Echo: Dark (Men of Echo Ridge #3)

Chapter 1

REAGAN

The park is deserted at eleven PM, exactly as my source promised.

I adjust my camera, checking the telephoto lens for the third time. My hands won't stop moving. The kind of nervous tell that gets investigative journalists caught by the people they're investigating.

My name is Reagan Mitchell, and I'm about to either break the biggest story of my career or get myself killed. Possibly both.

When my source, Cipher, originally contacted me he claimed he had proof of an off-the-books military operation funded through black sites and unsanctioned by any congressional oversight. He sent me documents, surveillance photos, financial records. All pointing to something called Echo Ridge.

Problem is, Echo Ridge doesn't exist. No paper trail, no budget allocations, no official acknowledgment. Just whispers in dark corners and bodies that pile up when you ask too many questions.

I asked anyway.

Headlights sweep across the parking lot. Black SUV, tinted windows, government plates. My pulse kicks into a higher gear. Either confirmation or elimination. No middle ground.

The driver's door opens. A man steps out. Tall, dark hair, eyes that scan the perimeter with the kind of professional paranoia that comes from years in the field. Military bearing, definitely armed. The way he moves speaks of violence held in careful check.

He's not my source. My source was civilian, nervous, desperate to get the story out.

This man is something else entirely.

I zoom in with the camera, snap photos in rapid succession. Get his face, his vehicle, his weapon. The bulge under his jacket screams tactical holster. Height maybe six-four, broad shoulders, moving with the efficient grace of someone who knows exactly how much force his body can deliver.

He turns, looks directly at me.

My breath catches.

A hundred yards away in darkness behind a stand of trees. He shouldn't be able to see me. But he's staring right at my position like I'm lit up with a spotlight.

Then he smiles. Predatory. The kind of smile that says he's already won and I just don't know it yet.

He pulls out a phone, types something. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes.

Unknown number:

Nice camera. Expensive. Would be a shame if something happened to it. Or you.

My hands shake as I lower the camera. Wrong. This is very wrong. Fingers fumble for my phone, already dialing 911.

The text comes before I can hit send:

Calling the police would be a mistake. They can't protect you from people who don't exist. I can. Meet me at the fountain. Two minutes. Come alone or don't come at all.

This is insane. This is how journalists disappear. How sources turn into statistics. How investigations end with closed casket funerals and grieving families who never get answers.

But I'm also out of options. The Committee has been three steps behind me for months. If they know I'm here, they'll find me whether I run or hide. And if this man wanted me dead, I'd already be bleeding out in the darkness.

Forward is the only option left.

Messenger bag over my shoulder, pepper spray in my pocket. I walk toward the fountain. Every instinct screams at me to run. Every lesson my father taught me about trusting systems and following procedures tells me this is wrong.

But my father followed every rule, trusted every process, believed the truth would protect him. He was discredited, bankrupted, died of a stress-induced heart attack before vindication came.

Playing by the rules rarely gets you what you want and often gets you killed. I learned that the hard way.

The man waits by the fountain. Up close, the threat becomes more specific.

Sharp features, calculating eyes, visible scars on his neck that disappear beneath his collar.

The kind of stillness that comes from absolute confidence.

Like he's run through every possible scenario and knows exactly how each one ends.

"Reagan Mitchell." Not a question. "Investigative journalist. Graduated from Columbia, worked for the Washington Post before going independent. Currently investigating government black ops and getting way too close to things that'll get you killed."

"And you are?" My voice stays steady. I'll take that as a win.

"Dylan Rourke. Former Delta Force. Currently working as a private contractor."

"What kind of private contractor?"

"The kind that handles problems the government can't acknowledge." He gestures to a bench. "Sit. We need to talk about what you think you know about Echo Ridge."

"I have documentation. Not speculation."

"You have bait. Carefully constructed to lead you exactly where they want you."

"They?"

"The Committee. The people who actually run the black sites you're investigating. They're very interested in you." His voice stays flat, matter-of-fact. Like he's discussing the weather, not my impending death. "Not in a good way."

So I was right. Six months of following financial trails and disappeared witnesses, tracking unauthorized operations and budget black holes, all led to the same shadow organization.

No official name. No congressional oversight.

Just whispers about a group of generals and intelligence officials running their own private war. The Committee.

My hand drifts toward the pepper spray in my pocket. He notices. Doesn't react.

"I'm not Committee. If I was, you'd be dead." His voice stays matter-of-fact. "My team is trying to stop them. But you're making that harder by broadcasting your investigation to anyone paying attention. Including them."

"I'm a journalist. It's my job to expose corruption and illegal operations."

"You're a target." The casual tone drops, something harder beneath. "That last document your source sent? Your analysis got too close. The Committee thinks you have exact coordinates for Echo Base."

My stomach drops. "But I don't. I couldn't pinpoint the location. Just a general area."

"I know. But they don't." His eyes lock on mine. "They think you're holding back. That you found something concrete and just haven't published it yet. So they'll take you. And they'll make you tell them what you know."

"But I don't know anything more than what's already published."

"And that's what makes this so dangerous. You can't give them what they want. They'll keep tearing you apart looking for information that doesn't exist."

Horror creeps up my spine like ice water. Tortured for coordinates I don't have. Unable to satisfy them no matter how much I tell the truth. "That's..."

"A death sentence. Yes." He stands, movements precise and controlled.

"They already have your analysis. Your encrypted blog isn't nearly as encrypted as you think.

So here's your choice. Come with me, help us protect what you accidentally exposed, and maybe survive the next forty-eight hours.

Or walk away, and I'll see you in the obituaries by Friday. "

"That's not a choice."

"No." His eyes meet mine, and there's something almost like regret in them. "It's really not."

He walks toward the parking lot. After three steps, he glances back.

"You coming, or do I tell my boss I failed to save the stupidly brave journalist who stumbled into a war she doesn't understand?"

I should call the police. Should run. Should do literally anything except follow a stranger who just threatened me with death in forty-eight hours.

My messenger bag feels heavy on my shoulder as I follow him toward the SUV.

He might be lying about half of what he said. But about the war? He's right. I've been in it since I started this investigation. I just didn't realize the enemy was already hunting me.

And I don't run from a story. Even if the story might kill me... especially if the story might kill me.

Dylan opens the passenger door, waits. The interior light illuminates his face for just a moment. More scars than I initially noticed. This man has been through hell and walked back out. Probably put more than a few people through it himself.

I climb in. The door closes with a solid thunk that sounds disturbingly like a cell door locking.

He's behind the wheel before I can reconsider. "Phone."

"What?"

"Your phone. Now." His hand extends, palm up. Not a request.

I hesitate. My phone has contacts, sources, and some backup files.

"The Committee is tracking you through it. You want to lead them straight to where we're going?" His voice stays flat. "Phone. Last time I'm asking."

I pull it from my pocket, and hand it over. He powers it down, then pulls to the side of the road. His fingers work with practiced efficiency—back panel off, battery out, SIM card extracted. Each component goes into a separate pocket.

"My entire life was on that phone."

"Your entire life stays intact because you don't have that phone."

He pulls back onto the road, drives three blocks, tosses the battery out the window.

Two blocks later, the SIM card disappears into a storm drain.

Another mile and the phone itself goes into a dumpster behind a closed gas station.

The engine growls as we merge onto the highway, modifications well beyond factory standard evident in how the SUV accelerates.

This vehicle was built for more than city driving.

"Seatbelt," he says.

I buckle in. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere the Committee can't find you.

Somewhere you can't accidentally publish any more breadcrumbs leading them to my team.

" He pulls out of the parking lot, movements smooth and controlled.

Like he's done this a thousand times. Extracted assets, relocated targets, moved pieces on a board I can't see.

"I'm not an asset to be relocated."