Chapter 4 #2
"You're Agent Ward." His voice is rough, damaged. Like he's been screaming or hasn't had water in days. "They sent you to arrest me. To legitimize my murder."
His statement crashes through me like ice water. "I'm here to bring you into custody. You'll get due process, a lawyer—"
"No." He shifts, and pain flashes across his face. The gun wavers but doesn't drop. "I was in Committee custody four days. Interrogation. Drugs. Kessler told me about you. Said you'd be the one to find me. Said it would be clean, legal, everything on camera."
Committee. The word means nothing to me, but the way he says it—like a curse, like something that should be obvious—sends ice down my spine.
"I don't know what you're talking about." But my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears.
"You're being used." He's struggling to stay conscious, words slurring at the edges. "They're going to stage my arrest. Tactical team kills me resisting. You become the face of a successful operation against domestic terrorism. Echo Ridge gets discredited. Everyone wins except the truth."
The truth. My father used to talk about truth like it was optional, like facts were just another tool to be manipulated. I spent sixteen years believing his version of truth before Internal Affairs showed me the reality.
"You're a fugitive facing federal charges," I say, but the words taste wrong. "I have a duty—"
"To what? Orders you don't believe? I saw your face when you looked at me.
" His gaze holds mine, and there's something there beyond the pain, beyond the calculation.
Recognition. "You don't think I'm a terrorist. Your instincts are screaming that this is wrong.
So why are you still pointing that gun at me? "
Because it's my job. Because Patterson ordered it. Because following orders is what separates law enforcement from vigilantes.
Because I'm terrified he's right.
The gun in his hand finally drops to the floor. The gesture is deliberate, conscious—a choice, not surrender from weakness. "I'm not going to shoot an FBI agent," he says. "Even one being used to kill me. You want to arrest me, go ahead. But they won't let me make it to trial."
I should call it in. Radio the tactical team, get Mercer secured, let the system work the way it's supposed to work. That's what good agents do. What my father never did.
"How did you escape?"
"Waited for shift change. Generator test. Ninety-second window when the locks cycled and the cameras rebooted.
" He breathes through obvious pain. "Barely made it out.
Found this place because it was the closest structure to the facility.
Figured I had maybe six hours before they found me.
" He looks at me again. "Looks like I was right. This was set up."
"Where's the facility you escaped from?"
"North. Maybe ten miles. Black site, off-book. You won't find it in any federal database." He shifts against the wall, and fresh blood seeps through his shirt. "I need you to understand something. I'm not your enemy. The people who sent you here are."
The statement hangs in the small room. Outside, wind rattles the window frame. My finger is still on the Glock's trigger, but the barrel has dropped slightly. Everything about this feels like a choice—lower the weapon completely and believe him, or raise it again and do my job.
"You killed twenty-seven people at that staging facility," I say.
"I defended myself and my team against an ambush by Committee contractors. They were trying to kill us to prevent us from stopping a chemical weapons attack." His voice is fading, strength running out. "I can prove it. Have evidence. Documentation. But only if I survive long enough to present it."
Chemical weapons. The briefing mentioned a staging facility, dead contractors, but Patterson shut down every question about what they were doing there.
"I need to call this in," I say, but I don't reach for the radio.
"Then I'm dead." Not a plea. Just fact. "Your tactical team has been briefed that I'm extremely dangerous.
The moment they breach this cabin, they'll shoot.
They'll say I reached for a weapon, and you'll back them up because that's what the evidence will show.
And you'll spend the rest of your career knowing you were used. "
The words settle over me like a weight. Following orders. Doing my duty. Being a good agent.
Is that what my career has become? Following orders without question, even when every instinct screams something's wrong?
"What happened in Syria?" I ask.
"They wanted me to paint a village. Eighteen children inside.
Intel said insurgents were using it as a weapons cache, but the targeting data was manufactured.
Falsified. I refused the order." His breathing is getting shallower.
"Drone strike went ahead anyway. Killed everyone. Then they burned me to cover it up."
Eighteen children. The kind of detail you don't invent when you're running on fumes and blood loss. The kind of truth that costs everything to hold onto.
"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it.
"Don't be sorry. Just don't let them use you the way they used me."
The moment stretches. Decision point. Call in the team and follow orders, or trust my instincts about a man I just met who might be the most dangerous person I've ever encountered or might be the only honest one.
The window behind Mercer explodes.
Glass and wood frame disintegrate inward. My training takes over. I drop, roll, come up with my weapon tracking the threat. More gunfire erupts from outside, automatic weapons, the distinct reports of multiple shooters laying down coordinated fire.
This isn't the tactical team. This is suppression fire. This is an assault.
Mercer moves despite his injuries, rolling away from the window, reaching for his dropped pistol. His face is gray with pain, but his movements are practiced, efficient. Combat muscle memory overriding physical limitations.
"Down!" He grabs my arm, pulls me behind the dresser as rounds punch through the cabin walls. "They're here."
"Who?"
"Committee tactical team." He checks his pistol, and I see his hands are steadier now, adrenaline overriding blood loss. "They waited for you to find me. Probably had eyes on this location the whole time."
The whole time. Which means they watched me walk in. Watched me find him. Let me make contact before springing the trap.
"You were the bait," he says, meeting my eyes again. "They're here to kill us both."
Understanding crashes through me like the bullets tearing apart the cabin.
Patterson's urgency. The press standing by.
The isolated location. This was never about arresting Mercer.
It was about creating a narrative. FBI agent killed in the line of duty along with dangerous terrorist. Clean. Heroic. Completely fabricated.
More gunfire. The front door splinters under impact. Voices outside, coordinated, professional. "Federal agents! Come out with your hands up!"
"They're not FBI," Mercer says.
"How do you know?"
"Because FBI doesn't breach before calling for surrender. And they don't shoot before announcing." He gestures to the shattered window, the rounds that came through without warning. "These are Committee contractors. Same ones who tried to kill my team."
My phone buzzes again. Patterson. Still not answering.
"We need to move," Mercer says. He's trying to stand, using the dresser for support. He's shaking with the effort, face gray. "Back door. There's forest cover fifty yards out. If we make it to the trees—"
"You can barely walk."
"Then you'll have to help me." He looks at me one more time, and there's something there beyond the desperation, beyond the pain. Trust. He's trusting me with his life after knowing me for five minutes, and I'm about to trust him with mine.
The moment stretches. Decision point. Call in the team and follow orders, or trust my instincts about a man I just met who might be the most dangerous person I've ever encountered or might be the only honest one.
I holster my Glock and move to his side. "Lean on me. We go on three."
"You're sure?"
"No." I slide my arm around his waist, feeling him flinch as I touch his injured side. "But I'm sure about them."