Chapter 12 #2
"That's her job. She's good at it."
"She says I should practice saying their names." Khalid's voice drops, becoming something smaller. His hands are clasped between his knees, knuckles pale. "My family. She says the names will be hard to say in front of strangers, so I should practice now."
My throat tightens. "You don't have to do this, Khalid. We can find another way."
"There is no other way." He looks at me, fifteen going on forty. "You know this. Reagan knows this. My testimony might be the only thing that makes people listen. And if it doesn't work..." He shrugs, a gesture too old for his years. "At least I will have tried."
"It's not fair."
"No." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "But you taught me that fair doesn't matter. We do what must be done."
I did teach him that. In safe houses across three continents, while running from Committee hunters and trying to keep him alive. Now I'm watching him take those lessons and apply them in ways I never anticipated.
"I want to practice with you," he says quietly. "Saying their names. Will you listen?"
The request hits like a punch to the gut. Lisa's face flashes through my mind, then Maya's. The names I still struggle to say aloud.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "I'll listen."
Khalid takes a breath. Steadies himself. When he speaks, each name is deliberate, weighted with love and loss.
"My father was Yusuf al-Rashid. He was a teacher.
He taught mathematics to children who thought they hated numbers, and by the end of the year, they loved them.
" Khalid's hands are trembling slightly, but his voice holds firm.
"My mother was Fatima. She made bread every morning, and the smell would fill our house.
She said you could taste love in good bread. "
I don't speak. Don't interrupt. Just witness, because that's what he needs right now.
"My sister Amira was thirteen. She wanted to be a doctor. She practiced on her dolls, wrapping their arms in bandages, telling them to be brave." A pause. A breath. "My sister Noor was nine. She collected flowers, pressed them in books, said she was saving their colors for when winter came."
His voice breaks on the last name, but only for a moment.
"My brother Sami was six. He followed me everywhere. Wanted to be exactly like me when he grew up."
The silence that follows is sacred. I don't try to fill it with comfort or platitudes. There are no words that can touch grief this deep, and pretending otherwise would be an insult to everything he's lost.
"Thank you," Khalid finally says. "For listening."
"Anytime. Every time." I put my hand on his shoulder, feel the tension vibrating through him. "They would be proud of you. What you're doing, the courage it takes. They would be so proud."
He nods, not trusting his voice, and I let the moment stretch until he's ready to move on.
Later that evening, Reagan works with Khalid on his English at the dining table while I quiz him on our emergency procedures for the lodge. He answers without hesitation, rattling off fallback positions and extraction routes with the same ease he brings to conjugating verbs.
Willa checks my wound and declares it healing well, though she still won't clear me for anything more strenuous than walking.
Kane coordinates with Tommy at Echo Base, refining the security protocols for the testimony transmission.
Mercer rotates through his overwatch positions, silent and watchful.
And through it all, I find myself noticing moments I would have missed before.
Reagan laughing at something Khalid says, her hand resting briefly on his arm in encouragement.
Willa and Kane sharing a look across the room that speaks to the connection they've built.
Stryker, gruff and guarded, bringing Khalid a cup of tea without being asked.
These people have become something to me. Not a replacement for what I had, but something new. Something worth protecting.
The realization hits harder than I expect.
I'm building a family again.
Not the one I imagined. A journalist who walked into danger with her eyes open. A Syrian teenager who survived the unsurvivable. A team of burned operators who've become brothers in everything but blood. A veterinarian who stitches wounds and refuses to be left behind.
The hunting lodge grows quiet as night settles over the mountains.
Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows and sending pine branches scraping against the roof.
The temperature has dropped enough that someone lit a fire earlier, though it's burned down to embers now, casting a dim orange glow across the main room.
Mercer takes the first watch. Stryker retreats to his room to sleep while he can, his limp more pronounced after a long day on his injured leg. Kane and Willa disappear together, their low voices fading down the hallway.
I find Khalid in the main room, sitting alone in front of the cold fireplace. The dying embers paint shadows across his face, making him look older than fifteen, younger than the weight he carries. He's got a piece of paper in his hands, covered in his careful handwriting.
"Couldn't sleep?" I ask.
"Practicing." He holds up the paper. "My testimony. Delaney says I should write it down, then say it out loud until the words feel natural."
I settle into the chair across from him, ignoring the pull in my side. "Want an audience?"
He considers for a moment, then nods.
"My name is Khalid al-Rashid," he begins, his voice quiet but clear. "I am fifteen years old. I was born in a village in Syria that no longer exists."
He pauses, finds his rhythm, continues.
"On the day my village died, I was drawing water from the well. My father had asked me to help because my brother Sami was sick and needed rest. That is why I survived. Because Sami was sick, and I was at the well when the chemicals came."
His grip on the paper is firm now, knuckles pale against the white.
"My village was designated as a test site for chemical weapons development under a program called Protocol Seven. Three hundred and forty-seven people died that day. I am the only survivor."
Reagan appears in the doorway, drawn by his voice. She leans against the frame, listening, and I see tears on her cheeks that she doesn't try to hide.
Khalid looks up from the paper, meeting my eyes.
"I am here to tell you their names," he continues. "To tell you what was done to them, and who ordered it done. I am here because the men who killed my family thought no one would ever know. Thought no one would ever speak for the dead."
His voice grows stronger, more certain.
"They were wrong."
He sets down the paper. Looks at me with eyes that refuse to look away from what he's lost.
"I will say their names until everyone hears. Until the men who ordered their deaths answer for what they did."
He folds the paper carefully, tucking it into his pocket like something precious. When he looks up, there's no fear in his face. Only resolve.
Tomorrow, the world will hear him.