Chapter 2
DYLAN
Dawn breaks over the mountains, painting the safe house walls in shades of gray that match my mood.
Sleep wasn't an option. I spent the night monitoring camera feeds from Reagan's quarters, reviewing her published articles, cross-referencing her investigation against our intelligence.
The woman is thorough. Reckless as hell, but thorough.
She found connections to Webb that took us months to piece together, did it in half the time with a fraction of the resources.
Brilliant or lucky. Maybe both. Definitely dangerous.
The coffee maker gurgles in the corner. Black coffee, second cup, and the security monitor shows Reagan still asleep. Curled on her side, her laptop on the desk. She’s making subtle movements of her fingers as if even unconscious, she's working the problem.
Reminds me of someone. Before they turned her curiosity into a death sentence.
The thought needs to stay buried. Lisa's been dead for years. Drawing parallels between my dead wife and the journalist the Committee believes can expose our location is the kind of thinking that gets people killed.
"She awake yet?" Kane's voice comes from the doorway. He moves quiet for a man his size. Old habits from too many operations where noise meant death.
"Not yet."
"Good. Gives us time to talk before I decide whether she's a threat we can't contain."
Kane doesn't make threats lightly. If he decides Reagan compromises our security beyond what we can manage, he'll do what's necessary. But he'll exhaust every option first. The fact that he let me bring her here at all is more trust than I deserve, given what she represents.
"Conference room. Five minutes." Kane disappears down the hallway without waiting for confirmation.
The coffee goes down bitter. One more cup, then I head to the briefing.
Five operators, one teenage survivor, and now one investigative journalist who doesn't know when to stop digging.
The safe house wasn't built for this many people.
Tommy and Sarah Andrews are coordinating from Echo Base with Willa, Delaney, and Odin, which helps, but we're still cramped.
Kane's at the head of the table when I walk in.
Stryker to his right, looking like he spent the night cleaning weapons.
He did. Mercer's reviewing tactical maps on the display screen, probably calculating firing angles and kill zones like he always does before briefings.
Khalid's in the corner with a book, pretending not to listen while cataloging every word.
"Sit." Kane doesn't look up from the file he's reading. Reagan's background check, pulled from every database Sarah could access legally and a few she couldn't. "Let's start with why you didn't eliminate the security breach on sight."
Straight to it then. No preamble, no discussion of tactical options.
"She has six months of research we need."
"She has six months of research that led them straight to our doorstep." Kane slides the file across the table. "Sarah pulled her blog posts, encrypted communications, source documents. She's been broadcasting her investigation to anyone paying attention. Including Webb."
"Webb thinks she has our exact coordinates." I tap the file. "Her analysis got close. Narrowed our location to a 100-square-mile radius. But she didn't have pinpoint coordinates. They don't know that. They think she's holding back, waiting to publish the final piece."
"So we have a journalist who accidentally painted a target on us, and now they're mobilizing to find her because they think she knows more than she does." Stryker leans back in his chair. "How is this not a problem we solve with a shallow grave?"
"Because last time I checked, we were the good guys, and because her investigation proves Morrison wasn't working alone.
" The tactical display comes up, Reagan's research overlaid with our intelligence.
"Look at the financial connections. Before he died, Morrison authorized the Syrian operation, but the funding came through three different shell corporations.
Reagan traced them back to Colonel Richard Whitmore at Fort Bragg and General Nancy Turner at CYBERCOM.
She's mapped a network we've been hunting for months. "
Kane studies the display. His expression doesn't change but I know that look. Running scenarios, calculating risks and benefits, weighing Reagan's value against the threat she represents.
"Morrison, Whitmore, and Turner." Kane's voice stays flat. "That's command authority across three branches. If they're coordinating, this goes deeper than we thought."
"Reagan's files prove it. Documentation, financial records, authorization signatures. Everything we need to prove there’s a much a larger operation."
"And everything they need to eliminate everyone who knows about it." Mercer doesn't look up from his maps. "Now including us, because you brought her here."
"They were already hunting us. This doesn't change that."
"It accelerates the timeline." Kane's jaw tightens. "If they think she knows where we are, they'll mobilize everything they have. We're not talking reconnaissance teams. We're talking full assault."
My phone buzzes. Encrypted message routing through from Echo Base. Sarah.
"Cross just made contact." I pull up the message on the main display. Victoria Cross's communication protocol is elegant. No video, no audio, just text encrypted through layers that would take NSA months, if not years, to crack.
Dylan's journalist has become expensive.
Committee offering 500K for her location, double for live capture.
Minimum six teams deployed, possibly more.
They believe she has coordinates to primary target.
They're already triangulating her last known position for systematic sweep.
Webb personally authorized the operation.
Morrison may be dead, but his successor is even more dangerous.
Desperate men make mistakes, but they also stop caring about collateral damage.
Protect your asset or eliminate her. Sitting on the fence will get you all killed. - Cross
The message disappears after thirty seconds. Standard Cross protocol. No traces, no evidence, nothing anyone can intercept.
Stryker checks his watch. "Assuming they don't get lucky and find her faster."
"They won't find her. She's here in a secure location with no digital footprint leading back to us." I look at Kane. "We have time to use her research. Build a case against Webb and the Committee that's solid enough to bring down their entire network."
"Or we have a narrow window before they mobilize a force large enough to overrun this position, and we're defending a journalist who can't shoot straight against operators who've been hunting us for months.
" Kane's hand rests near his sidearm. "I need more than 'she has good research' to justify that risk. "
"She found connections we missed. Traced financial networks through systems designed to be invisible. Identified patterns in operations that we've been too close to see." I pull up her analysis, display it alongside our intelligence. "She's worth more alive than dead."
"And if she's not?"
The question hangs between us. Kane's not asking whether I can control Reagan. He's asking whether I'll make the call if she becomes a liability we can't afford.
"Then I'll handle it."
Kane holds my gaze. Looking for uncertainty, hesitation, anything that suggests I'm compromised by guilt or some misguided protective instinct. He won't find it. The difference now is choosing who to protect instead of who to eliminate.
"You have a limited window to prove she's worth keeping alive. If they find this location before then, or if she becomes a liability we can't contain, you eliminate the problem. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Good. Now go wake up your journalist and let's see if her research is as good as you claim."
Stryker heads for the armory to inventory ammunition. Mercer stays at his maps, marking defensive positions and firing lanes. Khalid follows me into the hallway, quiet as always, watching everything with those dark eyes that see too much.
"You like her."
I stop walking. Khalid stops beside me, patient as stone. Fifteen years old and already more perceptive than half the operators I've worked with.
"I respect her intelligence."
"That's not what I meant."
The kid reads people better than I did at twice his age. But admitting that requires admitting I'm using Reagan to balance scales that don't balance, to redeem choices that don't redeem.
"Go help with the perimeter check. Stryker needs an extra set of eyes."
Khalid nods, doesn't push. Smart. Knows when to let something rest.
Reagan's quarters. The lock disengages with a quiet click. Standard entry protocol. No warning, no courtesy knock. She needs to understand she's a detainee, not a guest.
When I enter the room, I see her laptop is closed but there are research files scattered across the desk. Reagan sits up fast when I enter, hand reaching for something that isn't there. Defensive instinct. Good. She's smart enough to be scared.
"Morning. We need to talk." I gesture to the laptop. "Bring your research. You're about to justify why I didn't put a bullet in you last night."
She blinks, processing. Morning light from the hallway cuts across her face. No makeup, hair disheveled from sleep, wearing yesterday's clothes. But her eyes are sharp. Alert. Already working the problem.
"The team wants me dead."
"The team wants to survive. Whether you live or die depends on whether you can help with that." I step aside, leaving the doorway open. "Conference room. Five minutes. Second door on the left. Bring everything you have on Morrison and Webb."