Chapter 6 #3
"But when I was sixteen, Internal Affairs started investigating him.
Turns out he'd been on the take for years.
Protection money. Evidence tampering. He justified it by saying everyone did it.
That the system was corrupt anyway." Bitterness leaks into my voice.
"He was convicted when I was eighteen. Served six years. "
"That's why you joined the FBI."
"I wanted to be different. Better. I wanted the badge to mean something." Looking down at hands still stained with Alex's blood. "I wanted to believe the system worked if you just followed the rules."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know what to believe." The admission hurts.
"I spent my entire career trusting the system.
Following orders. Assuming the people above me had the full picture and knew what they were doing.
But Patterson gave me an assignment that was designed to get me killed.
The Committee exists. The conspiracy is real. And I don't know who to trust anymore."
"Patterson might not have known." Alex's voice is quiet. "The Committee compartmentalizes. Uses good people to do bad things without them realizing it. He probably thought he was sending you on a legitimate arrest. They're the ones who positioned the kill team."
The idea that Patterson might be as much a pawn as I am somehow makes it worse. "So nobody knows who to trust. Nobody knows who's really in control."
"Welcome to our world." There's no satisfaction in his tone. Just weary acknowledgment.
What follows is heavy. Weighted.
Alex tries to sit up more. Moving automatically to help him, adjusting the blankets, making sure he doesn't tear the wound open again. Hands steady despite everything. Training. Muscle memory. The FBI taught me to stay calm in crisis, and apparently that training runs deep.
His hand catches my wrist. Not rough. Gentle. Fingers cold against my skin.
"Thank you," he says. "For not leaving. For trusting your instincts. For keeping me alive."
"Don't thank me yet. You could still die from infection."
"Always the optimist." But there's warmth in his voice now.
"Someone has to be realistic." Should pull away. Professional distance. FBI training. But not moving, and he doesn't release my wrist.
In the darkness, acutely aware of how close we are. His breathing, steadier now. The heat radiating from his body despite the shock and blood loss.
This is wrong. He's a fugitive. I'm FBI. This entire situation violates every protocol and regulation I’ve spent eight years following.
But Patterson tried to have me killed. The Committee exists. And nothing about my carefully constructed worldview makes sense anymore.
"Delaney." My name on his lips sounds different. Not Agent Ward. Just Delaney. Like we're people instead of operative and agent.
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens next, I need you to know—you made the right call. Trusting your instincts. They'll try to make you doubt that. Make you think you were compromised or manipulated. But you weren't. You saw the truth and acted on it. That takes courage."
The words settle into the space between us, and this is the closest thing to vulnerable I’ve seen from him. Not the physical vulnerability of wounds and blood loss, but emotional. Offering reassurance when he's the one bleeding out.
Should say something. Acknowledge it. But the phone buzzes before words form.
Battery critical. Final warning.
Pulling away, and Alex releases my wrist. The absence of contact feels like cold air rushing in.
"I should turn it off," I say. "Save what's left for emergencies."
"Wait." He shifts, wincing at the movement. "The truck. Glove box. Check under the registration papers."
I give him a questioning look but go to the truck. Under the registration, my fingers find a thin burner phone/radio combo wrapped in plastic. I bring it back.
"Committee vehicle," Alex explains. "Every tactical unit carries backup communication. Protocol in case primary systems are compromised." He takes it from me. The screen shows half charge. "They won't be monitoring it yet."
The phone powers on. Alex navigates to the keyboard and punches in an unlisted number that will disappear off any system in ten seconds or less after the call ends and hits dial. Speaker on, and the ringing fills the cabin.
Three rings. Four. Then a click and a voice—deep, controlled, radiating authority.
"Talk."
"Kane. It's me." Alex's voice turns professional. "I'm compromised but mobile. Need extraction protocol Delta-Seven."
A pause. "Location?"
"Montana wilderness. Exact coordinates unknown. Can get them with time."
"Status?"
"Injured but stable. GSW to the side, treated and packed. Mobile with assistance."
Longer pause. "You said compromised. Elaborate."
Alex glances at me. "I'm not alone. FBI agent. She saved my life."
The silence stretches. Then Kane's voice comes back, harder. Suspicious.
"Explain."
"Agent Delaney Ward. Patterson sent her to arrest me. The Committee sent a kill team to eliminate us both. She figured it out. Got us clear. Kept me alive." He pauses. "She's solid, Kane. I trust her."
"Put her on," Kane says finally.
Alex hands me the phone. Our fingers brush in the transfer, and his eyes hold mine for a moment. Trust me, they seem to say. Or maybe, Don't make me regret this.
Taking the phone. "This is Agent Ward."
"Agent Ward." Kane's voice is measured. Professional. But there's an edge underneath. "Alex trusts you. That's worth something. But I need to know—are you FBI first, or are you with us?"
The question cuts to the core of everything. Who am I? What do I believe? Where do my loyalties lie?
Twenty-four hours ago, the answer would have been simple. I'm FBI. Always.
But that was before everything I believed in tried to kill me.
"I'm with him," I say. The words come out steady. Certain. "The Committee tried to have me executed. Patterson set me up. I want answers, and I want justice. If that means helping Alex and Echo Ridge, then that's what I'm doing."
Another pause. Then: "Good enough. For now." Kane's voice shifts, becomes tactical. "We'll move on your position once we have coordinates. Until then, stay dark. Trust no one. And Agent Ward?"
"Yes?"
"Keep him alive. We need him."
The call ends. Handing the phone back to Alex, and our eyes meet in the darkness. His expression is unreadable—relief, maybe, or calculation. Probably both.
"So," I say. "What's extraction protocol Delta-Seven?"
"The kind that gets messy." He closes his eyes. "Get some rest, Delaney. Tomorrow we run."
I look at the blood on my hands. His blood. The stolen tactical truck outside. The burner phone connecting me to operators the government calls terrorists. The fugitive bleeding on this couch who I just promised to protect.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was Special Agent Delaney Ward, FBI. Eight years of service. Unblemished record.
Now I'm something without a name or classification. Something that doesn't fit in the neat boxes I've built my career around.
My FBI credentials sit in my pocket. I pull them out and flip open the leather case. The badge catches the dim light. Special Agent. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
I close the case and set it on the floor beside the couch.
Because tomorrow Kane's team arrives. Echo Ridge. And when they get here, I'll have to prove I'm worth the risk Alex took by trusting me.
Outside, wind moves through the pines. Somewhere in the darkness, the Committee is regrouping. Coming for us both.
Whatever I am now, whoever I become, one thing is certain: the woman who walked into that cabin to arrest a fugitive doesn't exist anymore. She died the moment the Committee's tactical team opened fire.
What walks out tomorrow is something they'll never see coming.