Chapter 14
DYLAN
The stitches come out three days after the testimony. Willa works with steady hands, snipping the black threads and pulling them free while I focus on the laptop screen balanced on my knee. The pain is manageable now, reduced from a constant fire to an occasional throb when I move wrong.
"You're healing well," she says, applying fresh bandages. "Another week and you'll be cleared for operational status."
"Good." I scroll through the latest batch of articles, watching the story we built spread across platforms and publications. "We're going to need everyone operational soon."
The testimony created a foundation. Federal interest followed. Now it's time for the next phase.
Reagan sits at the dining table with three phones and two laptops arranged in front of her, coordinating with journalist contacts across the country. She's been working since before dawn, her coffee growing cold beside her as she manages what she calls a "rolling investigation."
"Not a single release," she explained when we planned this. "That's too easy to suppress or discredit. We release in waves. Each wave builds on the last. Each wave brings new sources out of the woodwork who corroborate what we've already published."
The first wave dropped this morning.
Three major investigative outlets published simultaneously, their articles focused on Morrison's historical war crimes and the origins of Protocol Seven.
Satellite imagery of Khalid's village before and after the attack.
Chemical analysis of soil samples that independent labs verified.
Communication intercepts that trace authorization back to Morrison's office.
Testimony from scientists who worked on the chemical compounds, their identities protected but their credentials verified.
The documentation is meticulous. Reagan spent months building this case, cross-referencing sources, verifying authenticity, preparing for exactly the kind of scrutiny we knew would come.
Delaney is still working on chain of custody protocols for the physical evidence, building the framework that will hold up to federal evidentiary standards when the time comes.
Within hours, the Committee's response materializes across every platform.
Coordinated accounts pushing narratives about foreign interference.
Opinion pieces questioning Reagan's credibility, citing her "history of conspiracy-minded journalism.
" Anonymous sources claiming the documents were fabricated, the satellite imagery doctored, the soil samples contaminated.
"They're throwing everything at the wall," Reagan says, not looking up from her phones. "Hoping something sticks."
"Is it working?"
She shrugs, a gesture that manages to convey both exhaustion and determination. "With some people. The mainstream outlets are being cautious. Lots of 'allegations' and 'claims' and 'if verified.' They're not dismissing us, but they're not fully embracing the story either."
I watch her work, the way her fingers fly across keyboards and screens, the way she pivots from one conversation to another without losing track of any of them.
She's been a journalist for years, but this is different.
This is war conducted through words and documents and carefully timed revelations.
"The independents are more aggressive," she continues. "Three outlets have already reached out to say they're digging deeper. Finding additional sources. Corroborating details we couldn't include in the initial release."
"That's the plan."
She finally looks up, meeting my eyes. "But Dylan, it's also dangerous. The more attention this gets, the more exposed we become. Every journalist who picks up this story becomes a target. Every source who comes forward risks their career, their safety, maybe their life."
"They know the risks."
"Do they?" Her voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. "I'm not sure I did, when I started this investigation. I thought I was chasing a story. I didn't know I was declaring war on people who consider murder an acceptable business expense."
I set the laptop aside and cross to where she's sitting. My side protests the movement, but I ignore it. "You're doing the right thing."
"I know." She leans back in her chair, pressing her palms against her eyes. "I know I am. But knowing doesn't make it easier."
Kane appears from the back hallway, his expression tight in a way that means he's been monitoring communications. "Federal prosecutors just subpoenaed financial records from several entities we named in the exposé."
Reagan drops her hands, suddenly alert. "Which records?"
"Everything tied to the shell companies you identified. Bank statements, wire transfers, corporate filings." Kane crosses to the tactical display we've set up on one wall, pulling up a document on his tablet. "They're moving faster than I expected."
"That's good, right?" I ask.
"It's good for building a case. It's bad for our security." Kane turns to face us. "The more pressure the investigators put on the Committee, the more desperate Webb becomes. Desperate people make mistakes, but they also take risks they wouldn't normally take."
"Like hitting us again. Harder this time."
"Exactly."
I process the implications. The testimony raised the stakes. The exposé raised them higher. And now federal investigators are squeezing his organization, which means he has to choose between fighting a legal battle he might lose or eliminating the witnesses who started the whole investigation.
Webb has never been the type to put his fate in the hands of lawyers and judges.
"What's our security posture?" I ask.
"Mercer's maintaining overwatch. Stryker's running perimeter checks every four hours. Tommy has surveillance on every approach road within twenty miles." Kane pauses. "But this location was always temporary. We need to consider relocating to Echo Base."
"Not yet." Reagan's voice is firm. "I need to coordinate the next wave of releases. Moving now would disrupt communications with my sources, delay the schedule we've established. We can't afford to lose momentum."
"We can't afford to get killed either."
"Give me a little more time." She meets Kane's eyes steadily. "A couple more waves of releases, then we move. By then, the story will have enough momentum to sustain itself even if I go dark for a few days."
Kane considers, then nods reluctantly. "We'll give you what time we can. But if Cross reports any movement toward this location, we evacuate immediately."
The afternoon passes in a rhythm of work and waiting.
Reagan coordinates her rolling investigation, fielding calls from journalists and managing the flow of information with the precision of a military operation.
I resume light operational duties, helping Kane review security protocols and coordinate with Tommy and Delaney at Echo Base.
My body is healing. The wound still aches, but the sharp pain has faded to something I can work through. Movement comes easier now, and I test my limits, pushing just slightly beyond what Willa would approve.
It feels good to be useful again. To contribute something beyond sitting in a chair and watching others work.
Khalid is quiet. He hasn't said much since the testimony, spending hours in his room or sitting by the window staring at nothing. The kid who held himself together in front of Congress has retreated into himself, and none of us know how to reach him.
The nightmares have returned, worse than before. Last night I heard him crying out in his sleep, calling for his mother in Arabic, and when I went to check on him, he was curled in a ball on his cot, tears streaming down a face caught somewhere between waking and dreaming.
I sat with him until dawn, not speaking, just being present. It's all I can offer right now. All any of us can offer. Willa wanted to give him something to help him sleep, but Khalid refused. He said the nightmares were all he had left of his family, and he wasn't ready to let them go.
The testimony cost him something. Forcing himself to relive those memories, to speak his family's names in front of strangers who might not believe him.
To describe how it felt, knowing his family and village were dying while he hid in a well.
He held himself together with remarkable composure during the hearing, but the composure was a mask, and masks eventually crack.
Reagan noticed too. She's been checking on him between calls, bringing him food he barely touches, sitting with him in comfortable silence when words feel inadequate.
We've become something like parents to him without ever planning it, and the responsibility of that role weighs heavier than I expected.
Kane's encrypted phone buzzes just after sunset. He steps outside to take the call, and when he returns, his expression is grimmer than I've seen it in days.
"Cross," he announces. "The Committee is fracturing."
Everyone stops what they're doing. Even Khalid looks up from his position by the window.
"She says some members are cooperating with federal investigators.
Trying to cut deals, protect themselves, throw others under the bus.
" Kane pulls up something on his tablet, studies it.
"The financial subpoenas spooked them. They're starting to realize that Webb's strategy of denial and disinformation isn't working, and they're looking for exits. "
"That's good," Reagan says. "The more people who cooperate, the stronger the case becomes."
"It's complicated." Kane sets down the tablet.
"The ones who are cooperating are giving up information about lower-level operations.
Things that can be documented, proven, prosecuted.
But Webb himself is insulated by layers of cutouts and deniability.
Cross says there's no direct evidence connecting him to specific crimes.
Everything runs through intermediaries who can be sacrificed without touching him. "