Chapter 13 #2
"My investigation began with financial irregularities in defense contractor payments that didn't align with any known programs." I keep my voice steady, professional, the voice I've used in a hundred interviews.
"Those payments led to shell companies, which led to operational funding streams, which led to a pattern of activities that revealed the existence of a shadow organization operating outside any congressional oversight.
The same organization Mr. Rourke described. "
"What kind of activities?"
"Targeted eliminations of individuals this organization deemed threats.
Fabrication of evidence to discredit whistleblowers.
Infiltration of federal agencies to suppress investigations.
" I look directly at the camera. "And continuation of Protocol Seven testing, not in Syria, but in other locations where the deaths can be attributed to civil conflict or natural disaster. "
The lawyers object. The chairman overrules them. I continue.
"The documentation I've provided includes financial records showing payments from Webb's office to contractors involved in these operations.
Communication intercepts discussing the suppression of previous investigations.
And operational reports that reference ongoing 'field testing' of chemical compounds in civilian populations. "
"Ms. Mitchell," one of the lawyers interrupts, his voice dripping with condescension.
"You're a journalist, not an intelligence analyst. You have no expertise in evaluating classified operations.
And frankly, your publication history suggests a pattern of conspiracy-minded speculation rather than legitimate journalism. "
"My publication history includes two national journalism awards and a Pulitzer nomination," I respond evenly. "And the documents I've provided can be authenticated by independent forensic analysis. I'm not asking you to take my word for it. I'm asking you to examine the evidence."
The hearing continues for another two hours.
By the end, my voice is hoarse and my nerves are raw.
The lawyers have attacked every piece of testimony, every document, every claim.
They've painted Khalid as a traumatized child manipulated by terrorists.
They've painted Dylan as a disgruntled operative fabricating evidence for revenge.
They've painted me as a conspiracy theorist chasing shadows.
But the committee members themselves are different.
I can see it in their faces, in the way they've stopped taking notes and started truly listening.
The cumulative weight of three witnesses, each corroborating the others, each providing documentation that aligns with the larger pattern, has created momentum that the lawyers' objections can't derail.
After the video link goes dark, the hunting lodge is silent for a long moment.
"That's it," Kane says finally. "Now we wait."
Within hours, the media coverage begins. Someone on the committee leaked fragments of the testimony, and suddenly the investigation I've spent months building is everywhere.
I scroll through the coverage on my laptop, watching the story spread across platforms. The major networks run it as their lead story, though the framing varies wildly depending on the outlet.
Some emphasize the shocking allegations.
Others emphasize the "controversial sources" and "unverified claims."
The response is exactly as divided as I expected.
Mainstream outlets treat the story cautiously, emphasizing the "allegations" and "claims," noting that the witnesses have not been independently verified.
They give equal weight to the lawyers' objections, framing the narrative as "disputed" and "controversial.
" One anchor, a man I've respected for years, uses the phrase "conspiracy theories" twice in his two-minute segment.
Independent journalists are more aggressive. They start pulling threads from my documentation, cross-referencing with their own sources, building on the foundation we've laid. Within a day, three separate investigative teams have confirmed elements of the financial trail I uncovered.
Social media is chaos. Conspiracy theories bloom in both directions.
Some accounts insist we're government plants spreading disinformation.
Others claim we don't go far enough, that the Committee controls everything from the media to the weather.
The signal is buried in noise, which is probably exactly what Webb intended.
But underneath the noise, something is happening.
Federal investigators formally request my documentation through official channels.
The request comes with the kind of bureaucratic language that usually means nothing will happen, but Kane's sources say otherwise.
Someone with authority signed off on this request. Someone who isn't in Webb's pocket.
I provide copies through Kane's secure channels, keeping the originals in our possession.
Every page timestamped, every file hash-verified.
If they try to claim we fabricated anything, we can prove provenance.
If they try to suppress the investigation, we have backups distributed across three continents.
"The FBI's Counterintelligence Division has opened a preliminary inquiry," Delaney reports from Echo Base, her voice crackling through the encrypted connection.
"Very quiet, very unofficial. But they're looking.
And they're asking questions about financial transfers that Webb's people thought were buried. "
"Webb's people will try to shut it down," Dylan says.
"They'll try," Kane agrees. "But the more people who look at this evidence, the harder it becomes to suppress. We've created enough public attention that making this disappear would raise more questions than it answers."
Khalid sits in the corner of the main room, wrapped in a blanket Willa gave him, staring at nothing.
He held himself together through the entire testimony, answered every question with composure that would have been remarkable in an adult, let alone a teenager.
Now the cost of that composure is written across his face.
I cross the room and lower myself onto the couch beside him. "Hey."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps staring at the wall, seeing something none of us can see.
"You did well today. Better than well. You were incredible."
"They didn't believe me." His voice is hollow. "The men in the suits. I could see it in their faces. They didn't believe me."
"Some of them did. The committee members. You saw their faces when you named your family."
"It doesn't matter." Khalid's hands are shaking now, tremors visible even beneath the blanket. "They'll find a way to make it go away. They always find a way."
Dylan appears on his other side, lowering himself carefully to protect his wound. He doesn't say anything. Just puts his arm around Khalid's shoulders and pulls him close.
The dam breaks.
Khalid sobs, the sound raw and ragged, all the grief pouring out in a flood that his testimony composure could no longer contain.
His whole body shakes with the force of it, shoulders heaving, hands clutching at Dylan's shirt like he's drowning and Dylan is the only solid thing in a world that keeps trying to pull him under.
He cries for his father, his mother, his sisters and his brother.
He cries for the village elder and the pregnant woman and the old man who sold vegetables.
He cries for three hundred and forty-seven people whose names he carries with him everywhere.
Dylan holds him, one hand cradling the back of Khalid's head, his own eyes wet though he doesn't make a sound.
I hold them both, my arms wrapped around two people who have become my family through circumstances none of us would have chosen.
And for a long time, the only sound in the hunting lodge is a fifteen-year-old boy mourning the dead.
Eventually, the sobs quiet to hiccups, then to shuddering breaths, then to exhausted silence.
Later, after Khalid has cried himself to sleep and Willa has settled him in his room with something to help him rest, we gather in the main room. The fire has burned down to embers, and the windows show nothing but darkness beyond the glass.
Kane's encrypted phone buzzes. He steps away to take the call, and when he returns, his expression is unreadable.
"That was Cross," he announces. "Webb's response to the testimony."
Everyone goes still. Dylan reaches for my hand, grips tight. Mercer straightens from his position by the window, and even Stryker stops cleaning the pistol he's been working on for the past hour.
"He's concerned," Kane continues. "The inquiry is inconvenient. The media attention is irritating. But he's not panicking."
"Why not?" I ask. "We just testified in front of Congress. Federal investigators are looking at the evidence. How is he not panicking?"
Kane meets my eyes. "Because he doesn't think testimony alone will bring him down. He's been running black operations for decades. He knows how to weather investigations. And he's betting that our evidence isn't enough to overcome the institutional protections he's built around himself."
"Cross says Webb is already working the phones," Kane adds. "Calling in favors. Reminding people what he knows about them. The Committee didn't survive this long by leaving themselves vulnerable to a single exposure attempt."
"Is he right?" Dylan's voice is quiet. "Can he make this go away?"
Kane doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his words carry a weight that settles over the room.
"That depends on what we're willing to do next."
The fire crackles, sending sparks up toward the chimney. Outside, the wind moves through the pine trees.
Webb is betting that we can't touch him. That the system he's corrupted will protect him the way it's always protected him.
He doesn't know everything we have. Doesn't know about the moves we haven't made yet.
The testimony was the first blow. Not the last.