Chapter 9 #2
"Then we've got cover," Kane says. "Federal investigation. Congressional hearings. Media attention. Makes it harder for them to eliminate us quietly. Public scrutiny is the best protection we've got."
"And if it doesn't work?" Khalid presses.
Nobody answers. The silence stretches until Dylan breaks it.
"Then we die knowing we tried something besides running."
The bluntness should shock me. Instead it feels oddly honest. We're past the point of comfortable lies. This works or it doesn't. We expose the Committee or we don't. Running out of time makes the choice simple.
I take a breath. "Okay. Let's do it. But I need that intel from your broker first. Who's vulnerable, who's positioned to turn. Without that, I'm building a story that might not hit the right pressure points."
"I'll arrange the communication," Kane says. "Cross won't risk direct contact. We'll use intermediaries. Encrypted channels. She'll send what she has through back channels."
"How long?" I ask.
"Hours. Maybe less. She's been anticipating this. Probably has files ready." Kane starts issuing orders to Stryker about secure communications. The room dissolves into motion—people moving to their assigned tasks, the operational machine grinding into gear.
Dylan stays beside me. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes I do." I meet his eyes. "This is why I started investigating the Committee. Not to get people killed. Not to run forever. To expose what they are and make them answer for it."
"Exposing them might get you killed anyway."
"Then at least it'll mean something." I pull up my research files, start organizing them for the exposé. "Better than dying in a black site where nobody knows what happened."
Dylan's fingers wrap around mine. Squeeze once. "We'll make it count."
"Damn right we will."
A few hours later, Kane appears in the command center where I've set up with Dylan and Khalid. "Cross delivered."
He plugs a drive into my laptop. Files populate the screen—intelligence reports, financial records, communication intercepts. What Victoria Cross has compiled on the Committee's internal structure.
I scan the first document. Detailed analysis of power dynamics within the Committee leadership. Who benefited from Morrison's death. Who's consolidating control. Who's vulnerable.
"This is incredible," I breathe. "She's got dirt on everyone."
"Cross trades in leverage," Kane says. "She documents it all."
"We're not paying her," I point out.
"We're offering her survival. Morrison's death created a vacuum.
Webb's trying to fill it but he doesn't have Morrison's reputation or connections.
Other players are positioning for power.
If we accelerate that process, Cross gets to broker the new arrangement.
She makes more from chaos than stability. "
"So we're creating chaos," I say.
"We're revealing existing chaos," Dylan corrects. "The Committee's been pretending at unity while everyone jockeys for position. We're just making it public."
I dive into Cross's files. The intel is specific—names of Committee members who opposed Morrison's methods. Generals who thought Protocol Seven was too risky. Defense contractors worried about legal exposure. Politicians who benefited from Committee money but want distance if investigations start.
"These are the weak points," I realize. "People who will turn on Webb and Morrison to save themselves."
"Exactly." Dylan leans closer, reading over my shoulder. "Cross has even identified leverage. What each person is vulnerable to. What threats would make them cooperate with federal investigations."
"She's giving us a roadmap," Kane says. "Not just for exposing the Committee, but for dismantling it. You structure the exposé to hit these pressure points, people start talking to protect themselves. Then it becomes a cascade. Everyone racing to cut deals before there's nothing left to trade."
The strategy is elegant and brutal. Use the Committee's own survival instinct against them. Make staying loyal more dangerous than betraying Webb. Turn their organization into a liability that everyone wants distance from.
"I need time to structure this correctly," I say.
"The story has to build. Start with Morrison's war crimes and financial corruption.
Establish the pattern. Then introduce Protocol Seven.
Then show how Webb continued it all after Morrison died.
Make it impossible to claim this was one bad actor. Show it's systemic."
"How long?" Kane asks.
"The rest of today. Tonight. Tomorrow morning at latest." I'm already outlining the exposé in my head. "I need to draft the narrative. Coordinate with journalists. Set up the simultaneous release. Make sure every outlet has enough documentation to verify independently."
"Tommy's working on the dead man's switches," Kane says. "Automated releases if we go dark. Geographic redundancy so they can't shut it down. He'll have it operational by tonight."
"Then we publish tomorrow?" Dylan asks.
"Tomorrow." The word feels both too soon and too late. "Before the Committee finds this location. Before they can stop us."
Kane nods. "I'll inform the team. Everyone needs to be prepared for what comes after. Once this goes public, we're committed. No going back."
He leaves. The command center feels suddenly quiet. Khalid watches me from his corner, book forgotten in his lap.
"You are frightened," he observes. Not a question.
"Terrified," I admit. "But not of the Committee. Of failing. Of six months of work amounting to nothing because I didn't structure the story correctly. Of people dying because I missed something important."
"You will not fail," Khalid says with absolute certainty. "You are like Sarah. You see patterns. You understand how pieces connect. The Committee will break apart because you will show them how."
My breathing steadies. This kid survived horrors I can only imagine. If he believes this will work, maybe it will.
I turn back to the files. Start building the framework for an exposé that will either destroy the Committee or paint targets on all our backs.
Dylan works beside me, pulling operational records that corroborate Cross's intel. Adding context to the dry intelligence reports. Making the story breathe with human detail instead of just data.
Hours blur together. Coffee appears periodically.
Stryker brings it. I barely register. The exposé takes shape.
Morrison's war crimes in vivid detail. Protocol Seven's chemical weapons program with casualty counts and locations.
Webb's financial transfers connecting him to defense contractors and politicians.
Names. Dates. Evidence that can't be dismissed as rumor.
By midnight, I have a draft. Forty pages of documentation and narrative. The story of how a covert military organization operated outside civilian oversight for decades. How they committed atrocities in the name of national security. How they murdered anyone who threatened to expose them.
How they're vulnerable now in ways they've never been before.
Dylan reads it through twice. Makes notes. Suggests changes that strengthen weak points. By three in the morning, we have a story solid enough to survive legal challenges and Committee attempts at discrediting.
A story that might actually work.
"We should rest," Dylan says. "Tomorrow's going to be long."
"Can't sleep." I stare at the screen. "Keep thinking I've missed something. Some detail that makes this all fall apart."
"You haven't." He covers my hand on the keyboard. "This is good, Reagan. Better than good. This is the kind of story that changes things."
"Or gets us killed."
"Maybe both." He pulls me up from the chair. "Either way, you need sleep. Can't publish an exposé if you're passing out from exhaustion."
We walk back to his room. The safe house is quiet. Khalid went to bed hours ago. Kane and Stryker are on watch rotation. Just us and the weight of what we're about to expose.
Dylan's room still has that photograph on the nightstand. Lisa and Maya smiling at a camera thirteen years ago. I think about how different his life would be if they'd lived. Whether he'd still be with the Committee. Whether we ever would have met.
"Tomorrow changes things," I say quietly.
"Yeah." Dylan sits on the bed, pulls me down beside him. "For better or worse."
"Think it'll work?"
"I think we're about to find out." He wraps an arm around me. "But whatever happens, we tried. That has to matter."
I lean into him. Let the warmth of his body chase away some of the fear coiling in my chest. Tomorrow we publish. Tomorrow the Committee learns what we've compiled. Tomorrow they either turn on each other under pressure or come after us with force.
"Dylan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For believing this could work. For not just running."
"I'm tired of running too," he says quietly.
I close my eyes. Try to find sleep that probably won't come. Outside this room, the Committee's cyber division continues their systematic search. Getting closer. Running out of time.
Sleep finally comes, though it's restless and full of half-formed anxieties. Dylan's arm stays around me. Steady. Solid. Reminder that I'm not alone in this.
When I wake, early morning light is filtering through the curtains. Dylan's already up, dressed, expression unreadable.
"Tommy finished the dead man's switches," he says. "Kane's coordinating with the journalists. Stryker's got secure communication channels established."
"So we're ready."
"We're ready."
I sit up. Today feels different. Sharper somehow. Like the air before a storm breaks. What we've built comes down to the next few hours.
I reach for my laptop. Pull up the exposé one more time. Scan it for any last issues that need fixing. Find none.
"Let's send it," I say.
Dylan takes my hand. His grip is solid, grounding. We walk to the command center together.
Kane's already there. Stryker too. Khalid in his corner. Tommy's face on the video feed from Echo Base.
"Status?" Kane asks.
"Ready." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "The exposé is complete."
"Journalists are standing by," Stryker reports. "They'll publish simultaneously once they receive the files and verify authenticity. Two hours from now at most."
"Tommy, kill the dead man's switch," Kane says. "We're sending manually. Don't want automated backups firing and muddying the release."
"Disabling now." On the video feed, Tommy's fingers fly across his keyboard. "Switch is offline. You're clear for manual transmission."
Kane looks at me. "Last chance to reconsider. Once those files go out, there's no taking them back."
"Good." I open the email client. Start attaching files to messages addressed to journalists I've worked with. Trusted contacts who will verify before publishing.
The files attach one by one. Morrison's war crimes. Protocol Seven documentation. Webb's financial corruption. Cross's intelligence on Committee vulnerabilities. Names. Dates. Evidence that can't be dismissed.
My finger moves toward the mouse.
The alarm screams.
Perimeter breach. Multiple contacts. North and east approaches.
"They're here," Kane snaps. "Everyone move. Now."
Dylan's hand closes on my shoulder. "Save the files. Disconnect. We're leaving."
"But the exposé—"
"Can't send it if we're dead. Move."
I yank the drive from my laptop and shove it into my pocket. The files sit unsent in my drafts folder, the send button I never clicked still glowing on the screen. Stryker's already at the door, weapon up. Kane barks orders into his radio. Khalid appears from his corner, book abandoned, face set.
Six months of work trapped on a drive in my pocket while professional killers pour through every entrance.
One click. That's all it would have taken.
One click and the Committee's secrets would have reached reporters who would tear their world apart. One click and we’d have found out if Dylan's strategy worked or if we'd just made ourselves targets that nothing can erase.