Chapter 17
ALEX
Twenty-four hours since Kane made it official. Twenty-four hours of prep, planning, and pushing down the knowledge that tomorrow we're walking into a fortress designed to kill intruders.
The safe house operations center hums with controlled preparation.
Stryker field-strips his sniper rifle at the far table, each piece laid out with precision that would make a surgeon jealous.
Rourke reviews approach vectors on the tactical display, marking kill zones and choke points in red.
Tommy's fingers dance across three keyboards simultaneously, building contingency protocols for every possible failure mode.
Sarah cross-references guard schedules against shift change patterns, looking for exploitable gaps.
Kane briefs Willa near the weapons rack.
Willa’s body armor fits properly now—sized for her smaller frame but rated for the same threats we'll face.
She listens with that veterinarian's focus that translates surprisingly well to tactical planning.
Questions are smart, specific. Kane answers with the respect he'd show any operator.
Delaney stands at her own workstation, organizing evidence collection equipment with the methodical attention of someone who's testified in federal court.
Camera gear. Chain-of-custody forms. Biometric scanners.
Digital storage with triple redundancy. She's treating tomorrow's raid like a crime scene investigation because that's exactly what it is—we're not just stealing data, we're building a prosecutable case.
"Your magazines are loaded backward."
Her voice pulls me from tactical assessment mode. She's moved close enough to see my gear—situational awareness improving, but still has blind spots.
"They're fine," I say.
"The rounds are facing the wrong direction in that one." Delaney points to the magazine on my left. "Unless you plan to shoot bullets out of your gun backward."
I look down. She's right. The magazine is loaded correctly for insertion but I set it on the table reversed. Minor detail that wouldn't matter except it proves my head's not entirely in prep mode.
"Good catch," I admit.
"I've been watching you work for twenty minutes.
You've checked that same rifle three times.
Cleaned magazines that were already clean.
Reorganized gear that doesn't need reorganizing.
" She sits on the table edge, close enough I catch her scent—clean soap, dark coffee. Becoming familiar. "You're nervous."
"Concerned."
"About the mission?"
"About you being part of it."
Her jaw tightens. We've had this argument twice already in the past six hours. She's not backing down and neither am I, which means we're at tactical impasse.
"I'm going," she says. "We covered this."
"You're not an operator. If this goes sideways—"
"Then you've trained me well enough to survive. Trust me, Alex."
The words hit harder than they should. Trust. The thing that died in Syria when command ordered me to paint a target on eighteen kids. The thing that's been slowly, painfully growing back since Kane found me on that Montana ridge.
I look at her—really look, not just tactical assessment but seeing the woman who gave up everything to expose the conspiracy that's been hunting us. Who kissed me on a rooftop like the world was ending. Who fits into this team like she was always meant to be here.
"I do," I say. "Trust you. Shows in what I'm not saying more than what I am."
"Which is?"
"That you stay here. That you run backup from operations center where it's safe. That I don't have to worry about you catching a bullet meant for me."
"But you're not saying those things."
"Because I trust you know your role. Trust you've prepared for it. Trust that when tomorrow goes wrong—and it will go wrong because operations always do—you'll keep your head and do the job."
Something shifts in her expression. Softens. "That might be the most words you've strung together about feelings since I met you."
"Don't get used to it."
"Wouldn't dream of it." She slides off the table, moves close enough that we're sharing air. "For what it's worth? I trust you too. To keep me alive tomorrow. To make the hard calls. To do what needs doing even when it costs."
Her hand finds mine briefly. Squeezes once. Then she's back to organizing evidence gear like the moment didn't happen.
Tommy's workstation chimes—incoming secure transmission. He pulls it up on the main screen.
"Cross," he announces. "Updated intel package."
The team gravitates toward the display. Victoria Cross's face fills the screen in pre-recorded video, sharp and amused.
"Gentlemen. And ladies." Her eyes seem to look directly at Delaney. "Call it an investment in future business. Try not to die—I hate losing clients."
The video cuts to facility schematics. Not the outdated layouts we've been working from, but current blueprints showing recent modifications. Guard stations. Camera coverage. Server room locations. Everything we need rendered in perfect detail.
"How the hell did she get these?" Stryker breathes.
"She's Cross," Kane says, like that explains everything. It probably does.
The schematics rotate, highlighting security protocols. Guard rotation schedules down to the minute. Response time estimates. Weak points in perimeter coverage. It's comprehensive enough to cut our failure probability from "extremely likely" to merely "probable."
"This changes the approach," Rourke says, already recalculating angles. "If we hit during this twelve-minute gap in coverage, we can bypass the main checkpoint entirely."
"Server room is here." Sarah taps the screen. "Three floors underground. Two guard stations between entrance and target. But these ventilation shafts..." She traces a path. "Might be large enough."
"For you maybe," Stryker mutters. "Some of us actually have shoulders."
The planning intensifies. Kane coordinates, pulling everyone's expertise into cohesive strategy. The operation that felt suicidal an hour ago starts feeling merely dangerous. Cross's intel doesn't guarantee success, but it tips odds from impossible to survivable.
Good enough. We don't need guarantees. Just better odds than suicide.
Kane calls the brief at 1800 hours. The team assembles around the tactical display, each of us carrying the weight of what tomorrow means.
This isn't hitting a supply depot or extracting an asset.
This is assaulting Committee headquarters—the heart of the conspiracy that's been systematically murdering burned operators for years.
"Objective is simple," Kane begins. "Infiltrate Committee headquarters, access evidence servers, extract data, exfiltrate before response force arrives. We have approximately forty minutes from breach to extract before we're swimming in hostiles we can't handle."
"Approach vector?" Stryker asks.
Kane highlights the route on screen. "Underground maintenance access. Cross's intel shows it's checked during shift change but not actively monitored. We go in at 0600 during rotation gap. Tommy will loop security feeds. We'll have sixteen minutes before anyone notices the loop."
"Not enough time to reach servers," Rourke observes.
"Which is why we split into two teams. Rourke, you're overwatch. Find a position that covers our extract route. Stryker and I are primary assault—we clear the path and hold position. Tommy stays mobile in the van maintaining our tech access. Sarah coordinates from here."
"And us?" Delaney asks.
"You and Alex are evidence collection. You reach the servers, you pull data, you document everything according to federal standards. Chain of custody, proper procedures, whatever makes this prosecutable."
"What about security protocols on the servers?" I ask.
Tommy grins. "Already cracked their encryption. I'll have remote access once you're at the terminal. You plug in my device, I do the rest."
"Exfiltration?" Stryker asks.
"Same route we came in. If it's compromised, we have two backup routes—here and here." Kane marks them. "But those take us through more heavily monitored areas. Primary route is our best chance."
"And if we can't reach primary?" Rourke's question hangs heavy.
"Then we improvise and pray. Same as every operation."
Delaney raises her hand like she's in a classroom. Kane nods at her.
"Chain of custody requirements," she says. "We need documentation showing when data was acquired, who handled it, how it was secured. Otherwise the defense attorneys will shred it in court. I'll need time stamps, photo documentation, signed logs from everyone who touches the evidence."
"How much time?" Kane asks.
"Ten minutes. Maybe twelve if the systems are complex."
"We won't have twelve minutes."
"Then we better work fast." She meets his stare without flinching. "This evidence needs to be bulletproof. Legally, I mean. We're going through this effort, we do it right."
Kane considers. Then nods. "Agreed. Alex, you provide security while she works. Nobody gets close to those servers."
"Copy that."
The brief continues—backup plans, communication protocols, emergency extraction procedures.
Kane's thorough, walking through every contingency he can imagine.
But we all know the real test comes when reality deviates from the plan.
Plans fall apart. Always do. What matters is how we adapt when everything goes to hell.
Dinner is Echo Ridge tradition. Before major operations, we eat together. No tactical discussion, no mission talk. Just the team being human for a few hours before we potentially die tomorrow.
Stryker cooks—apparently he trained in a restaurant kitchen before joining the Rangers. The pasta is better than it has any right to be considering we're working with safe house supplies.
"So there I am," Stryker says, gesturing with his fork, "dangling from a helicopter by one hand, RPG round incoming, and my spotter's screaming coordinates in my ear like that'll help me not die."