Page 29 of Echo: Burn
"Audio surveillance?" I ask.
"Microphone in your collar, backup in your watch. We'll hear everything." He hands me an earpiece smaller than a pill. "And you'll hear us through this. It's bone conduction—sits in your earcanal and transmits sound through your skull. No one will see it."
I take the equipment. Tommy's words follow me down the corridor.
"What happens if someone searches me?" I ask.
"They might." Rourke's voice is flat. "They know you had help in that firefight. But your clinic hasn't been connected to us yet. As far as they know, you hired private security or got lucky. That's your advantage—they'll be watching for backup, not expecting you to be wired into a full tactical operation."
"Until Cray figures it out," Mercer adds. "Then all bets are off."
"Which is why we move fast." Kane pulls up a timeline. "You're in position by 0900. You make your calls, file your reports, and you're out by noon. Three hours of exposure, maximum. That's all we need to draw them out."
"And then?" I ask.
"And then we follow whoever responds back to their facility." Kane's expression is grim. "We find where they're storing the chemical weapons, we document everything, and we send it to every journalist, every federal agency, every watchdog organization that might give a damn."
"The Committee will come for us," Sarah says quietly. "Once we expose them, they'll throw everything at us."
"Let them." Kane's voice carries steel. "We've been running from these bastards long enough. Time we made them run from us."
Around the room, I see it reflected in every face. These men have been hunted, betrayed, left for dead by the people they trusted. They're done being victims.
So am I.
"I'm ready," I say.
Kane studies me for a moment, then nods. "Gear up. We leave in thirty minutes."
The team disperses, each person moving to their preparations with practiced efficiency. I start toward the armory, but Kane's voice stops me.
"Willa."
I turn. He's close enough that I can see the exhaustion carved into his features, the weight of command he carries like armor.
"Yes?"
"If something goes wrong...” He stops, jaw working. "If you get compromised, if they take you, don't try to be a hero. Just survive. We'll come for you."
"Promise?"
"Promise." His hand finds my shoulder, warm and solid. "You're not alone in this. Not anymore."
For the first time in years—since Jack, since I ran from Chicago—I believe it. I'm not looking over my shoulder anymore. Not waiting for the next attack.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For coming for me. For not leaving me to die on that highway."
"I told you before—I had to." His eyes hold mine. "Something in me recognized something in you. And I couldn't let that go."
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. Then Kane steps back, professional distance reasserting itself.
"Get ready, Doc. We've got a war to win."
I watch him walk away, then head to my quarters to change. The tactical gear feels foreign and familiar in equal measure—vest, boots, tactical pants with too many pockets. I catch my reflection in a scrap of polished metal someone's hung as a mirror.
The woman staring back is harder than the trauma nurse who fled Chicago. Steadier than the veterinarian who thoughtshe'd found peace. She's killed people and will kill more if necessary. She walks toward danger instead of running from it.
My father would be proud. Or terrified. Maybe both.
