Chapter 13
MICAH
Sleep doesn't come. I lie in my quarters staring at the ceiling, mind running tactical scenarios and threat assessments on a loop.
Reeve auditing Committee intelligence assets means the window for approaching Masters is shrinking.
Cross warning us about the timeline means she either wants us to succeed or wants us to rush into a trap.
Hours after Kane dismissed us, I give up on rest and head to the operations center.
The base is quiet this time of day, most of the team either sleeping off missions or training in the facility's lower levels.
Somewhere in the corridors, Odin's tags would be jingling softly as he made his rounds with whoever had security duty.
The Malinois took his job seriously—Kane had joked once that the dog had better operational awareness than half the team.
Emergency lighting casts the corridors in muted blue, turning concrete walls into something that feels more like a bunker than a headquarters.
Sarah is already at her workstation when I arrive. I shake my head. Why did I expect less? She runs on caffeine and stubbornness when operations demand it, sleep becoming optional until the mission resolves. I've seen it enough since I joined Echo Ridge to recognize the pattern.
She doesn't look up when I enter. Her screens display satellite imagery of northwestern Montana, grid patterns overlaying topographical maps, searching for something specific, analyzing terrain with the methodical precision that made her one of NSA's best signals intelligence analysts before the Committee burned her.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I move to the adjacent workstation, pulling up my own analysis of Reeve's recent movements.
"Too much coffee. Too many variables." She highlights a section of map, expands the resolution. "Thought I'd start mapping Reeve's search pattern. If Cross is right about him running security audits in the Pacific Northwest, we need to know how close he's getting to Echo Base."
I pull up the intelligence file Tommy compiled on Reeve's known movements over the past month.
Hotel receipts, rental car records, credit card transactions create a trail through Washington, Idaho, and into Montana.
The Committee usually scrubs this kind of digital footprint, but Reeve operates with enough confidence in his operational security that he doesn't bother with complete anonymity.
Arrogance that comes from years of success and the Committee's protection, the kind that creates vulnerabilities if you know how to exploit them.
"He's been working a grid pattern." I overlay his movements on Sarah's topographical display. "He started from Spokane, moved east through Coeur d'Alene, then north into Montana. Each stop corresponds to locations where the Committee has intelligence assets or operational interests."
Sarah studies the pattern, fingers drumming against her desk. "He's eliminating possibilities, testing each asset's security, verifying no one's been compromised. It's systematic."
"And thorough." I trace the trajectory of his movements. "Weeks ago he was in western Idaho. More recently, he was in Missoula. Last week, Kalispell. He's working his way through the entire regional network."
Weight settles between us. Reeve doesn't know Echo Base's exact coordinates, but he came close enough weeks ago to make Kane nervous.
Close enough that he should have investigated the gap in Committee activity in this area.
Instead, he walked away. That's why Kane sent me after him—to figure out if he's genuinely unaware or just gathering intelligence before making another pass.
"You think he'll come back?" Sarah's voice is clinical, analytical, but tension shows in the set of her shoulders.
"Weeks. Maybe less if he accelerates the audit schedule.
" I pull up terrain analysis around Echo Base's location.
"We're positioned in an area with minimal Committee activity, which is why we've stayed hidden this long.
But if Reeve starts investigating why there's a gap in their intelligence network here, he could figure it out. "
Sarah's screens shift, pulling up different data streams—communications intercepts, financial transactions, travel records. She's building a comprehensive picture of Reeve's movements, looking for patterns in his methodology.
"We need to know who he's meeting with, which assets he's auditing, which contacts he's verifying.
" She opens an encrypted communication program.
"I have a colleague at NSA who can access satellite imagery without flagging it in official channels.
If we can get overhead surveillance of Reeve's recent meetings, we might identify his contacts and predict his next moves. "
She's reaching out to her old network—the intelligence community she was part of before the Committee burned her cover and forced her underground, the world she navigated while I was deep in Committee operations, unreachable and silent.
"You trust this colleague?" The question comes out more carefully than intended.
"I trust him to be discrete and not ask questions I can't answer." She types rapidly, composing a message in careful phrasing that requests help without revealing operational details. "He owes me. I helped him identify a Russian intelligence operation two years ago that saved his career."
Two years ago, when her world came apart, when I was buried so deep in Committee networks that the outside world ceased to exist, when Sarah was fighting for her life and reaching out to contacts who could help because I couldn't.
She sends the message, encrypted and routed through multiple servers to obscure the origin point. Then she leans back in her chair, waiting for a response with the patience operations demand.
"How long until he replies?" I ask.
"Depends on his shift schedule. Could be minutes, could be hours.
" She pulls up different data, analyzing Committee financial transactions for patterns.
"While we wait, we should map every asset Reeve has audited so far, build a profile of his methodology, figure out what criteria he's using to select targets. "
We work in silence for a while, comfortable quiet that used to define our partnership.
She handles signals intelligence and financial analysis.
I focus on operational patterns and tactical assessment.
Our skill sets complement each other, filling gaps in analysis that neither of us could manage alone.
This is what we were good at, what we built together before silence and betrayal and two years of absence destroyed it.
Sarah's computer chimes. An encrypted message appears on her screen with careful anonymity that suggests professional intelligence work. She reads it, types a response, engages in the brief back-and-forth that establishes secure communication protocols.
"He can access the satellite imagery." She pulls up a secure file transfer interface. "Sending coordinates for Reeve's known locations over the past month. Should have overhead surveillance within the hour."
"Will he ask questions about why you need this?" The risk assessment matters. Every contact outside Echo Ridge represents potential exposure, potential compromise if the Committee has penetrated more intelligence networks than we realize.
"He'll wonder. But he won't push." Sarah's fingers pause over the keyboard. "We have history. He knows I left NSA under circumstances that required discretion."
Her phrasing is careful, but something in her tone suggests history I don't know about, relationships that existed while I was gone.
The file transfer interface shows progress bars loading satellite imagery. High-resolution overhead surveillance of locations across the Pacific Northwest, time-stamped and geotagged with the precision intelligence agencies demand—Sarah pulls up the first image, expanding it across her displays.
Kalispell, Montana—the coffee shop parking lot where Masters met Cross. The image captures vehicles, pedestrians, building details sharp enough to identify faces if you know what you're looking for.
"There." Sarah highlights a figure exiting a dark sedan. "That's Reeve. Time stamp puts this after our surveillance of Masters."
The man in the image fits Reeve's profile—mid-forties, fit build suggesting military or law enforcement background, moving with the controlled awareness that marks professional operators.
He's meeting someone outside a restaurant, casual conversation that looks innocuous but carries the weight of intelligence tradecraft.
"Can you identify his contact?" I zoom in on the second figure, running facial recognition through Echo Ridge's database.
Sarah's already working the problem, pulling up comparison images and biometric analysis. "Running it now. Might take a few minutes depending on database depth."
While facial recognition processes, I examine the other satellite images of Reeve's movements over the past month, each location capturing him meeting different contacts.
Some faces are familiar from Committee intelligence files.
Others are unknown, potentially new assets or contractors the Committee recruited recently.
"Got a match." Sarah pulls up a personnel file. "Luis Cordova. Former Army intelligence, discharged years ago under circumstances that suggest disciplinary action. Current employment listed as security consultant, but financial records show irregular income patterns consistent with contract work."
"Committee asset." I study Cordova's file, noting the gaps in his employment history that suggest covert operations. "Probably running logistics or surveillance for them in this region."