
"Then we have five minutes." Kane moves to collect samples from the chemical processors, carefully filling containment vials with Components A and B. "Once we have this, Tommy can analyze it. Figure out detection methods, neutralization protocols."
"If we get out of here." I glance around the facility, skin crawling with the certainty that we're being watched. "Where is everyone? Why leave all this running if the facility's compromised?"
Kane stops, samples in hand, eyes scanning the shadows. "Because someone wanted us to find it."
The realization hits us both simultaneously.
"It's bait."
Gunfire erupts from the perimeter.
"Stryker, report!" Kane barks into comms.
"Hostiles! Multiple contacts, full tactical gear...” Stryker's voice cuts off as automatic weapons fire echoes through the building.
"Rourke, I need eyes!"
"Tactical team moving on your position," Rourke responds, his sniper rifle cracking in the distance. "Twenty plus hostiles. Professional military. They've got you surrounded."
The lights shut off. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in red. And then I hear it—slow, measured footsteps approaching from the loading dock.
A figure emerges from the shadows. Tall. Military bearing. Tactical vest loaded with equipment. In the crimson light, I can see his face clearly.
Victor Kessler.
"I knew you'd bring her with you, Kane." His voice is calm. Professional. The tone of a man who's been planning this moment for a long time. "Just like Hart—always trying to protect the people you love. It makes you predictable."
"Kessler." Kane shifts, positioning himself between me and the approaching threat. "This doesn't have to go down like this."