Page 2 of Echo: Spark
The line goes dead. Dutch understands the economics of loyalty—some debts can't be measured in money, only in the willingness to answer when brotherhood calls from the shadows.
I move with purpose now, months of careful routine exploding into focused action. The warehouse transforms from sanctuary to supply depot, every piece of equipment selected with lethal intent. The primary rifle, a suppressed HK416 thathas whispered death across three continents, slides into the bed of the truck. Secondary weapons follow—Glock 19 with extended magazines that hold promises of violence, combat knife sharp enough to part reality, flash-bangs that might be three months past expiration but will still turn night into temporary day.
The tactical vest settles across my shoulders, weight even and steady, every piece set where memory can reach it when everything turns to chaos. Magazine pouches filled, checked, filled again. Medical kit with enough supplies to handle gunshot wounds, sucking chest wounds, the kinds of trauma that happen when professionals try to kill each other, because optimism is for people who don't know Brennan's reputation for leaving bodies that tell stories.
Each piece of equipment gets inspected twice, stored memory and conscious thought working in parallel, fingers confirming what eyes have already verified. The truck—a ten-year-old Ford that looks like every other truck in Montana but has a rebuilt engine that could outrun anything short of a helicopter, suspension modified for weight, armor plating hidden behind factory paint. Extra fuel cans strapped down. Spare weapons cached under the seats. Three different routes programmed into the GPS, none of them direct, all of them accounting for pursuit by men who kill for money.
The photograph goes into my chest pocket, behind the armor plate, Crete watching over me or me carrying them forward. The distinction stopped mattering months ago when survival became its own kind of haunting.
Four hours later, I sit in the truck two miles outside Whitefish, engine running, watching the sun sink behind the mountains like the world bleeding out. The radio scanner cycles through local frequencies—police, fire, emergency services. All quiet, which means Brennan has them locked down or paid off.Probably both. Professional courtesy extended with enough cash to ensure blind eyes and deaf ears.
Dutch's text arrives exactly on schedule, terse and professional: "Fireworks in sixty seconds."
I count them down, eyes on the horizon, heartbeat steady as a metronome. At zero, the sky ignites orange three miles south, a flower of destruction blooming against the night. The blast rolls across the valley like thunder, followed by two more in quick succession—Dutch’s signature excess turned into the art of distraction. He never understood the concept of subtle, but he’s always grasped the meaning of effective.
The scanner erupts in electronic frenzy. Every unit responding, all hands to what sounds like a propane facility unraveling in fire, voices crackling with urgency and confusion. Which means the lumber mill sits empty except for the men who matter, the ones who won’t abandon their posts for anything less than an apocalypse.
I drive without headlights, following roads I memorized on satellite imagery six hours ago, each curve and grade etched into memory. The mill looms ahead, corrugated metal and rusted beams catching the moonlight, casting shadows that whisper of industry’s death. Abandoned for five years, slowly yielding to Montana winters and wildlife, nature patient in its reclamation of man’s ambitions.
Except for the vehicles tucked into shadows like predators waiting. Professional positioning—overlapping fields of fire, escape routes covered, no angle left unguarded. I count six, maybe seven, dark shapes that don't belong to the landscape. Brennan's running this like a military operation because that's what it is, war fought with corporate efficiency and mercenary precision. The trap isn't even disguised, just patient, confident in its own lethality.
I park the truck behind a collapsed equipment shed, positioned for rapid extraction, engine facing the escape route. The HK416 comes up smooth, optic already dialed for the mill's engagement distances, scope adjusted for the specific ballistics of death at range. I move into the maze of machinery and timber, each footfall calculated for silence, boots finding purchase on surfaces that won't betray my presence.
The mill tells its story in rust and rot, the archaeology of abandonment. Conveyor belts frozen mid-motion like time stopped in the middle of purpose. Saw blades the size of wagon wheels hanging like medieval weapons, steel teeth that once carved forests into lumber. The air tastes of old wood and motor oil, decay settled into every surface like the breath of ghosts, the lingering presence of men who once worked here when the mill meant life instead of death.
Movement in my peripheral vision. I freeze, rifle tracking to a shadow that resolves into a man in tactical gear, night vision goggles pushed up on his forehead. Professional stance, quality equipment that speaks of serious money. Brennan doesn't hire amateurs, doesn't trust his reputation to anyone who might flinch when the shooting starts. The man moves past, unaware, following a patrol pattern that speaks of military training corrupted by easy money and moral flexibility.
I ghost deeper into the mill, mapping positions with the tactical awareness that has kept me alive through a dozen wars. Eight hostiles minimum, probably more watching approaches I can't see. They've set up kill zones at natural chokepoints, turning the mill's architecture into a shooting gallery, every doorway a potential grave. Smart, if you're expecting someone to come in hot and stupid, relying on speed instead of precision.
The office sits in the mill's center, elevated on a platform that provides commanding views of the main floor, a throne room of industrial decay. Light leaks through boarded windows—Coleman lanterns, maybe flashlights, the soft glow of men confident in their security. Voices carry on the cold air, too distant to make out words but the tone is clear. Casual. Confident. They calculate they have time to make Stryker suffer before they kill him.
I circle wide, using a maintenance ladder that groans but holds my weight, rust flaking under my hands. The platform offers a different angle, showing me what the main approach would hide, revealing the kill zone's true geometry. Two shooters positioned specifically to catch anyone coming for the office, angles calculated to create a crossfire that would turn rescue into suicide. Another team covering the rear exit, escape routes sealed by professional paranoia.
But they're watching for an assault, not an infiltration. Watching for desperation, not patience.
The office door hangs askew on broken hinges, a mouth opened in permanent surprise. Through the gap, I see them. Stryker slumped in a metal chair, zip tied in place, his head bowed and blood staining his shirt in mute testimony to questions asked with fists. Still breathing, the rise and fall steady if slow, chest moving with the persistence of a man too stubborn to die easily. And Tommy crouched in the corner behind an overturned desk, clutching his laptop to his chest like a shield. His eyes are wide with the raw terror of a man who knows exactly how much he’s worth dead.
Two guards inside. One standing, one sitting. The standing one has sergeant stripes on his sleeve, the kind of NCO who calculates he's harder than he is, who mistakes brutality for competence. The sitting one looks bored, checking his phone, already mentally spending his share of the bounty.
I breathe out, steadying my heartbeat, forcing my pulse into the rhythm that means accuracy, that means the differencebetween rescue and massacre. The suppressed rifle comes up smooth, stock settling against my shoulder like coming home.
The sergeant drops first, suppressed round taking him center mass before his brain processes the glass breaking, before surprise can become alarm. The sitting guard manages half a turn before the second round puts him down, muzzle flash hidden by the suppressor's bulk. Both clean, both quiet enough that the exterior teams won't notice for precious seconds, won't realize their trap has become someone else's hunting ground.
I flow through the door like water finding its level, rifle sweeping corners before focusing on Stryker, on the man who pulled me from the rubble when the world tried to bury me alive.
"Stryker."
Nothing but the sound of labored breathing.
"Stryker." Louder, risk be damned, friendship is worth more than tactical silence.
Bloodshot eyes crack open, struggling to focus through pain and alcohol, through whatever they did to him in the chair. Recognition flickers slowly, like a computer booting through damaged circuits, memory fighting through chemical fog and physical trauma.
I lean close, breath against Stryker's ear, voice carrying across years and continents: "Mosul."
Something shifts in Stryker’s eyes, the drunk falling away like a discarded mask, replaced by instincts drilled deeper than the bottle, deeper than despair. He straightens as much as the restraints allow, spine finding its military bearing despite everything.
My knife parts the zip ties in two smooth cuts, the plastic parting like it’s made of hope instead of polymer. Stryker's hands come free, shaking but functional, fingers flexing as circulation returns. He gets to his feet unsteadily, grabbing thechair for balance. He's moving, he's vertical, he's alive in all the ways that matter.
