Page 30 of Echo: Burn
By 0530, we're loaded into two vehicles—armored SUVs hidden in the secondary tunnel system. Kane drives the lead vehicle with me in the passenger seat. Stryker and Rourke follow in the second.
The tunnel exit opens onto a mountain road that doesn't appear on any map. We emerge into dawn light, the storm finally broken. Snow covers everything, pristine and beautiful and completely indifferent to the violence brewing beneath its surface.
"You don't have to do this," Kane says as we navigate the winding road. "We could still get you out. Mexico, Canada, somewhere safe."
"We've had this conversation." I adjust the vest, feeling the weight of the tracking devices. "I'm not running."
"Stubborn."
"Determined."
"Same thing." But there's warmth in his voice. "Your father really did a number on you, didn't he?"
"He taught me to stand up for myself. To fight when necessary. To never let fear make my decisions." I watch the forest slide past. "Guess I'm finally living up to his lessons."
"He trained you well."
"Maybe." I touch the Glock holstered at my hip—Dad's Glock, cleaned and loaded, with two extra magazines. "Or maybe he'd say I'm an idiot for walking into a trap when I could be drinking margaritas in Cancun."
Kane almost smiles. "Probably both."
We drive in comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes. The roads are clear despite the storm, plowed by the county crews who keep Montana's highways passable through winter.
Three blocks from the clinic, Kane pulls into a convenience store parking lot where my truck sits waiting. "We made sure it's clean."
"You're not coming with me?"
"Can't risk it. These scars make me too easy to identify if they've got intel on us." He meets my eyes. "But Mercer will be waiting close by. He’s posing as a pharmaceutical rep waiting for an appointment. If they're watching, and they are, you need to arrive alone. Civilian veterinarian going about her day."
I switch to my truck, feeling exposed the moment his vehicle pulls away. The familiar cab offers no comfort—at least Mercer waiting by the door. By the time I reach the clinic, the sun is fully up.
I pull into the clinic parking lot at exactly 0900. The building looks exactly as I left it—a modest single-story structure with my name on the sign: Dr. Willa Hart, DVM.
Home. Safety. The life I built after running from Chicago.
About to become the most dangerous place in Montana.
"Last chance to back out," Kane says quietly through the comms.
"Not backing out." I reach for the door handle.
"Willa. Be careful in there."
"I'm always careful, but I'm also done being scared."
I step out into the cold morning air. Down the block, Kane parks, waiting patiently to play his role when the time comes.
The clinic key fits in the lock like it always has. The door opens. Familiar smells wash over me—antiseptic, animals, the faint scent of hay from the barn out back.
I'm home.
And somewhere out there, the Committee's cleaner is watching. Waiting. Planning how best to kill me.
I flip on the lights and invite Mercer in, telling him he’ll have to wait until I have a free minute. Time to find out if I'm the hunter or the bait.
The first call goes to animal control.
"Hi, this is Dr. Hart at the Whitefish Veterinary Clinic. I need to file a report about a Belgian Malinois that came in last week with unusual chemical burns. The compounds I detected in his bloodwork are... concerning. I think someone needs to investigate where he was before arriving at my clinic."
