Chapter 6 #2
I lose myself in the patterns—communication frequency, timing of requests, content analysis, cross-referencing with known Committee operations to identify potential correlation.
It's methodical work, painstaking, the kind of analysis that can take hours and produce nothing or reveal a thread that unravels an entire network.
I can't afford to miss anything. Every transmission gets logged. Every request gets documented. Every anomaly gets flagged for deeper analysis.
Hours later, I have a preliminary list. Several external contacts who've received operational intelligence in the past quarter.
Victoria Cross tops the list, which isn't surprising.
We use her services regularly. She's our primary intelligence broker, the woman who gave me the intel I needed to find the team after I escaped the Committee ambush in Baltimore.
But that's also the problem—she knew how to find us, knew enough to point me here when I was desperate and alone.
Even if it worked out, even if Kane accepted me onto the team, Victoria proved she's willing to compromise our location when it serves her purposes.
And the timing of some transmissions bothers me now. Requests for information that align too closely with Committee operations. Questions about Echo Base security that seemed routine at the time but look suspicious in retrospect. Every pattern I know how to read is telling me something's wrong.
A handful of federal contacts who've been briefed on our activities.
All burned operators, all with grudges against the system.
But grudges can be leveraged. Promises can be made.
People can be turned. I've seen it happen.
Hell, I've helped make it happen back when I wore an NSA badge and believed the system worked.
Equipment suppliers with access to our secure communication protocols round out the list. They'd need technical expertise to exploit that access, but it's not impossible. The Committee has resources. They could recruit specialists, plant malware, create backdoors we haven't detected yet.
I'm compiling a secondary analysis, cross-referencing communication timestamps with Committee operational activity, when footsteps echo in the corridor outside the comms hub.
The sound cuts through my concentration like a blade. The rhythm is wrong, too measured, someone moving with deliberate quiet through a space that should be empty.
My hand moves automatically to the sidearm I keep holstered at my hip. The motion is smooth, practiced—muscle memory from months of training with the team. Dylan's voice from our first week: trust no one, assume hostile until proven otherwise.
I don't draw, just rest my palm on the grip and wait to see who's moving through Echo Base in the hours before dawn.
Kane appears in the doorway, moving with the quiet efficiency that comes from years of special operations. He's in tactical pants and a black t-shirt, hair slightly mussed like he just rolled out of bed. But his eyes are sharp, alert, taking in the scene with a single glance that misses nothing.
"Burning the midnight oil?" His voice is neutral, but his eyes are assessing, reading the situation the way he reads combat zones.
I could lie. Tell him I'm reviewing routine intercepts, make an excuse about insomnia or restless energy or any of the dozen reasons someone might be working at this hour. He might even believe it or let it go.
Instead, I meet his gaze and make a decision. "We have a problem."
Kane's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture. Alert. Ready. Team leader mode activating. "What kind of problem?"
I gesture to the monitors. "Potential intelligence leak. External network. I'm running preliminary analysis before bringing it to the team."
"Source?"
"Encrypted message from Hawthorne. Sent before he went dark while tracking Reeve."
Kane moves into the room, positioning himself where he can see the monitors without crowding my workspace. It's one of the things I appreciate about him. He never looms. Never intimidates. Just observes and processes.
"What did it say?"
"Reeve knows operational details about Echo Base he shouldn't have access to. Information that suggests someone in our external network is compromised."
"And you didn't alert me immediately because?"
Fair question, and one I knew was coming the moment I decided to work this alone. "Because alerting the team triggers a full security review. If there's a mole, they'll know we're looking. I wanted preliminary data before we show our hand."
Kane is quiet for a moment, studying the analysis I've compiled. His eyes move across the monitors with the same systematic precision he applies to mission planning. "How long have you been working on this?"
"Two hours. I've identified seven potential points of compromise in our external communications network."
"Send me the list." He pulls out his phone. "I'll have Tommy start a deep forensic analysis. Quiet. No external alerts."
Relief hits sharp and unexpected, loosening the knot between my shoulder blades that's been there since I saw Micah's message. I was prepared for pushback, for questions about protocol, for concerns about working solo on a security threat, for Kane pulling rank and shutting me down.
Instead, he's doing exactly what I hoped—taking the information, acting on it, trusting my analysis enough to move forward without demanding explanations I'm not ready to give.
I transfer the files to his secure device, watching the progress bar creep across the screen. "Tommy should focus on communication timing. Look for patterns that align with Committee operations. Any requests for information that seem routine but could be intelligence gathering."
"Agreed." Kane pockets his phone. "How long before Hawthorne surfaces?"
The question makes my stomach clench and makes the exhaustion I've been holding at bay suddenly press down on my shoulders. "Unknown. Could be hours. Could be days. Depends on the trail."
"And when he does surface?"
"We brief him on what we've found. Work the investigation together."
Kane's eyes narrow slightly—not hostile, just observant, reading subtext. "Together. As in, you and Hawthorne. Alone."
It's not really a question, more of an observation, an acknowledgment of the thing we've all been carefully not discussing—the tension between Micah and me, the way I've been avoiding him like he's contaminated, the professional distance that's starting to affect team cohesion in ways I'd hoped weren't obvious.
Apparently they're obvious.
"Whatever's between us doesn't affect operational capability," I say, keeping my voice level even though my pulse is racing. "This is his intel. His investigation. I'm the signals analyst. We work it together because that's what the mission requires."
"Is that what you've been telling yourself?" Kane's tone isn't unkind, just direct. Cutting through bullshit the way he always does. "Because from where I'm standing, you've been operating at about sixty percent capacity since he arrived. That's not sustainable. Not for you. Not for the team."
Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks. Embarrassment mixes with anger and with the exhaustion that's been dogging me. "My work is solid. I haven't missed anything critical."
"Your work is exceptional. Same as always.
" Kane leans against the console, settling in like he's prepared to have this conversation regardless of how uncomfortable it makes me.
"But you're running yourself ragged trying to avoid one person in a facility where there's nowhere to hide.
That takes energy. Creates stress. Affects judgment even when you think it doesn't."
I want to argue, want to insist I've been handling it fine, that my personal issues aren't bleeding into my professional performance, that I'm just as sharp now as I was before Micah walked back into my life.
But Kane's right, and we both know it. I've been exhausted for ages, sleeping poorly when I sleep at all, checking schedules obsessively to make sure I'm never alone with Ghost, creating distance that's starting to look obvious to everyone on the team, operating at diminished capacity because half my energy goes into avoidance protocols.
"So what do you suggest?" I ask, hating how tired my voice sounds.
"Stop avoiding him. Work the case. Get past whatever this is so we can function as a unit." Kane straightens, movements deliberate. "I need my signals analyst operating at full capacity. Can't have that if you're spending half your energy on avoidance protocols."
"Understood."
"Good." He heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame and turns back.
"Sarah. Hawthorne's good at what he does.
Best infiltration specialist I've ever worked with.
But he's also got blind spots. History with you.
Guilt he's carrying. Don't let that compromise the investigation or the work of this team. "
"I won't."
Kane nods and disappears into the corridor, footsteps fading as he heads back toward the residential section. The sound of his retreat echoes off concrete walls, gradually swallowed by the hum of servers and the quiet click of cooling systems.
I turn back to the monitors and pull up the communication logs again. Focus on the work. On the patterns. On finding the leak before it causes damage we can't contain.
But part of my mind is already running scenarios for when Micah surfaces.
What I'll say. How I'll handle working directly with him for the first time since he arrived.
Whether I can maintain the professional distance I've been hiding behind for months, or if being in close proximity will crack the walls I've built.
The analysis takes hours more. By the time I'm finished, I know dawn is creeping over the horizon. The air smells stale, and my body aches from sitting in the same position for too long.
I have a more detailed picture now. Victoria Cross is still at the top of the list, but two of the federal contacts show suspicious patterns.
The communication timing aligns too closely with Committee operations.
The questions seemed routine but now look like intelligence gathering.
One of them requested detailed information about Echo Base security protocols weeks ago—a routine request at the time, but a warning sign now.
I save everything to the isolated server, encrypt the files with keys Kane and Dylan can access, and finally let myself lean back in the chair.
My body aches—lower back tight from poor posture, shoulders knotted with tension I haven't released in hours, eyes burning from staring at monitors until the blue light feels seared into my retinas.
But underneath the physical exhaustion is something else. A weight pressing down on my lungs that has nothing to do with the investigation and everything to do with the man currently hunting through shadows somewhere beyond these walls.
Micah will surface eventually. Ghost always does, appearing out of nowhere with intel and that quiet competence that used to make me feel safe.
And when he comes back expecting answers, I'll have to face what I've been avoiding since the moment he stepped into Echo Base.
The encrypted message is still on the isolated server. Still accessible. Still carrying protocols from when we believed in careful planning and secure communication and futures that didn't get destroyed by silence and abandonment.
I should delete it. Purge the dead drop system completely. Eliminate the connection that's supposed to be gone.
Instead, I close the monitors and head for my quarters. I'll be back in a few hours to continue the analysis. And when Micah surfaces, I'll have to face what I've been avoiding since the moment he walked into Echo Base.