Chapter 18
WILLA
The staging facility transforms into a fortress in a matter of hours.
From the operations center, I track Kane's team fortifying every entrance, planting motion sensors in the tree line, establishing firing positions on the roof.
This isn't Echo Base—it's a secondary defensive position fifty miles north, chosen specifically to draw the Committee away from our actual home.
If they come for us, they come here. And if we fall, Echo Base stays dark.
Stryker coordinates defensive sectors. Rourke sets up a sniper nest with overlapping fields of fire. They move with the efficiency of people who've done this before, who've survived worse.
Tommy's screens show the news feeds on mute.
Every channel carries the same story: inauguration security elevated to unprecedented levels.
Chemical weapons protocols active. Secret Service sweeping every venue, screening every attendee.
The leaked documents—our documents—spreading across the internet faster than the Committee can contain them.
"They're calling it the biggest intelligence leak since Snowden," Tommy says, fingers flying across keyboards. "Senate's demanding hearings. Pentagon's in full damage control. The Committee's operation is blown wide open."
"Will they cancel the inauguration?" Sarah asks from her station, where she's monitoring medical supplies and preparing trauma kits.
"No." Kane enters the operations center, tactical vest already in place, rifle slung across his chest, ignoring the pain from his wounds. "They'll go forward with increased security. Can't let terrorists dictate American democracy. But the chemical attack is off the table. Too much scrutiny now."
"So we won," Khalid looks up from where he's helping Odin with his detection vest. The young man has become essential over the past weeks, learning fast, earning trust.
"We stopped one attack." I remember Cross's warning. "They have contingencies."
Tommy's screens flash red. "Kane, we've got movement. Multiple vehicles approaching from three directions. ETA twelve minutes."
"How many?"
"At least forty hostiles, probably more. Professional tactical formation. They're not hiding anymore—this is full assault."
Kane's expression hardens. "Protocol Seven, Contingency Omega. If they can't complete the mission, they eliminate all witnesses. Destroy all evidence." He turns to Tommy. "Sever all connections to Echo Base. If this goes bad, the main facility stays dark. They get this location and nothing else."
"Already done." Tommy confirms. "We're running on isolated systems. No uplink to home."
"Good." Kane looks around at all of us. "They find us here, not the real base. That's the whole point of this position."
"Including us," Stryker says, checking his rifle.
"Especially us." Kane looks at me, and something I've never seen before crosses his face. Not fear, exactly. But acknowledgment of just how bad this could get. "Willa, you're staying inside. You, Tommy, Sarah, and Khalid coordinate defense. We'll handle external threats."
"I can fight..."
"I know you can." He cuts me off gently. "But right now I need you doing something more important. Tommy handles tech and intel. Sarah handles medical. Khalid handles Odin and close quarters. And you coordinate all of it. Make the calls that keep everyone alive. Can you do that?"
The weight of it settles on my shoulders. Not just fighting—leading. Making decisions in real-time that determine who lives and dies.
"Yes."
"Good." He kisses me quickly, fiercely. "Stay alive. I'll come back for you."
Then he's gone, moving with Stryker, Rourke, and Mercer to their defensive positions. The operations center suddenly feels very empty.
"Willa." Tommy's voice pulls my attention. "I need you at the tactical display. You're quarterback now."
I move to the central console where Kane usually stands. Multiple screens show camera feeds from around the compound. Perimeter sensors. Thermal imaging. Radio frequencies.
"Eight minutes." Tommy updates. "Three strike teams converging on our position."
Sarah appears beside me with a headset. "You'll need this. Direct comms to everyone on the team."
I put it on, adjusting the mic. "Kane, can you hear me?"
"Five by five." His voice is steady in my ear. "What do you see?"
The thermal display shows three distinct groups.
I count signatures, calculate spacing, assess formation patterns.
"Northern approach—fifteen hostiles in four vehicles.
Eastern approach has twelve in three vehicles.
Southern approach..." I lean closer to the screen.
"Twenty-plus in five vehicles. They're hitting us from three sides simultaneously. "
"Smart." Stryker's voice cuts in. "Dividing our fire. Mercer, you good on the southern perimeter?"
"Locked and loaded," Mercer responds. "They come through here, they're walking into hell."
"Six minutes," Tommy announces.
The tactical display pulses with incoming data. My medical training kicks in but applied differently now. Not treating injuries—preventing them. Seeing the battlefield like a body, understanding where it's vulnerable, where it's strong.
"Kane, the southern approach has the most hostiles but it's also our strongest defensive position. They'll take heavy casualties there." I trace routes on screen. "I think it's a diversion."
"Explain."
"They want you to reinforce south, pull resources from north and east. Then hit us from multiple angles when you're spread thin.
But if we keep north and east at current strength and let Mercer hold south.
.." The pattern becomes clear. "They bleed against his position while you contain the real threats. "
"Mercer, thoughts?"
"Doc's right," Mercer responds. "Southern perimeter is a kill box if we use it properly. I've got good cover and clear fields of fire."
"Do it." Kane makes the call. "Willa, keep calling it as you see it."
Four minutes.
Time stretches. I count heartbeats. Track thermal signatures. Try to think like someone planning an assault while remembering I'm just a veterinarian who learned to fight two weeks ago.
But I'm more than that now. I have to be.
"Thirty seconds," Tommy warns.
"Everyone weapons hot," Kane orders. "Remember—these aren't mercenaries anymore. This is the Committee throwing everything at us. They're coming to erase us. Don't give them the chance."
"Contact north!" Rourke's rifle cracks once, twice. "Lead vehicle disabled. Hostiles dismounting."
The siege begins.
Gunfire erupts from three directions simultaneously.
Muzzle flashes light up the Montana darkness on every screen.
Kane and Stryker engage the northern team with brutal efficiency.
Rourke picks off targets from his elevated position.
Mercer reinforces the south where the Committee committed the most resources.
"Willa, I need casualty assessment," Sarah calls out.
The feeds show two bodies in the initial contact. Northern team pinned behind vehicles. Southern team advancing hard on Mercer's position—he's holding but they're pressing.
"RPG!" Someone shouts over comms.
The explosion rocks the entire facility. Screens shake. Dust falls from the ceiling. My ears ring from the concussion even though I'm deep inside the building.
"Status!" My voice stays steady somehow.
"Missed the building, hit the treeline," Kane reports, breathing hard. "They're using it as cover for advancement. Stryker, watch your left flank!"
More gunfire. Stryker pivots on screen, engaging new targets. Two hostiles go down. But more are coming. Always more.
"Northern team flanking. They're trying to get around Rourke's position."
"I see them." Rourke's voice is eerily calm. His rifle cracks three times in quick succession. "Not anymore."
"Eastern team moving." The thermal signatures shift patterns. "They're trying to circle around to the rear entrance."
"Mercer, can you reposition?" Kane asks.
"Negative." Mercer's breathing is labored. "They keep pushing. I'm locked down here, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold."
"I'll take it," Sarah says, grabbing a rifle.
"No." The call comes without thinking. "Sarah, you stay on medical. Tommy, can you lock down the rear entrance remotely?"
"Sealing now." His fingers fly. "Blast doors engaged. They'd need explosives to breach."
"Which they have," Rourke points out. "Saw demo charges on at least three hostiles."
"Then they're predictable." An idea forms. "Tommy, do we have cameras on the rear entrance?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Because I'm going to tell you exactly when to unseal those doors."
The eastern team approaches the sealed entrance. They stack up, prepping charges. Professional. Efficient. Exactly what I'm counting on. Twelve operators moving with the kind of coordination that comes from extensive training. Delta. SEAL. Special Forces. The Committee sent their best.
My fingers tighten on the console. I've euthanized dying animals with steadier hands than this. These aren't faceless enemies anymore. They're elite operators doing a job, following orders, probably believing they're protecting national security.
And I'm about to trap them in a kill box.
"Khalid, how's Odin?"
"Alert but holding position."
"I need him. Send him to the rear corridor. Have him take position behind cover, facing the entrance."
"What are you planning?" Kane demands.
"They're going to breach that door. When they do, Odin attacks and I reseal it. Trap them in the corridor where we have all the advantages."
"That's risky," Stryker says.
"Everything's risky right now." The eastern team sets charges. My finger hovers over the comm button. This is it. This is where I become someone who orders men to their deaths. "Tommy, be ready on those controls."
"Standing by."
The explosion blows the rear door inward. Smoke and debris billowing. The eastern team moves through—twelve men in tactical formation, weapons up, scanning for threats.
"Now!"