REAGAN
The park is deserted at eleven PM, exactly as my source promised.
I adjust my camera, checking the telephoto lens for the third time. Nervous habit. Bad habit. The kind that gets investigative journalists caught by the people they're investigating.
My name is Reagan Mitchell, and I'm about to either break the biggest story of my career or get myself killed. Possibly both.
The source called himself "Cipher"—original—and claimed he had proof of an off-the-books military operation.
Black site funding, unsanctioned missions, government officials involved at the highest levels.
He'd sent me documents, surveillance photos, financial records.
All pointing to something called "Echo Ridge. "
Problem is, Echo Ridge doesn't exist. No paper trail, no budget allocations, no congressional oversight. Just whispers in dark corners and bodies that pile up when you ask too many questions.
I asked anyway.
Headlights sweep across the parking lot. Black SUV, tinted windows, government plates. My pulse kicks. This is it—either confirmation or elimination.
The driver's door opens. A man steps out—tall, dark hair, eyes that scan the perimeter with professional paranoia. Military bearing, definitely armed, absolutely dangerous.
He's not my source. My source was civilian, nervous, desperate to get the story out.
This man is something else entirely.
I zoom in with the camera, snap photos in rapid succession. Get his face, his vehicle, his—
He turns, looks directly at me.
Shit.
I'm a hundred yards away in darkness. He shouldn't be able to see me. But he's staring right at my position like I'm lit up with a spotlight.
Then he smiles. Not friendly. Predatory.
He pulls out a phone, types something. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number:
Nice camera. Expensive. Would be a shame if something happened to it. Or you.
My hands shake. I lower the camera, fingers already dialing 911.
The text comes before I can hit send:
Calling the police would be a mistake. They can't protect you from people who don't exist. I can. Meet me at the fountain. Two minutes. Come alone or don't come at all.
This is insane. This is how journalists disappear.
But I'm also out of options. The Committee—the organization I've been tracking for six months—knows I'm here. If I run, they'll find me. If I hide, they'll flush me out.
Forward is the only option left.
I grab my bag, check my pepper spray, and walk toward the fountain.
The man is waiting. Up close, he's more dangerous than the photos suggested—sharp features, calculating eyes, the kind of stillness that comes from absolute confidence in violence.
"Reagan Mitchell," he says. "Investigative journalist. Graduated from Columbia, worked for the Post before going independent. Currently investigating government black ops and getting way too close to things that'll get you killed."
"Who are you?"
"Dylan Rourke." No attempt to hide his identity. Bad sign or good sign? "Former Delta Force. Currently working private security."
"Private security."
"The kind that handles problems the government can't acknowledge." He gestures to a bench. "Sit. We need to talk about what you think you know about Echo Ridge."
"I don't 'think' I know anything. I have documentation."
"You have bait. Carefully constructed to lead you exactly where they want you."
"They?"
"The Committee. The people who actually run the black sites you're investigating. They're very interested in you—and not in a good way."
My hand drifts toward the pepper spray. He notices, doesn't react.
"I'm not Committee," he says. "My team is trying to stop them. But you're making that harder by broadcasting your investigation to anyone paying attention. Including them."
"I'm a journalist. It's my job to expose—"
"You're a target." His voice hardens. "You found Echo Ridge's location. You don't even realize it yet, but that last document your source sent? It has coordinates embedded in the metadata. Coordinates to a place that absolutely cannot be compromised."
Horror creeps up my spine. "If the Committee gets those coordinates..."
"They already have them. Because you published your findings on your encrypted blog that isn't nearly as encrypted as you think.
" He stands. "So here's your choice. Come with me, help us protect what you accidentally exposed, and maybe survive the next forty-eight hours.
Or walk away, and I'll see you in the obituaries by Friday. "
"That's not a choice."
"No. It's really not."
He walks toward the parking lot. After three steps, he glances back.
"You coming, or do I tell my boss I failed to save the stupidly brave journalist who stumbled into a war she doesn't understand?"
I should call the police. Should run. Should do literally anything except follow a dangerous stranger who just threatened me.
Instead, I grab my camera bag and follow him toward the SUV.
Because he's right about one thing—I'm already in this war. I just didn't know it until now.
And I don't run from a story. Even if the story might kill me.
Especially if the story might kill me.
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