Page 31 of Echo: Burn
The bureaucrat on the other end takes notes with the enthusiasm of someone filling out forms for a living. He promises someone will follow up. He won't. But the paper trail is started.
Call two goes to Dr. Alice Edwards, a veterinary colleague in Kalispell.
"Alice, it's Willa. Remember that case I mentioned last week? The military working dog with chemical exposure? I finally got the tox screen back and—Alice, this is serious. Organophosphate compounds. Nerve agent precursors. I don't know what this dog was exposed to, but it shouldn't exist outside military research facilities."
"Nerve agents? Willa, how do you even know what those are?"
"My father was a Marine. Gunnery Sergeant, three tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan. He made sure I understood chemical weapons detection protocols. Said if I was going to work as a trauma nurse in the military, I needed to know what was out there." I keep my voice steady, clinical. "These compounds should never have been developed."
Alice's concern sounds genuine now. She promises to consult with her contacts at the state vet board. Another thread in the web.
By call three, I'm hitting my rhythm. Each conversation adds another layer to the story—the concerned veterinarian who stumbled onto something dangerous and doesn't understand the implications.
Mercer sits in the waiting room, pretending to read a pharmaceutical catalog while actually monitoring every entrance. Through the bone conduction earpiece, I hear Tommy's periodic updates.
"No unusual activity. Traffic patterns normal. Thermal scans show no heat signatures near the building except clients and staff."
But Cray's out there. I can feel it. Predators leave impressions in the air, disturbances in the normal flow of things. Dad taught me that.
I'm finishing call six when the bell over the door chimes.
A man enters. Mid-forties, average height, forgettable features. He's wearing a workman's jacket and carries a clipboard. Everything about him screams "utility worker checking meters."
Everything except his eyes.
Those eyes are a killer's eyes. Cold. Calculating. Already measuring me for a coffin.
"Dr. Hart?" His smile doesn't reach those eyes. "I'm here to check your electrical panel. Routine inspection."
Every instinct Dad drilled into me starts screaming.
In my ear, Tommy's voice cuts through: "Willa, that's not a utility worker. Facial recognition just pinged...”
But I already know. I can see it in those cold, calculating eyes.
Dominic Cray just walked into my clinic.
Mercer's in the waiting room. Cray's at the counter.
And I'm caught between them with nowhere to run.
8
KANE
Willa's truck disappears around the corner toward the clinic. My gut says follow her. Stay close. Put myself between her and whatever's coming.
Instead, I force myself to wait, watching the surveillance feeds on my tablet. Tommy's voice crackles through my earpiece with updates—traffic patterns normal, no unusual heat signatures, Mercer is in position inside posing as a pharmaceutical rep.
"She just pulled into the parking lot," Tommy reports. "Right on time."
I watch her exit the truck on the thermal feed. Even through the digital interference, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she scans the area before heading to the door. Good. She's alert.
"Stryker, Rourke, confirm positions," I say into my comm.
"North rooftop, clear sightlines," Stryker responds.
"South rooftop secured," Rourke adds.
