Chapter 12
SARAH
Kane's office feels smaller than usual, the walls pressing in as his stare pins me to the chair across from his desk. Overhead lighting casts harsh shadows across his face, turning his expression into hard angles. Micah stands beside me, arms crossed, every line of his posture radiating focus.
We got back to Echo Base barely an hour ago. We drove through the night, reported to Kane immediately, handed over the surveillance photos and our preliminary findings. Now comes the part where he tears into us for escalating beyond our authorized scope without calling for backup.
"You want to explain," Kane says, voice level and flat, "why you left your surveillance position to actively tail Masters into Kalispell without requesting tactical support?"
My spine straightens. "Because Masters received an encrypted Committee message and immediately left the warehouse. If we'd stopped to coordinate backup, we would have lost him."
"So you made a tactical decision." It's not a question. Kane's fingers tap once against the desk surface. "To pursue an active target. Into an urban environment. Without tactical support or extraction protocols."
"We had protocols." Micah's voice is steady. "Extraction routes, emergency signals, secure communications."
Kane's gaze cuts to him. "You were operating alone. Two operators, one vehicle, tracking a potentially hostile asset into terrain where Committee response teams could intercept. If they'd boxed you in somewhere without forest cover, you'd be dead or captured right now."
The words land with precision because they're true. We came close. Too close. The SUVs had us bracketed on the highway, and if I hadn't driven like physics was optional, we might not have made it to the forest service roads.
If Micah hadn't mapped every extraction route before we left the cabin, we wouldn't have known which turns to take.
"But we're not dead," I say. "We're here with proof that the Committee knows we're investigating their intelligence network. We identified a compromised communication channel. We have surveillance photos of Victoria Cross making contact with Masters."
Kane leans back in his chair. "Cross." His voice goes flat in a way that suggests he's processing something he doesn't want to believe. "You're telling me she met with a compromised warehouse supervisor."
"We have photos." Micah pulls up the images on his tablet, turns the screen toward Kane. "She picked up a package from Masters at the coffee shop. Dead drop, clean execution. Committee communications activated moments after she left."
Studying the images, Kane's expression doesn't shift. Command has taught him to process information without revealing reaction. "You verified her identity?"
"Facial recognition confirmed." My laptop sits on Kane's desk, showing the database match. "It's Cross."
Kane closes the tablet, sets it aside. His jaw tightens. "So we caught her doing exactly what she's always claimed she wouldn't do."
Ice spreads through my chest. "You think she's playing the Committee?"
"I think Cross is a professional who survives by knowing which information to sell and which to withhold." Kane's fingers steeple, elbows resting on his desk. "She's warned us before. Sold us solid intelligence. If she's suddenly meeting their assets, there's a reason."
Micah shifts beside me. "You think she's running her own game."
"I think we don't have enough information to draw conclusions." Kane looks at me, and his expression changes. Sharpens. "Which brings me back to the real question. Why did you decide to investigate alone without briefing the team?"
He's not just asking about operational protocols. He's asking why I trusted Micah's assessment enough to leave our secure position and pursue an active target, why I didn't call Dylan or Stryker for support before we escalated.
"Because time was critical." My voice stays level even though defensive anger starts building in my chest. "Masters received that encrypted message and moved immediately.
The Committee was activating counter-surveillance.
If we'd waited to coordinate backup, we would have lost the opportunity to identify who he was meeting. "
"You're right." Kane won't accept a lie. "We could have called for backup. Should have. But Masters was moving fast, and we made the call to pursue immediately."
"You trusted his judgment." Kane's voice is neutral, but his eyes are anything but. "Made the call to pursue an active target without support."
Beside me, Micah's breathing is steady, measured. He's not moving, not speaking, letting me handle this confrontation. But Kane is pulling something into the light that neither of us wants examined.
"I trusted his intelligence analysis," I correct. "Masters was compromised. The Committee was running counter-surveillance. Those were facts worth acting on."
"And you thought you could handle field surveillance without backup." It's not a question. "Prove you didn't need Dylan or Stryker watching your six."
The words land because there's truth in them. I did want to prove I could handle it. That I wasn't just the analyst who stays behind screens while others take the risks.
"We got results." My hands grip the chair arms. "We identified Cross's connection to Masters. We confirmed the Committee is running active counter-surveillance on their intelligence network. We have proof they know we're investigating."
"You got lucky." Kane's words land flat and hard. "Committee response teams had you bracketed on the highway. If you hadn't been able to lose them in rough terrain, you'd be compromised right now."
The forest service roads, my driving, Micah's advance planning—all of it came together at the exact moment we needed it to. It was luck, not strategy.
"You're right," I say again, pushing past pride. "We took unnecessary risks. We should have had backup. We should have followed proper protocols."
"But you didn't." Kane's expression doesn't soften. "Because you trusted Ghost's warning enough to act on instinct instead of procedure."
I did. I trusted Micah's assessment, I investigated immediately instead of following protocol, and some part of me wanted to work with him again—wanted to fall back into the operational rhythm we had in DC.
But saying that out loud means acknowledging the connection still exists, that two years of silence and anger haven't severed what we built.
"I made a judgment call," I say finally.
"It paid off. We have intelligence the Committee is hunting through their network for our warehouse operations.
We know Victoria Cross is involved, even if we don't understand her angle yet.
We identified compromised communication channels that need to be secured. "
Kane considers this, silent for a long moment.
Then he nods once. "Fine. You have authorization to continue the investigation.
But from this point forward, you operate with backup protocols.
Dylan shadows any field operations. Stryker provides tactical support.
No more field surveillance without backup. "
Relief mixes with frustration. Authorization to continue means we can keep tracking the leak, keep building the case against whoever's feeding the Committee information. But adding backup means slower response times, more coordination, less flexibility.
"Understood," Micah says before I can respond. "We'll bring Dylan and Stryker in on any field work."
"Good." Kane shifts his attention between us. "Now brief me properly. Everything you learned, every detail you observed. I want full operational breakdown."
The briefing takes time. Micah explains how he identified Masters's communication patterns, the encrypted message suggesting Committee counter-surveillance, the decision to track him to Kalispell.
I detail the coffee shop meeting, Cross's dead drop pickup, the Committee communications activating immediately after.
Kane asks pointed questions about timing, about Cross's movements, about the SUVs that pursued us.
He wants tactical specifics, details we might have missed, anything that could indicate whether Cross is working for the Committee or running her own intelligence game.
Why would an independent broker with her reputation risk meeting directly with a compromised warehouse supervisor?
By the time we finish, my throat is dry and fatigue pulls at the edges of my focus. We drove through the night, ran surveillance yesterday, barely slept at the safehouse before heading back. Adrenaline kept me functional during the chase and the initial debrief, but now it's fading fast.
"Get some rest," Kane says, dismissing us. "I'll review the surveillance photos, run Cross's recent activity through our intelligence networks. We reconvene later to discuss next steps."
Micah and I leave the office in silence. The hallway outside is empty, most of the team probably in the training facilities or running their own operations. Recessed lighting runs along the ceiling, illuminating the concrete walls in steady, artificial white.
We walk without speaking, falling into stride the way we used to in DC. My body remembers the rhythm, the way Micah's longer legs adjust to match my pace, the comfortable silence that doesn't require filling with conversation.
It shouldn't feel natural. It should feel awkward, tense, weighted with everything that's broken between us. Instead it feels like muscle memory, trained response that bypasses conscious thought.
"Kane was right," Micah says as we reach the corridor junction. "We took unnecessary risks."
"We got results." But my voice lacks conviction.
"We got lucky." He stops walking, turns to face me. "If those SUVs had caught us on a straight road, if the Committee had positioned assets differently, we'd be dead or captured. Kane's right to question the decision."
Frustration builds in my chest. "So you're saying we shouldn't have investigated?"