Chapter 6 #2
I believe him.
The truth clicks into place. Not just about the torture—the scars prove that—but about everything. The Committee. The conspiracy. The assassination plot. All of it.
"Tell me." Sitting back, still close enough to monitor his breathing, his color. "Tell me everything. From the beginning."
"That's a long story."
"We're not going anywhere."
Alex studies me for a moment, then nods. "Where do you want me to start?"
"Protocol Seven. The inauguration. Why they captured you."
He takes a breath, winces from the pain it causes, then begins.
"I was Delta Force. Syria, about a year ago.
Got orders to paint a target for a drone strike—school building where insurgents might be hiding weapons.
Emphasis on might." His voice flattens. "Eighteen kids inside.
I could see them through my scope. Playing. Learning. Living."
Listening, not interrupting, letting him tell it his way.
"Command wanted me to call in the strike anyway. Acceptable collateral damage for one mid-level commander who might have been there." He shifts, trying to find a position that doesn't pull at his wound. "I refused. Disobeyed a direct order. Let the target walk rather than vaporize kids on a maybe."
His words make the cabin feel colder. "What happened?"
"They burned me. Disavowed. Labeled me compromised, unstable, a liability.
Had teams hunting me before I even made it out of country.
" His voice stays steady despite the exhaustion.
"Spent eight months hiding in the Montana wilderness.
Alone. Waiting for someone to find me and finish what command started. "
"Until Kane."
"Yeah. Kane." He closes his eyes briefly. "He found me. Said he'd been burned too—his handler sold him out in Crete, got half his team killed. He was building something new. Echo Ridge. Operators who'd been betrayed by the system, fighting against the people who'd tried to eliminate them."
"The Committee."
"Shadow organization embedded everywhere—DoD, CIA, NSA. Running illegal operations, eliminating anyone who knew too much." His jaw tightens. "Kane recruited me. Gave me purpose again. A team. A mission that mattered."
Processing the implications. "So you joined Echo Ridge."
"Became part of something bigger than survival.
We started gathering intel on Committee operations, building cases, finding evidence.
" He pauses, and something dark crosses his face.
"Then we got word about Whitefish. A facility in Montana producing binary chemical weapons—two compounds harmless separately but lethal when combined. "
"For the inauguration."
"They were staging it for deployment at the inauguration. Tens of thousands of casualties if they succeeded."
"You raided it."
"Kane's team hit the facility. Got samples, documentation, production schedules—everything we needed to prove what they were planning. Our contact leaked it all immediately. WikiLeaks, New York Times, Washington Post, every major outlet. The evidence went public before the Committee could stop it."
"So the inauguration was secured."
"Secret Service implemented Level One protocols.
Screened every person, every package. The chemical attack never happened.
Democracy proceeded exactly as it should.
" His voice flattens. "But that's when they came for us.
After the leak went public, Protocol Seven escalated.
Every asset on their termination list became kill-on-sight priority.
They hit our staging facility with forty-plus operatives.
Full assault. They wanted revenge and they wanted to eliminate everyone who knew the truth. "
The weight of that settles between us. "That's when they took you."
"During the battle. Kessler—their field commander—made himself look like a fleeing target.
Wounded, vulnerable. Classic bait." His jaw tightens.
"I went after him. Walked right into the trap.
He captured me while my team was defending the facility.
Loaded me onto a helicopter and disappeared before they could intercept. "
"And then four days of torture but you didn't break."
"No." Statement of fact. "SERE training plus years in the field. I know how to compartmentalize. How to hold out long enough for extraction."
"Your team leader."
He nods. "Kane. Best operator I've ever known.
He spent those four days planning my rescue while watching the inauguration proceed safely on every news channel.
Knowing they'd stopped the attack but lost me in the process.
" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "Victory and failure wrapped up together.
That's the kind of math nobody teaches you in training. "
The cabin walls seem closer suddenly. Like they're pressing in with the weight of what he's telling me.
"You're saying the government I serve is executing its own soldiers?" My voice sounds distant even to me.
"Not the government. A shadow organization inside it. The Committee." He watches me, gauging my reaction. "And now you've seen their operational methods. They sent a tactical team to kill an FBI agent when she found me. Because you represented risk."
They tried to kill me. The reality of it hasn't fully sunk in yet. Patterson's voice on the phone, so reasonable, so concerned. The tactical team at the cabin, professional and efficient. All of it designed to eliminate a problem. To eliminate me along with it.
The badge was supposed to mean something. Justice. Truth. Protection.
Now nothing makes sense anymore.
I turn away, needing space to think. My phone sits on the floor, screen dark to conserve battery. I pick it up and tap it awake. The battery icon flashes critical. Before it dies, I need to check something.
Pulling up the case file Patterson sent me. Alex's photo, service record, charges. Domestic terrorism. Treason. Conspiracy against the United States.
Then I pull up the supporting documentation—incident reports, witness statements, and intelligence assessments. I've reviewed these documents a dozen times, memorized every detail, built my entire investigation around them.
Now looking for what's missing.
The incident reports—no specific locations. The witness statements—no actual witnesses named. The intelligence assessments—vague operational details. Everything reads official but doesn't prove anything concrete.
And the dates don't line up. Reports filed weeks after incidents supposedly occurred. Intelligence assessments referencing events before they happened. Citations leading nowhere.
I scroll further, checking sources. The story falls apart under scrutiny. Not obviously—you have to be looking—but the cracks are there. Inconsistencies. Missing details. Sources that don't exist.
Fabricated. Professional disinformation designed to destroy credibility.
My phone battery flashes a final warning.
"What are you looking at?" Alex's voice makes me look up.
"Lies." The word tastes bitter. "They're good lies. Well-constructed. But they're still lies."
"You believe me now?"
Do I? Twenty-four hours ago, the answer would have been immediate. No. He's a fugitive. A terrorist. My job is to bring him in.
But that was before Patterson, or whoever controls him, tried to have me killed. Before the tactical team's rules of engagement became clear. Before sitting in this cabin treating wounds that tell a story of torture and survival.
"I believe they tried to kill us both," I say carefully. "I believe there's something wrong with the official narrative. I believe..." Trailing off, not ready to say it out loud yet.
"You believe maybe I'm telling the truth." He doesn't make it a question.
"Maybe." Setting the phone aside. "Tell me about Scorch. The burns."
"You don't want to know."
"I'm treating your injuries. I need to know medical history." It's deflection and we both know it. But he doesn't call me on it.
"Scorch is their interrogator. Real name's classified—probably not even the Committee knows it. He specializes in enhanced interrogation." The clinical term sounds obscene. "Burns are his signature. Controlled. Precise. Designed to maximize pain without killing."
"For four days."
"Yeah." He closes his eyes. "I remember most of it. That's the worst part. If I'd blacked out, I could pretend it wasn't that bad. But I remember."
The matter-of-fact delivery makes it worse somehow. Like torture is just another mission parameter. Something to endure and move past.
Reaching for his wrist without thinking, checking his pulse again. But fingers linger, feeling the steady beat beneath scarred skin. His pulse jumps slightly at the contact.
"Why are you helping me?" He asks it quietly, eyes open now and watching. "You could have left. Called Patterson. Turned me in. But you didn't."
"Because they tried to kill me." The answer comes automatic. "Because nothing about this adds up. Because..."
Because I looked into your eyes and saw someone worth saving. Because everything you've told me rings true in a way Patterson's orders never did. Because I joined the FBI to serve justice, and justice doesn't come from shadow organizations executing their own soldiers.
But those words won't come. Can't. Not yet.
"Because I need answers," I finish. "And you're the only one giving them to me."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and something changes between us. Not quite trust. But acknowledgment. Like he's decided I might be worth the risk.
The silence stretches. I should check his vitals again. Make sure he's stable. But instead, words come out that I didn't plan to say. Maybe because I need him to understand why this matters so much. Why the badge meant something.
"My father was NYPD," I hear myself saying. "Good cop, according to everyone who knew him. Dedicated. Hardworking."
"But?"