Chapter 17 #2
"You thought wrong." Kessler gets to his feet slowly. "Hart wanted to do the right thing. Wanted to expose the weapons. Save lives. And you people made him choose between his conscience and his daughter. What kind of choice is that?"
No choice at all. The same choice I'd make in his position. The same choice any father would make.
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate. Meaningless. But they're all I have. "I'm sorry for what we did to him. For what we did to her."
"Sorry doesn't bring him back. Sorry doesn't fix what you broke."
He lunges. The blade catches light from the burning facility as it arcs toward my throat.
I could kill him. Should kill him. One shot would end this. End the threat. End the guilt and the anger and the whole poisonous cycle.
But I'm not the man I was in Yemen anymore.
I sidestep the knife strike, trap his arm, and twist. Something cracks. He screams. The knife falls from nerveless fingers.
"Stay down," I order, my weapon trained on him.
He looks up at me with pure hatred. "You should have killed me."
"Probably." I back away toward the vehicles. "But I'm trying to be better than I was. Trying to be the man Willa thinks I am."
"She doesn't know you." Kessler cradles his broken arm. "Doesn't know what you're capable of. What you've done."
"She knows enough." I keep moving. "And she's still here."
Behind Kessler, the facility's main structure collapses inward. Flames shoot hundreds of feet into the air. The chemical clouds spread wider, glowing faintly toxic in the firelight.
"This isn't over." Kessler struggles to his feet, swaying. "I'll take her from you like you took Hart from me. I'll make you watch her die. Make you feel what he felt."
"You can try." I reach the vehicle where Stryker has Willa secured. "But you'll have to go through all of us."
I climb into the vehicle. Stryker guns the engine. We're moving before Kessler can respond, tires spitting gravel as we race away from the burning facility.
Through the rear window, I watch Kessler's silhouette disappear into the smoke. Still standing. Still dangerous. Still hunting.
"Letting him live was a mistake," Stryker says quietly.
"I know."
"He's going to come for her."
"I know that too." I look at Willa, see her watching me with those eyes that see too much. "But I couldn't. Not anymore."
"Because of me," Willa says softly.
"Because I love you." I take her hand. "And because I'm trying to be someone worthy of that love. Someone who doesn't kill in cold blood anymore."
"Even when that person deserves it?"
"Especially then." I squeeze her hand. "The man I was in Yemen would have put a bullet in Kessler's head without hesitation. But that man was part of something that threatened you. Part of a team that made your father choose between his daughter and the truth. I don't want to be that anymore."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Did you know? About the threats against me?"
"No." I meet her eyes. "I swear to you, Willa. I didn't know they threatened you specifically. We were told to neutralize Hart's testimony. Make sure he couldn't damage national security. I thought we were protecting classified operations. I didn't know we were protecting the Committee."
"But you would have done it anyway." It's not a question. "If you'd known about me. About the threats. You still would have followed orders."
The truth hangs in the air between us. Raw. Ugly. Unavoidable.
"Yes," I admit. "Back then, I would have. Orders were everything. The mission was everything. I was a different person."
"And now?"
"Now I'd burn the whole system down before I let them hurt you." I touch her face gently. "Now you're everything."
She leans into my hand, eyes closing briefly. When she opens them again, there's forgiveness there. Understanding. Maybe even a glimmer of the same feeling I'm carrying.
"We're going to finish this," she says.
I nod. No other words needed.
After that, we drive in silence. Rourke and Mercer follow in the second vehicle, maintaining overwatch.
The facility burns behind us, lighting up the Montana night like a second sunrise.
By the time emergency services arrive, there won't be anything left to find but dead bodies.
The Committee will have sanitized everything that survived the fire.
But we have the data. We have samples. We have proof.
That's what matters.
We reach Echo Base just before dawn. Tommy meets us at the entrance, face tight with stress and relief.
"Thank God," he says. "When the facility went up, we thought...”
"We're fine." I hand him the chemical samples I collected. "Get these to the lab. I want full analysis within six hours."
"Already prepping the equipment." Tommy takes the samples carefully. "But Kane, you need to see this. Cross came through. Big time."
We follow him to the operations center. Every screen is showing the same thing—news broadcasts, social media feeds, government websites. All displaying leaked documents. Chemical formulas. Production schedules. Committee operational plans.
Our evidence. Everywhere. Simultaneously.
"Cross uploaded everything to WikiLeaks thirty minutes ago," Tommy explains. "Then sent copies to the New York Times, Washington Post, CNN, BBC, Reuters—every major news outlet in the world. It's spreading faster than we can track."
On the main screen, a news anchor discusses the leaked documents with obvious shock. Behind her, chemical formulas scroll past—the same ones Willa identified at the facility.
"The inauguration," Willa breathes. "They know about the attack."
"Everyone knows," Tommy confirms. "Secret Service has already elevated security to Level One. They're implementing chemical weapons protocols. Every person entering the ceremony will be screened. Every package inspected. The Committee can't pull this off now."
Relief floods through me. We did it. We actually stopped them.
Then Victoria Cross's face appears on screen, a pre-recorded video message.
"If you're seeing this, it means the evidence has been released," she says calmly. "The Committee's primary operation has been exposed. But you stopped one attack. One. They have backups—they always have backups. Contingencies. Alternate plans."
Her expression hardens.
"Now that you've gone public, Protocol Seven escalates.
Every asset on that termination list just became kill-on-sight priority.
That includes everyone at Echo Base. Kane.
Willa. The entire team. Even the damn dog.
They won't wait, won't plan, won't hesitate.
They're coming for all of you now, with everything they have.
You won this battle. The war just escalated. "
The screen goes dark.
In the silence that follows, nobody moves. Nobody speaks. We all understand what this means.
We stopped the attack. Exposed the Committee's plans. Saved thousands of lives.
And painted targets on our backs so bright they can be seen from space. Cross was right—we're all marked now.
"How long?" Stryker asks quietly.
"Before they move on us?" Tommy pulls up tactical displays. "Could be hours. Could be days." His face is grim. "But they're coming."
I look around the operations center. At Stryker and Mercer, warriors who've followed me through hell. At Tommy, brilliant and loyal despite everything. At Sarah, treating Odin's minor injuries from the fight. At Khalid, young but learning fast.
At Willa, who came into this running and scared and has become someone who stands and fights.
My team. My family. All of them in danger because I pulled them into this war.
"Then we prepare," I say. "Fortify the base. Stock ammunition. Plan escape routes. We're not going to make it easy for them."
"And if they come in force?" Rourke asks. "If they send everything they have?"
I think about Kessler's words. About Hart's choice. About the man I was versus the man I'm trying to become.
"Then we fight," I say simply. "We fight, and we survive, and we make them regret ever threatening the people we love."
Willa steps up beside me. Takes my hand without a word. That's answer enough.
Outside, dawn breaks over the Montana mountains. Beautiful. Peaceful. Deceptive.
Somewhere out there, the Committee is mobilizing. Protocol Seven activating. Killers and operators and tactical teams preparing to descend on Echo Base.
We have forty-eight hours.
Tommy's screens flash with movement—satellite data updating in real time.
"Kane," he says quietly. "We've got vehicle movement. Multiple convoys heading northwest."
Toward us.
"How long?" I ask.
"Eighteen hours. Maybe less."