Chapter 5 #2
"What happened to her?" My voice sounds distant, wrong.
Webb shrugs. "Interrogation. She wasn't cooperative. Doesn't matter now. What matters is finding out if she sent intelligence to anyone before we grabbed her."
Everything tilts sideways. Interrogation. They grabbed her. Past tense.
"Where is she now?"
"Why?" Webb's eyes narrow. "You know her?"
I force Michael Hayes back into place. Bored. Curious only because it might affect my job. "No. Just wondering if this is something I need to worry about."
"You don't." Webb takes the photo back. "She's not your concern. I just wanted you aware we're tightening security protocols. Anyone asking questions about our operations gets flagged immediately."
I nod. I leave his office, make it back to Arlington without breaking character, make it through the door before my hands start shaking.
Then I destroy everything.
I sanitize the apartment in under an hour. Evidence drives go to dead drops, electronics get wiped and destroyed, documents burn in the kitchen sink. By the time I'm finished, there's nothing connecting Michael Hayes to the CIA operative who's been bleeding them dry.
I hit the exfil point early and wait for extraction in a safe house that smells like mildew and old violence. The smell matches the taste in my mouth, the weight in my gut. Sarah's bruised face burns behind my eyelids every time I blink.
The CIA debrief takes weeks. They're pleased with my intelligence haul, excited about the proof I've gathered, already planning their move against leadership. They ask me questions about logistics, about personnel, about operational details.
They don't ask about Sarah.
Finally they release me to a safe house outside Langley and tell me to wait while they process my intelligence and plan their operation. I wait until the handler leaves. Then I find the nearest computer terminal with external access.
Sarah Andrews. NSA. Fort Meade.
My searches come back with nothing useful. No current assignment. No recent activity. Just a personnel file that lists her as inactive, no additional details available.
I run deeper searches, cross-reference databases. References to a Baltimore operation that went wrong surface in the files. An analyst who went missing. Suspected Committee action, but no confirmation.
No confirmation means no body. No body means possibility.
I check the dead drops I established before going dark. From when we were careful and hopeful and believed we had time.
There are messages. Dozens of them. Starting early in my operation and tapering off recently.
I read them in chronological order, watching her desperation escalate with each entry.
The first few are carefully worded. Operational updates. Questions about when I'll surface. Nothing that would compromise security if intercepted.
Then they change.
Micah, I need help. Cover blown. Committee hit. Please respond.
Emergency extraction needed. Can't go through official channels. Please, Micah.
Gabe's missing. They took him. I can't do this alone. Please, Micah. Please.
The timestamps show me exactly what I missed. They show me the exact moment she stopped believing I'd answer.
The last message is dated weeks ago. Just two words.
Never mind.
I sit in the safe house and stare at the screen until the text blurs.
The handler comes back with paperwork for me to sign. Debriefing complete. Mission accomplished. They're moving against the organization within the month, and my intelligence made it possible.
"What about the NSA analyst?" I ask.
He looks confused. "Which one?"
"Sarah Andrews. Baltimore operation. Hit by the Committee."
"Oh." Recognition dawns. "She's alive. Pulled herself out, apparently.
Reckless and undertrained, but she got lucky.
" His mouth tightens. "She's with Echo Ridge now.
That whole circus. They operate outside the chain of command and call it heroics.
No oversight, no accountability. It's a liability dressed up as legend, and a threat to every legitimate operation in the field. "
Relief hits, sharp and unexpected, but I keep it off my face. Sarah's alive. That's what matters. Everything else—Echo Ridge, the handler's contempt, the professional implications—I can deal with later.
The handler gives me a look I can't quite read. "You know her?"
"Used to." Past tense. Because whatever we were died while I was playing spy in their network. "Good to know she made it out."
"Yeah." He hands me the paperwork. "Sign here, here, and here. You're cleared for reassignment. Take some time, decompress, let us know when you're ready to get back to work."
I sign where he indicates. The handler shakes my hand and congratulates me on a job well done.
All I can see is Sarah's bruised face.
I take extended leave instead of the next assignment they offer.
The official story is burnout. Long operations take a toll, they understand completely, take all the time I need. Truth is I can't face another mission knowing what the last one cost.
I try reaching out. Once. A message to the last known contact for Sarah, carefully worded to avoid compromising her if she's still operational.
It bounces back. Address inactive. No forwarding information.
She doesn't want to be found. At least not by me.
Present Day
I get a call from someone I thought was dead.
Rhett Kane. Former Delta, supposedly killed in action during a black op that went sideways. Except he's very much alive, and he's offering me something I didn't know I still wanted: purpose.
Echo Ridge. A team of burned operators fighting the same organization that destroyed lives, ruined careers, killed innocent people. Kane wants me to join them, says my experience makes me valuable.
He doesn't mention Sarah. He doesn't have to. An unspoken reality sits between us on the phone line, heavy as guilt.
She's with Echo Ridge. She has been since her escape. And if I join, I'll have to face her eventually.
I'll face the woman I abandoned when she needed me most.
I tell Kane I'll think about it. I spend days trying to convince myself to decline. I spend more days knowing I won't.
Because the mission isn't finished. They're still operating, still hurting people, still need to be stopped. And if I can do that, if I can help protect the team that Sarah has apparently found family with, maybe I can balance the scales slightly.
I call Kane back and accept.
He tells me to come to Montana, gives me coordinates to a location that officially doesn't exist, and says the team will brief me on current operations and get me integrated into their network.
He says Sarah knows I'm coming.
That last part stops me. "How'd she take it?"
Kane's quiet for a long moment. "She's professional. She'll work with you."
Professional. Not happy. Not forgiving.
The flight to Montana gives me too much time to think. To plan what I'll say when I see her. To imagine scenarios, none of them good.
By the time I land, I've given up on planning. There's no script for this. No training that covers facing someone you failed when they needed you most.
The coordinates lead me to a mountainside that looks like nothing special until I get close enough to see the concealed entrance. Echo Base. Hidden facility, state-of-the-art security, exactly what burned operators would build if they wanted to wage war on the people who betrayed them.
I approach the entrance with my credentials in hand and my heart somewhere in my throat. The comm system crackles to life, and the voice that comes through is professional. Controlled. Voice I remember from late nights and careful conversations, except now it's wrapped in ice.
"Ghost, you're clear to enter. Welcome to Echo Base."
Sarah. Alive. Safe. Here.
I can hear the hatred in every syllable.
I key the comm. "Copy. Coming in."
The blast door opens with a hiss of hydraulics. My jaw locks. I keep my hands steady on my gear, heartbeat anything but, and step inside.