Chapter 15
REAGAN
The wind dies sometime after midnight, and the silence that follows is worse.
Sleep refuses to come. Every creak of the old lodge sends my heart rate spiking, every shift of settling wood sounds like footsteps on the porch. Cross's warning plays on repeat in my head. Even through the distortion of encrypted comms, the fear in her voice had been unmistakable.
The PR war is over. Now comes the killing.
The second wave of releases is scheduled for morning.
Six more outlets ready to publish, each building on what came before, each adding new sources and documentation that makes the story harder to dismiss.
The momentum is building exactly as planned.
But none of that matters if we're dead before sunrise.
Dylan sleeps beside me, his breathing shallow even in rest. Even unconscious, he holds himself carefully, protecting the wound that's still healing. Willa cleared him for light duty, but light duty doesn't mean ready for combat. It means able to walk without reopening the wound.
The thought of him fighting in this condition makes my stomach clench.
A soft knock at the door brings me upright before I register moving. Dylan's awake instantly, hand reaching for the weapon on the nightstand.
"It's Kane." The voice is low, controlled, but the urgency beneath it raises every hair on my arms. "We need to move. Now."
Dylan is already pulling on clothes, movements economical despite favoring his injured side. His eyes meet mine in the darkness, and what passes between us doesn't need words. This is it. Whatever Cross warned us about, it's here.
The main room is controlled chaos. Mercer stands at the window with his rifle, scanning the treeline through a scope. Stryker is checking weapons at the tactical table, distributing magazines and spare ammunition. Willa has her medical bag open, preparing trauma supplies with practiced efficiency.
Khalid sits on the couch, pale but alert. His eyes find mine when we enter, and the fear there hits me harder than I expected.
"Tommy picked up movement on the approach roads." Kane keeps his voice low, but urgency sharpens every word. "Three vehicles, no lights, tactical formation. They'll be here in minutes."
"How many?" Dylan asks.
"Smaller team than the safe house. They're not coming in force." Kane's jaw tightens. "They're coming in as a surgical strike. It’s a targeted recon. If they knew for sure we were here, they’d send in a full team to annihilate us."
The implication lands like a blow. Not a full assault. A kill team. Coming for specific people.
Coming for me. For Khalid.
"Evacuation route?" Dylan is already moving toward the weapons cache, selecting a rifle with the familiarity of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Compromised." Kane shakes his head. "They've positioned to cut off the primary and secondary routes. We'd have to go through them to reach the vehicles."
"Then we go through them."
"Not with civilians." Stryker's voice cuts in. "We need to hold position, let them come to us. Defensive advantage."
"They'll breach multiple entry points simultaneously." Dylan checks his rifle, chambers a round. "Standard Committee tactics. They'll split our defense, create confusion, target the principals while we're occupied."
The principals. Me. Khalid. The witnesses who can put Webb's organization in prison.
Kane nods slowly. "Then we don't let them split us. Tight perimeter. Everyone stays in the main room. Mercer takes overwatch from the loft, Stryker covers the back entrance. Dylan and I handle the front and sides." He turns to Willa. "You stay with Reagan and Khalid. Interior position."
"I can help." The words leave my mouth before I've fully thought them through. "I know how to shoot."
"Reagan." Dylan's voice carries something between warning and plea. "This isn't target practice. These are trained operators who will kill you without hesitation."
"And if they get through, they'll kill me anyway." My voice comes out steadier than my hands feel. "At least give me a chance to fight back."
A look passes between Dylan and Kane. Some communication I can't read. Then Kane crosses to the weapons cache and pulls out a compact pistol, checking the magazine before handing it to me.
"Stay with Khalid. Don't engage unless you have no choice. And Reagan." His eyes hold mine. "If it comes to that, don't hesitate. Hesitation gets people killed."
The pistol settles into my grip with the familiar weight of range hours logged over years.
My editor at the Post had insisted on it after my third death threat, back when I thought angry emails were the worst part of investigative journalism.
Fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber.
Enough to matter if I'm accurate. Enough to get me killed if I'm not.
Khalid watches me check the weapon, his dark eyes tracking every movement. "You don't have to do this. Protect me."
"Yes, I do." The certainty surprises me. "We protect each other now. That's how this works."
He doesn't respond, but his spine straightens. A fraction less afraid.
Mercer's voice comes from the loft, quiet and professional. "Visual contact. Three vehicles stopped at the tree line. Eight hostiles deploying. Tactical formation, suppressed weapons."
Eight people with military training, coming to kill a journalist and a fifteen-year-old boy.
"Everyone in position." Kane's voice carries command without volume. "No one fires until they breach. Let them commit."
The waiting is worst. Standing in the main room with Khalid pressed against my side, Willa flanking us with her own weapon drawn, listening to the silence stretch unbearably. Outside, eight people are moving through the darkness toward us. Inside, we wait for them to make the first move.
Glass shatters somewhere at the back of the lodge. Stryker's rifle barks twice, controlled bursts that echo through the timber walls. Answering fire comes immediately, the distinctive sound of suppressed weapons popping in rapid sequence.
"Contact rear!" Stryker's voice is tight but steady. "Two down, more coming."
The front door explodes inward, blown apart by a breaching charge. Two figures pour through the gap, moving with fluid precision. Kane's rifle speaks once, twice. One figure drops. The other keeps coming, firing as he advances.
Dylan steps into the breach, engaging the shooter at close range. His movements are slower than they should be, favoring his wounded side, but his accuracy is lethal. The second attacker drops before he can adjust aim.
More glass breaking. A window in the kitchen area. Mercer's rifle cracks from the loft, the heavier report of a long-range weapon echoing through the confined space.
"One more down, eastern approach." Mercer's voice is calm, almost bored. Like he's reading a report instead of killing people.
The chaos compresses into fragments. Muzzle flashes. Shouted commands I can't parse. The acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air until my eyes water. Khalid's shoulder pressed against mine, both of us crouched behind the overturned dining table Willa positioned as cover.
A figure appears at the shattered kitchen window. Willa fires before I can react, her shots driving the attacker back but not down. He returns fire blindly, rounds punching through the wall above our heads.
"Stay down!" Willa's already moving, repositioning to get a better angle. The attacker uses the moment to haul himself through the window frame, bleeding from his shoulder but still operational.
He sees us. Me and Khalid, crouched behind inadequate cover, exposed when Willa shifted position. His weapon comes up, barrel tracking toward the fifteen-year-old boy beside me.
There's barely enough time to think, let alone act.
The pistol is in my hands. The grip is solid against my palms. The sight picture is clear. Center mass. Don't aim for limbs. Don't try to wound. Aim for the largest target and squeeze the trigger until the threat stops.
The recoil surprises me even though I'm expecting it. The first shot goes wide, punching into the wall beside the attacker's head. He flinches, adjusts aim. The second shot catches him in the vest, and the third follows before I consciously decide to fire again.
He staggers but doesn't fall. The impacts buy me a second, maybe two. His weapon wavers as he fights for balance, torso twisting from the force of the hits.
The fourth shot catches him in the neck, just above the collar of his body armor.
He drops. His weapon clatters against the floor. His hands go to his throat, a reflex that won't save him, and then he's down, blood spreading dark across the wooden planks.
The pistol stays up, pointed at his body, even after it's obvious he's not getting back up. My arms are locked, frozen in the shooting stance drilled into me at the range. The trigger is still half-pressed, ready to fire again at the slightest provocation.
Willa's voice reaches me through the ringing in my ears. "Reagan. Reagan, it's done. You can lower the weapon."
Lowering the weapon takes conscious effort. My hands don't want to cooperate. My entire body is vibrating, a live wire of adrenaline and shock with nowhere to go.
The fight continues around me, but it's winding down. Fewer shots, longer gaps between exchanges. Kane calling out positions, getting responses from Mercer and Stryker and Dylan.
Khalid hasn't moved from my side. His breathing is ragged, his face pale, but he's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"You shot him." His voice is barely a whisper, carrying neither accusation nor gratitude. Just fact.
"He was going to kill you."
"I know." He swallows hard. "I watched him aim. Watched his finger move on the trigger. And then you shot him."