Page 14 of Echo: Burn
She nods, exhaustion finally showing around her eyes. The adrenaline is wearing off, and reality is going to hit her hard when it does. Killing someone—even in self-defense, even when they're trying to kill you—leaves marks that don't show up on x-rays.
I watch her disappear deeper into the bunker, then turn to find Stryker waiting with that knowing look that makes me want to punch him.
"Don't," I say.
"Didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"Can't arrest a man for his thoughts." He grins, but it fades quick. "She did good out there, Kane. Real good. Most civilians would've frozen."
"She's not most civilians." I move past him toward the command center, needing distance and coffee in equal measure. "Get Mercer and Rourke. I want a full tactical review before Tommy briefs us on Protocol Seven."
"Already done. They're waiting in the war room."
Of course they are. My team doesn't need micromanaging. They know the drill, know what comes after contact with the Committee. We've been playing this game long enough that the moves are instinctive.
The war room is exactly what it sounds like—a carved-out chamber in the mine shaft that houses our tactical operations. Maps cover every wall, digital displays showing satellite feeds, police scanners picking up chatter from six counties. Tommy sits at the main console, fingers flying across three keyboards like a concert pianist on amphetamines.
"Status," I say, pouring coffee that's been sitting too long but still beats nothing.
"Committee's pulled back to regroup." Tommy doesn't look up from his screens. "Counted twelve hostiles total. You dropped seven. The rest scattered when the storm got worse."
"They'll be back."
"With more men." Mercer leans against the wall, arms crossed. The sniper always stands near exits, old habits from too many close calls. "They know we're here now. Know someone's protecting the vet and the dog."
"They don't know where 'here' is," Rourke corrects from his corner. He's got that feral energy he gets after firefights, needing to move, needing to act. "We kept them half a mile out. Far as the Committee knows, we could be anywhere in a ten-mile radius."
"Which buys us time." I drain the coffee, tasting bitter grounds. "Tommy, what do we know about Protocol Seven?"
His expression goes dark. He's twenty-three but looks younger, all nervous energy and genius-level intellect that the Committee tried to weaponize before he ran. He's been with us for nine months, and his intel has kept us alive more times than I can count.
"Protocol Seven is the Committee's scorched earth contingency." Tommy pulls up files on the main screen—classified documents, intercepted communications, kill lists with names and photos. "They activate it when operational security is compromised. Everyone who knows too much, everyone who's seen too much, everyone who's even peripherally involved gets marked for termination."
"How many names on the current list?" Stryker asks.
"Forty-seven as of two hours ago." Tommy's voice goes quieter. "Dr. Hart's name is number twelve."
The room goes silent.
I knew it was coming. The second she saved that dog, the second Odin alerted on whatever chemical signature hedetected, she became a liability. The Committee doesn't leave loose ends. They tie them off with bullets and shallow graves.
"Tell me about the dog," I say.
Tommy switches screens. Military working dog records, deployment history, training certifications. "Odin. Belgian Malinois. Five years old. Trained in chemical weapons detection at Ridgeway Air Force Base. Deployed to Syria for eighteen months, then Afghanistan for another year. Got injured in an IED blast, supposedly retired to a civilian handler."
"Supposedly?"
"The handler doesn't exist." Tommy's fingers fly across keys. "The address on record is a shell corporation front. The discharge papers are fake. Someone wanted Odin disappeared, but they wanted it to look legitimate."
"Because he knows something." Mercer straightens, interested now. "What did he detect?"
"That's the question." Tommy pulls up another file—photos of a warehouse, rural location, snow-covered mountains in the background. "Three days before Dr. Hart found him, satellite imaging caught unusual activity at a Committee facility outside Whitefish. Trucks coming and going. Heavy security. Then nothing. Complete shutdown."
"They moved something," Rourke says.
"Or they're hiding something." Stryker moves closer to the screen. "Tommy, can you get us interior layouts of that facility?"
