Page 79 of Buried Past

Michael continued. "This doesn't mean it's over, but we get to push now."

Two weeks. Had it really only been two weeks since Dorian came to my door bleeding? Felt like months.

I watched his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, and how his eyes tracked movement while he listened. Still hypervigilant. Still ready to run. But there was something else now. Something that looked almost like... hope?

Damn. When had I ever seen hope on his face?

I raised an eyebrow. "What's our role?"

Michael smiled softly. "We ensure that when the dust settles, the right people are left standing."

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the display. "Alex." He moved toward the safehouse's rear exit, device already pressed to his ear. "Tell me you've got good news."

Alex's voice carried through the phone's speaker with unusual clarity—animated, rapid-fire syllables that suggested multiple crisis points requiring simultaneous coordination. His energy was unmistakable.

"—information channels established across nine major outlets—" Alex's words dissolved into static interference before clarifying again. "—source protection protocols active through Justice Department liaisons—"

Marcus stepped up beside me. Behind him, James abandoned his laptop to listen.

"—release timing synchronized with federal strike operations—" More static consumed Alex's transmission. "—international contacts briefed on backup scenarios across three allied services—"

The conversation terminated abruptly. Michael turned, saw us all in listening postures, and smirked.

"Alex says formal leaks of the intelligence on Hoyle are locked and loaded. Media organizations, internal Bureau networks, plus diplomatic contacts spanning three allied intelligence services. The moment we engage the compound, he triggers the information cascade."

Dorian whispered, "No more plausible deniability."

The strategy was elegantly brutal. Hoyle's network depended on operating in the shadows. Alex intended to incinerate their reputation instantly.

"Simultaneous information warfare," Marcus observed. "Comprehensive."

Michael corrected him. "It's not merely another part of our weapons arsenal. It's an insurance policy. If our assault operation fails, the evidence will still matter."

Dorian spoke quietly. "Media exposure means permanent visibility."

"Questions?" Michael surveyed our compact group.

We were all silent. Everyone understood our transformation—from covert maneuvering to frontal assault. Whatever transpired in the Cascades would determine how posterity remembered our choices.

Dorian reached out for my hand. "Time to see if the truth is actually stronger than bullets."

Michael checked his watch. "Gear up. We leave in thirty minutes."

Marcus's SUV swallowed five male bodies with all the grace of a vehicle designed for suburban grocery runs. I wedged myself between the passenger door and Dorian, knees pressed against the seat back, while James contorted his lanky frame into the cargo area behind us. Michael claimed the front passenger seat, maps and communication equipment spread across his lap like a mobile command center.

Everyone carried hardware—sidearms, spare magazines, trauma kits. I smiled when I saw Marcus's collection of emergency preparedness manuals wedged into the door pocket.

As we climbed in elevation, leaving the city, each mile carried us further into the wilderness, deeper than Marcus's isolated cabin. It was territory where cell coverage died and satellite surveillance grew sporadic—perfect isolation for someone who trafficked in secrets and violence.

Michael turned in his seat to address us. "Your roles require clarification. We are not primary assault personnel."

The comment hit me like a bucket of cold water. After two weeks of running and hiding, as well as seeing the impact ofyears of psychological warfare on Dorian, I'd begun to look forward to the opportunity to fight back. Support roles meant watching while other people took the lead.

It made tactical sense—fewer variables, fewer risks—but logic didn't blunt the sting. We'd spent two weeks fighting to stay alive, and now that it was time to fight back, we were ordered to stay behind the glass.

"Too recognizable," Michael explained before anyone could object. "Too emotionally invested. Ho's strike teams will handle the direct engagement with compound security. Our assignment involves perimeter control, evacuation coordination for survivors, and contingency response if federal assets get compromised."

James attempted to stretch in the cargo area, joints crackling audibly. "So, we're the adult supervision."

---