Chapter 13
REAGAN
The laptop screen shows a conference room in Washington that could be anywhere.
Wood paneling, American flags, the seal of the House Intelligence Committee mounted on the wall behind a long curved table.
Seven members of Congress sit in high-backed chairs, their faces arranged in expressions that range from skeptical to openly hostile.
In the corner of the screen, almost invisible unless you know to look, three figures in dark suits who haven't been introduced.
Lawyers, according to Kane. Webb's people, embedded in the proceedings to protect Committee interests.
I watch them conferring quietly among themselves, and my stomach tightens.
Khalid sits in a chair we've positioned in front of a neutral backdrop, a plain gray sheet that reveals nothing about our location.
Tommy has routed our signal through seventeen different servers across four continents.
Even if someone tried to trace us, they'd end up chasing ghosts through Eastern Europe.
The rest of the team is arranged around the room. Kane monitors the transmission from a laptop on the dining table. Mercer stands by the window, maintaining watch on the treeline even now. Stryker sits in the corner, close enough to hear but positioned where the camera won't catch him.
"State your name for the record," the committee chairman says. Gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, the practiced gravitas of someone who has conducted hundreds of these hearings.
Khalid's hands are folded in his lap, the same way they were last night when he practiced. His voice comes out steady, clear. "My name is Khalid al-Rashid."
"And your age?"
"Fifteen years old."
"Mr. al-Rashid, you've provided written testimony regarding events you claim to have witnessed in Syria. Can you summarize those events for the committee?"
Khalid takes a breath. I watch his shoulders rise and fall, watch the way his jaw tightens before he speaks. Beside me, Dylan stands with his arms crossed, every muscle in his body rigid with tension.
"I was born in a village in the Homs province of Syria," Khalid begins. "My father was a teacher. My mother made bread. I had two sisters and a younger brother. We were not soldiers. We were not terrorists. We were farmers and teachers and children."
One of the committee members shifts in her seat. Another leans forward slightly, pen poised over paper.
"On the morning my village died, I was drawing water from the well outside our home.
My father had asked me to help because my brother Sami was sick and needed rest." Khalid's voice doesn't waver, but I can see his hands tightening in his lap.
"That is why I survived. Because I was at the well when the chemicals came. "
"Can you describe what you witnessed?"
"The helicopters came first. We thought they were government forces, maybe conducting patrols.
We had learned to stay inside when helicopters came.
" He pauses, swallows. "But I was already outside.
At the well. I saw them release something from the aircraft.
Canisters that fell toward the village center. "
The room on the screen has gone completely still. Even the lawyers in the corner have stopped their quiet conferring.
"The canisters released a gas. I could not see it clearly from where I stood, but I saw the effects.
" Khalid's voice thins, catching on the memory.
"People came out of their homes. They were coughing.
Falling. Some of them were screaming. My mother came to the doorway of our house. She was calling my name."
Dylan's hand finds my arm, grips tight. His face has gone pale.
"I tried to run to her. But the gas was spreading.
My eyes began to burn. I could not breathe.
I crawled into the well to escape it." Khalid looks directly into the camera, and I see the boy who survived the unsurvivable staring back at the people who have the power to bring his family's killers to justice.
"I stayed in the water until the helicopters left.
When I climbed out, some were already dead.
Others were still dying. I watched them die.
My mother. My sisters. I could not help them. I could only watch."
Silence stretches across the video link. One of the committee members removes her glasses and presses her fingers to her eyes.
"Can you identify the victims by name?" the chairman asks quietly.
"Yes." Khalid's voice holds firm. "My father was Yusuf. My mother was Fatima. My sister Amira was thirteen. My sister Noor was nine. My brother Sami was six."
He continues, naming neighbors, naming the village elder who tried to negotiate with government forces, naming the pregnant woman who lived three houses down, naming the old man who sold vegetables in the market square. Each name drops into the silence of the committee room.
"Three hundred and forty-seven people died because of the poison they dropped that day," Khalid concludes. "I am the only survivor."
One of the lawyers in the corner raises his hand. The chairman acknowledges him with visible reluctance.
"Mr. Chairman, I must note for the record that the witness was an impressionable teenager at the time of these alleged events, that his testimony cannot be independently verified, and that he has been in the custody of individuals currently wanted by federal authorities.
" The lawyer's voice is smooth, professional, utterly devoid of human feeling.
"The reliability of this testimony must be questioned. "
Dylan's grip on my arm tightens. I put my hand over his, a silent reminder to stay calm.
"The witness has provided corroborating documentation," the chairman responds. "Satellite imagery, chemical analysis of soil samples, medical reports. This committee will evaluate the totality of evidence."
The lawyer subsides, but I can see him making notes. Building a case to discredit Khalid before the testimony even concludes.
Dylan is next.
He takes Khalid's place in front of the camera, and I guide Khalid to the couch against the far wall, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. His hands are still trembling from the effort of holding himself together. Willa appears with a glass of water that he accepts but doesn't drink.
Where Khalid was vulnerable, a teenager recounting horror, Dylan is controlled, dangerous, a man who has operated in the covert world for years and knows exactly how deep it runs.
"State your name for the record."
"Dylan Rourke."
"Mr. Rourke, you're currently wanted by federal authorities on multiple charges including treason and conspiracy against the United States. Why should this committee believe anything you say?"
Dylan doesn't flinch. "Because I know how the organization you're investigating actually operates. I know because I worked for them."
The room stirs. The lawyers lean forward.
"For fourteen years, I was an operative for a shadow organization embedded within our intelligence and military apparatus," Dylan continues.
"We referred to it internally as the Committee.
I conducted interrogations, eliminated targets, and helped cover up operations that violated every law and treaty the United States has ever signed.
Including the chemical weapons test that killed Khalid's village. "
"You admit to participating in war crimes?"
"I admit to following orders from men who positioned themselves as patriots while committing atrocities in the name of national security.
" Dylan's voice is flat, controlled, but I can hear the steel underneath.
"General David Morrison authorized Protocol Seven.
He personally signed off on using Syrian villages as testing grounds for chemical weapons delivery systems."
"General Morrison is deceased."
"I'm aware. His death doesn't erase what he authorized.
" Dylan leans forward slightly. "And the man who succeeded him, General Marcus Webb, has continued and expanded Protocol Seven operations.
The documentation you've received includes operational orders, financial transfers, and communication intercepts that trace directly to Webb's office.
This isn't a rogue operation. It's policy. "
The questions continue for another hour.
Dylan walks the committee through the structure of the organization, the chain of command, the mechanisms by which Protocol Seven was authorized and concealed.
Some operational details are redacted in real time by Tommy, protecting Echo Ridge's location and methods. But the core testimony is devastating.
The lawyers try to intervene repeatedly. They challenge Dylan's credibility, his motives, his mental state. They suggest he's a bitter ex-operative seeking revenge for being "terminated." They imply his testimony is fabricated, coordinated with hostile foreign intelligence services.
Dylan answers each attack with calm precision, citing dates and documents and operational details that the lawyers clearly weren't expecting.
When it's my turn, I take my place in front of the camera and feel the weight of everything I've documented pressing down on my shoulders.
This is what I've been working toward for months.
Late nights following money trails. Dead ends that led to breakthroughs.
Sources who trusted me with information that could get them killed.
All of it comes down to the next few hours.
"State your name and occupation for the record."
"Reagan Mitchell. Investigative journalist."
The chairman consults his notes. "Ms. Mitchell, you've provided this committee with extensive documentation regarding alleged ongoing operations under General Webb's leadership. Can you summarize your findings?"
I pull up my notes on the tablet beside me, though I barely need them. I've lived with this investigation for so long that the details are burned into my memory.