Page 17 of Echo: Spark
"She's a veterinarian." The scarred one's voice carries dismissal.
"She's a witness," the wild one counters. "To whatever that dog detected."
"She's here now." The cold one states it like mathematics. "Which makes her our problem or theirs."
Odin breaks the standoff by walking directly to the teenager. The boy freezes, then slowly extends one hand. Odin sniffs, considers, then pushes his massive head under those careful fingers. The first real emotion crosses the kid's face—wonder mixed with ancient grief.
"His name is Odin," I hear myself say. "He likes people who understand loss."
The boy's eyes snap to mine, too old for his face. "Khalid," he offers with deliberate precision, fingers gentle in Odin's fur. "He's beautiful."
"Military working dog," the scarred one observes. "Explosives detection by the training stance."
"Chemical weapons detection," I correct, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice. "Based on his reaction patterns and what I found in his blood work."
That gets their attention. The cold one steps forward. "What kind of chemicals?"
"Organophosphate compounds. Nerve agent precursors. Nothing that should exist outside military facilities." I meet his stare without flinching. Dad trained me to stand up to dangerous men. "The burns on his paws had trace elements I've only read about in veterinary military medicine journals."
"Christ," the scarred one mutters. "The dog's evidence."
"The dog's a target," Kane corrects, pressing gauze against his head wound. "Just like her now."
I move toward him with my medical bag. "Let me look at that."
"I'm fine."
"You're dripping blood on tactical equipment. Sit down."
The command comes out exactly like Dad's did—no room for argument. Kane blinks, then actually complies. The other men exchange glances I can't read.
I clean the wound with practiced efficiency, skill honed on a thousand animals who couldn’t tell me where it hurt. My hands stay steady even as my mind races. These men aren’t criminals—the organization screams military. But they’re not official either. They’re something caught between, like Odin was between death and my stubborn refusal to let him go.
"You need stitches," I tell Kane. "The wound's too deep for butterflies."
"Then stitch it."
I pull out suture supplies, grateful for something familiar. "This will hurt."
"Had worse."
The scarred one laughs—dark and bitter. "Haven't we all."
"Stryker," Kane says by way of introduction. "The cheerful one is Mercer. Tall, dark, and scary is Rourke."
"Former operators," I guess, starting the first suture. Kane doesn't flinch. "Burned by your own people. Now hunted by this Committee."
"Smart lady," Mercer approves, still watching from his perimeter position.
"Smart enough to know I'm in over my head." I tie off the second suture with steady hands. "But not smart enough to run when I had the chance."
"Why didn't you?" Rourke asks, genuine curiosity breaking through his cold assessment.
I calculate the question while finishing Kane's stitches. Why didn't I run when the sheriff told me to forget what Odin found? Why didn't I disappear when anonymous calls started threatening me? Why did I drive into gunfire instead of away from it?
"Because Dad didn't raise me to abandon people who need help." I tie off the last suture. "Even if those people are trained killers hiding in a mountain."
An encrypted phone buzzes, cutting through the tension. Stryker answers, his face darkening as he listens. He puts it on speaker.
