Page 21 of Echo: Burn
Kane's hands flex at his sides. "If you do this, you follow my orders. Exactly. You're wearing a wire, tracking devices, and the second I say abort, you get clear. Non-negotiable."
"Negotiable," I counter. "I follow reasonable tactical orders. I wear monitoring devices. If you call abort, I'll strongly consider it."
"She's doing it again," Stryker observes. "Negotiating with the boss like he's not the boss."
"Shut up, Stryker," Kane snaps.
"Shut up, Stryker," I say at the same time.
We both stop. Kane's jaw tightens. I press my lips together to keep from smiling.
The moment breaks some of the tension. Even Sarah looks like she's fighting a grin.
"You're all nuts," Tommy mutters.
"Probably," I agree. "But we're nuts with a plan."
Kane studies me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods. "We'll discuss terms. But if this goes sideways, you'll have seconds to react. Maybe less."
"Then I'll make those seconds count." I extend my hand. "Deal?"
He takes it, his grip warm and solid. "Deal. But we do this my way. Full tactical support. And you train with us first—operational security, surveillance detection, emergency protocols."
"When do we start?"
"Now." He releases my hand. "Stryker, set up combat drills in the range. Mercer, work with her on counter-surveillance. Rourke, brief her on Committee patterns. Tommy, I want real-time monitoring on every channel."
The team moves into action. I'm swept up in it, pulled into their world of tactical preparation.
As Stryker leads me toward the range, I catch Kane watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Concern, yes. But underneath that, something else.
Something that looks almost like hope.
The range is another carved chamber set up for weapons training. Targets hang at various distances, some stationary, others on mechanical tracks.
"Basic rules," Stryker begins, all humor gone. "You know the drill—trigger discipline, muzzle awareness, know your target."
"My father drilled those rules into me before I was tall enough to see over the kitchen counter." I accept the M4 he hands me, checking the chamber automatically.
"Show me what you've got, Doc. I need to know your actual skill level."
I settle into the correct stance, feeling muscle memory take over. Breath control. Sight picture. Trigger squeeze.
The first shot punches through the target's center mass. The second follows less than a heartbeat later. The third, fourth, fifth—all finding home in the kill zone.
When the magazine clicks empty, silence fills the range.
"Damn," Stryker says quietly. "Your dad taught you well."
"He taught me to survive." I lower the rifle. "Looks like I'm finally using those lessons the way he intended."
"Then let's make sure you live long enough to make him proud." Stryker reloads the magazine. "Because tomorrow, we're going to make you the most visible target in Montana. And that means tonight, we make you ready for whatever hell follows."
I take the loaded weapon, feeling its weight ground me. Somewhere out there, Dominic Cray is planning my death. The Committee is mobilizing assets to erase me and everything Odin knows.
But here, surrounded by broken men who've made survival their religion, I'm learning that running isn't the only option.
Sometimes, the only way out is through.
