Chapter 11
REAGAN
The hunting lodge smells like dust and old wood, but one of the bedrooms has been transformed into something that could pass for a field hospital. Medical supplies cover every flat surface. An IV stand stands sentinel beside the bed where Dylan lies unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady.
I haven't moved from this chair in hours.
Willa finishes checking his vitals and makes a notation on a small pad she's been using to track his progress. The shrapnel wound is cleaned and stitched, the bleeding stopped, but he still hasn't woken up since she put him under to remove the metal fragments from his side.
"He's stable," she says, catching my expression. "The sedation should wear off within the hour. His body needed the rest."
"And the wound?"
"Clean extraction. Nothing vital was hit. He'll be sore, but he'll recover fully." She pauses at the doorway. "You should eat something. Kane's making coffee in the main room."
I nod but don't move. The flash drive sits heavy in my pocket, pressing against my thigh like an accusation.
Everything we need to destroy Webb's operation, and we couldn't send it.
My finger was on the button. Seconds away from releasing it to every journalist, every whistleblower site, every congressional office that might listen.
Seconds that turned into smoke and gunfire and Dylan bleeding on the floor.
The door opens again, and Kane steps inside. He's cleaned up since we arrived, the dirt and grime from the escape replaced with fresh clothes, but exhaustion lines his face in ways that makeup couldn't hide.
"We need to talk strategy," he says. "When you're ready."
"Now's fine." I glance at Dylan's still form. "He'd want to be part of this conversation."
"He will be. But we need to start planning while we have time to think." Kane settles against the doorframe, arms crossed. "The exposé alone won't work."
The words land like a blow to the chest. "What do you mean? We have everything. Financial records, operational logs, communication intercepts. Webb's signature is all over Protocol Seven."
"And the Committee has media contacts in every major outlet.
The second we release those files, their people will spin it as disinformation.
Foreign propaganda. A coordinated attack on American security services by domestic terrorists.
" Kane's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "They've been building that narrative since Morrison died.
Echo Ridge operators as rogue elements. Dangerous extremists who need to be neutralized for national security. "
"The evidence speaks for itself."
"Evidence only speaks if people are willing to listen. And right now, half the country has been primed to dismiss anything that comes from sources like us." He meets my gaze steadily. "We need something they can't spin. Something that creates sympathy before we dump the data."
I turn the implications over in my mind, years of journalism training clicking into place.
He's right. The most damning evidence in the world means nothing if the audience has already decided not to believe it.
You need to build credibility first. Create emotional investment.
Make people care before you ask them to understand.
"A witness," I say slowly. "Someone whose story they can't dismiss as propaganda."
Kane nods. "Khalid."
My stomach drops. The fifteen-year-old Syrian boy who survived a chemical weapons test that killed his entire village.
Who lost his family while Committee scientists took notes on how quickly human tissue dissolves under their experimental compounds.
Who escaped because Dylan risked everything to get him out.
"He's a child."
"He's a survivor. And his testimony would be devastating.
" Kane's expression doesn't change. "Protocol Seven authorized the testing that killed his village.
Morrison signed off on it personally. If Khalid goes public with what he witnessed, it creates a narrative that's impossible to spin as disinformation.
A refugee child whose family was murdered by American black ops?
That's not propaganda. That's a human tragedy that demands investigation. "
"You want to put a traumatized teenager in front of cameras and ask him to relive the worst moment of his life."
"I want to give him the choice." Kane straightens. "We're meeting in the main room in twenty minutes. Mercer and Stryker have arrived. We'll discuss options then."
He leaves, and I turn back to Dylan. His face is pale against the pillow, dark stubble shadowing his jaw, and for the first time since I met him, he looks vulnerable.
The man who pulled me behind cover when the bullets started flying.
Who threw himself between me and a grenade without hesitation.
Who took shrapnel meant for all of us and still managed to get us out of that tunnel.
His hand rests on the blanket beside him, and I reach out to cover it with mine. His fingers twitch at the contact.
"Dylan?"
His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they find my face. "Reagan." His voice is rough, scratchy from disuse. "The drive. Do you still have—"
"I have it." I squeeze his hand. "We're at the hunting lodge. You're safe. Everyone made it out."
He exhales slowly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "How long?"
"A few hours. Willa removed the shrapnel. She says you'll be fine."
"Fine is relative." He shifts slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at his wound. "What did I miss?"
"Kane wants to talk strategy. He doesn't think releasing the exposé alone will be enough."
Dylan's jaw tightens. "He's probably right."
"He mentioned Khalid."
The silence that follows tells me everything I need to know about how Dylan feels about that suggestion. His hand turns under mine, fingers interlacing with my own, and he stares at the ceiling with an expression that speaks to guilt I can only imagine.
"We should hear what Kane has to say," I offer.
"Help me up."
"Dylan, you just had surgery—"
"I won't be excluded from this conversation." His eyes meet mine, and the stubborn determination there reminds me why I fell for him in the first place. "Help me up, Reagan."
I help him sit, then stand, one arm around his waist to steady him as we make our way to the main room. Every step costs him, and I feel the way his body trembles with the effort, but he doesn't complain. Just sets his jaw and keeps moving.
The main room of the hunting lodge is larger than the bedrooms, with rough-hewn furniture and a stone fireplace that someone has lit against the mountain chill.
Kane stands near the window, watching the treeline.
Mercer sits at the table, cleaning a pistol with methodical precision.
Stryker is propped in a chair with his injured leg elevated, and Khalid perches on a stool near the fire, watching everyone in the room with the hyperawareness of someone who learned young that safety is an illusion.
Willa emerges from what looks like a kitchen area, carrying mugs of coffee. She frowns when she sees Dylan on his feet but doesn't argue, just hands him a mug and guides us both to the worn couch against the far wall.
"Victoria Cross made contact," Kane begins once we're settled. "Secure channel through Tommy at Echo Base."
"What did she have?" Dylan asks.
"Confirmation that the Committee is hunting us hard.
Every asset they have is mobilized. But Webb's facing questions from other Committee members about the botched raid.
" Kane's mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile.
"Apparently losing an entire strike team and failing to eliminate any primary targets has raised concerns about his leadership. "
"Internal pressure," Mercer observes. "Could work in our favor."
"Could. But Webb is consolidating power. He's using the raid as justification for escalated measures. Cross says he's positioned himself as the only one willing to do what's necessary to eliminate the Echo Ridge threat." Kane turns from the window. "Which brings us to our problem."
He lays out the same argument he made to me in the bedroom, and I watch the understanding dawn on each face in the room. Mercer nods grimly. Stryker swears under his breath. Khalid's expression doesn't change, but his hands still on his lap.
"We need to control the narrative before we release the files," Kane concludes. "And the most powerful narrative we have is Khalid's testimony."
"No."
Dylan's voice cuts through the room, sharp and immediate. He's leaning forward on the couch despite what it must cost him, his free hand gripping my knee like an anchor.
"He's fifteen years old. He's been through enough."
"I'm not suggesting we force him," Kane says evenly. "But if he's willing to share his story—"
"He shouldn't have to be willing. He shouldn't have to relive that nightmare in front of cameras while politicians decide whether his dead family is worth their attention.
" Dylan's voice rises, and I feel the tremor running through him.
"What if it isn't enough? What if they discredit a fifteen-year-old Syrian refugee?
The Committee has media contacts. PR specialists.
They'll paint Khalid as a plant, a fabrication, a propaganda tool designed to undermine American security. "
"Then we make sure he's not alone."
The words leave my mouth before I fully think them through, but they feel right. Everyone turns to look at me.
"If Khalid testifies, he doesn't do it alone," I continue.
"We testify too. All of us. Every person in this room who has firsthand knowledge of what the Committee has done.
" I look at Dylan, holding his gaze. "You can corroborate everything he says.
You were there. You saw what Protocol Seven did to that village.
You know the names on those files better than anyone. "
"Reagan—"