Chapter 5 #2
He leaves before I can respond. Quiet as he arrived. A ghost moving through a house full of ghosts.
The recorder sits on my desk. Khalid's testimony is exactly what I needed. Detailed, credible, devastating. A surviving witness describing systematic mass murder authorized by a general who thought he was above the law.
But listening to him describe his family's death in that detached voice makes the cost clear. Not just the sources who died because I asked questions. Not just the civilians caught in crossfire. But the survivors who have to relive their trauma so strangers can understand what happened.
Khalid's willing to pay that cost. The question is whether I'm willing to let him.
The door opens. Dylan appears, coffee in hand. He glances at the recorder, then at me.
"Khalid talked."
"He gave me everything I need to prove Morrison authorized chemical weapons testing on civilian populations. His testimony is powerful."
"His testimony puts a target on his back." Dylan sets the coffee down. Leans against the wall with his arms crossed. "Committee will know he's cooperating. They'll escalate. Try to eliminate him before he can testify in court."
"You won't let that happen."
"I can't guarantee his safety. Nobody can. Khalid testifies, he becomes priority one on their elimination list. Right next to you."
"He understands the risk. He's willing to take it."
"He's fifteen. He doesn't understand what it means to live under constant threat of assassination. Doesn't understand what it's like to never feel safe again."
"He already lives like that. Has been since you pulled him out of that well. Khalid's trauma doesn't end because we keep him away from this investigation. It ends when Webb and everyone like him are in prison where they can't hurt anyone else."
"Or it ends when the Committee puts a bullet in his head because he was stupid enough to testify against them."
"Then we make sure they can't get to him. You're good at keeping people alive. Kane runs one of the most secure operations I've ever seen. Between all of you, Khalid is probably safer here than anywhere else in the world."
Dylan doesn't respond. Just stares at me with that intensity that makes me feel cataloged and assessed.
"You're getting attached."
"To what?"
"To the idea that this investigation matters.
That exposing Morrison's crimes and taking down Webb makes up for the people who died getting you here.
That justice is enough." Dylan pushes off the wall.
"It's not. Justice is cold comfort when you're standing over fresh graves.
And it's no comfort at all when those graves belong to people you convinced to help you. "
"So I should give up? Let Webb walk free because fighting the Committee is too dangerous?"
"You should understand that winning doesn't feel like you think it will. Webb in prison doesn't bring back Ellen or Charlie. Doesn't undo what happened to Khalid's village. Doesn't make any of this worth what it cost."
"Then why are you fighting?"
"Because sitting still means letting them win. And I'm too stubborn to do that." Dylan's expression changes slightly. "But I'm not under any illusions that winning makes me a good person. It just makes me slightly less bad than I was yesterday."
No self-pity. No justification. Just acknowledgment that redemption doesn't erase what you've done.
"Khalid trusts you enough to help me. That means something."
"Khalid trusts me because I'm the one who pulled him out of hell.
But trust based on desperation isn't the same as trust based on worthiness.
" Dylan heads toward the door. "Get some rest. We start fresh tomorrow.
Tommy's found access to the archived personnel records.
We'll know by morning whether Webb was Morrison's second-in-command or if there's someone above both of them. "
He's almost out the door when I speak.
"Where does Khalid sleep?"
Dylan pauses. "Down the hall. Why?"
"Because I want to understand how this works. How you take care of him. How you earned the trust of a kid who watched his entire family die because of people like you."
"People like me killed his family. I just happened to be the one who decided not to let him die with them. That's not earning trust. That's basic human decency showing up three hundred forty-six deaths too late."
"You check on him at night."
Dylan's expression shifts. Guarded.
"Khalid told you that."
"He said you read to him. In Arabic. Even though your pronunciation is terrible."
Dylan almost smiles. "It is terrible. But it's the only thing that helps when the nightmares get bad. Hearing his language. Remembering he's not back in that village."
"What do you read?"
"Whatever he wants. Sometimes children's stories. Sometimes the Quran. Usually he just wants someone to stay until he falls asleep." Dylan's jaw works. "Doesn't make me a good person. Just makes me someone trying to keep a traumatized kid alive."
"It makes you someone who cares. That's more than most people in your position would do."
"Most people in my position would have followed orders and eliminated the witness. Setting the bar at 'didn't murder a child' is pretty low."
"And yet you cleared it. While Morrison didn't. You saved Khalid. You're building a case against the Committee. You're trying to make better choices. Stop punishing yourself for not being perfect and accept that you're better than you were."
Dylan stares at me. His expression shifts again.
"You should get some rest. Tomorrow we start mapping Webb's connections to Morrison's network."
He leaves before I can respond. But the conversation stays with me. Dylan checking on Khalid at night. Reading to him in terrible Arabic. Staying until the nightmares pass.
The guardian beneath the warrior. The man trying so hard to be worthy of a traumatized boy's trust.
Hours pass. Sleep won't come. Khalid's testimony plays on loop. Dylan's admission about checking for nightmares. The way they've built something that looks like family out of shared trauma and impossible choices.
Movement in the hallway. Quiet footsteps. Late enough that everyone should be asleep.
I move to my door. Open it slightly. Peer into the darkened hallway.
Dylan stands outside Khalid's room. His hand rests on the doorframe. Listening.
After a moment, he opens the door. Disappears inside.
I shouldn't follow. Should give them privacy. But curiosity overrides caution.
The hallway is dark enough that I can move without being seen. Khalid's door is cracked open. I position myself where I can see inside without being obvious.
Khalid is curled on his side. Shaking. Not violently, but enough to show he's not fully asleep. Nightmare.
Dylan sits on the edge of the bed. His hand rests on Khalid's shoulder. Gentle. Grounding.
"You're safe. You're here. It's not real anymore." Dylan's voice is barely above a whisper. Steady. Calm. "Breathe. Just breathe. You're not in the village. You're with me. You're safe."
Khalid's shaking gradually subsides. His breathing evens out. Still asleep but no longer trapped in whatever horror his subconscious conjured.
Dylan stays. Doesn't move. Just sits there with his hand on Khalid's shoulder, keeping vigil like he's done this a thousand times before.
Then he reaches for the book on the nightstand. Opens it. Begins reading in quiet, halting Arabic. His pronunciation is terrible, just like Khalid said. But the words flow steady and rhythmic, creating a pattern that pulls Khalid deeper into sleep.
I watch for longer than I should. Watch Dylan read to a traumatized kid who needs to hear his language to remember he's safe. Watch the gentleness in how he turns pages. The patience in how he waits for Khalid's breathing to fully settle before he stops reading.
This is the man who tortured people for information. Who made witnesses disappear. Who spent years becoming the Committee's monster.
This is also the man who sits up at night reading children's stories in terrible Arabic because a kid who lost everything needs to know someone cares whether he survives his nightmares.
Dylan finishes the chapter. Closes the book. His hand stays on Khalid's shoulder for another moment. Making sure the nightmare is truly gone.
Then he stands. Moves toward the door.
I retreat down the hallway before he can catch me watching. Make it back to my room. Close the door.
My heart pounds. Not from fear. From something else entirely.
Attraction.
Not to the dangerous operative who can kill with his bare hands. Not to the interrogator who spent years breaking people for information. But to the guardian who checks for nightmares and reads stories in terrible Arabic because a traumatized kid needs someone to care.
Getting attached to Dylan means caring about someone the Committee wants dead. Means investing in a future that might not exist if Webb finds us before we finish building the case.
But watching him with Khalid, some risks are worth taking.
My door opens. Dylan stands in the hallway, backlit by the dim emergency lighting.
"Saw you watching. You should be asleep."
"So should you."
"I'm on second watch. Mercer rotates out in two hours." Dylan doesn't move. Just stands there studying me. "Khalid has nightmares three, four times a week. Sometimes more. I check on him. Make sure he doesn't wake up alone and afraid."
"You're good with him."
"I'm adequate with him. There's a difference. He deserves better than someone who's trying to figure out how to be human again. But I'm what he has. So I do the work. Read the stories. Check for nightmares. Try not to fuck up too badly."
"He chose to testify because of you. Because he knows you'll protect him while he does it."
Dylan's expression shifts. Guarded. Uncertain.
"You should rest. Tomorrow we map Webb's network.
Find out if there's someone above him pulling the strings.
Build the case that destroys them all." He moves to leave, then pauses.
"And Reagan? Don't get attached. People I care about have a bad habit of dying.
You're safer if I keep you at arm's length. "
He's gone before I can respond.
But the warning comes too late.
Already attached. To the investigation, to Khalid's quiet brilliance, to watching Dylan try so hard to be worthy of a traumatized boy's trust.
When the Committee finds us—and they will find us—I'll have more to lose than my investigation.
I'll have people who matter.