Page 32 of Echo: Burn
The team's in place. Willa's wired with tracking and audio. We've planned for every contingency. So why does it feel like I'm sending her into a meat grinder?
Because I care about her. Simple as that. And caring gets people killed.
I start the engine and take a different route toward the clinic, circling wide to approach from the east. The Committee will be watching her, not the perimeter. Standard tunnel vision when you've got a target in sight.
Through my earpiece, I hear Willa making her first call to animal control. Her voice is steady, professional, exactly what a concerned veterinarian would sound like. Pride cuts through my anxiety. She's good at this. Better than most operators I've worked with.
The second call goes to her colleague in Kalispell. I listen to her weave in details about her father, establishing her knowledge base without making it obvious she's creating a paper trail. Smart. Natural.
I'm two blocks from the clinic when Tommy's voice goes tight with urgency.
"Kane, we've got a walk-in. Male, mid-forties, utility worker jacket. Facial recognition is running but—shit. Boss, that's Dominic Cray."
Everything in me goes cold. "Mercer, confirm visual."
One tap through the comm. Yes.
“Does Willa see him?”
One tap. Yes.
"Is he armed?"
Three taps. Unknown.
Fuck.
I'm already moving, foot to the floor, the SUV eating up the distance to the clinic. Too far. I'm too far away.
"All units, weapons hot," I order. "Willa, that’s Cray standing at the counter. Keep him talking. We're repositioning."
Through the audio feed, I hear Cray's voice, smooth and professional: "Dr. Hart? I'm here to check your electrical panel. Routine inspection."
Then Willa's response, steadier than it should be: "Actually, the panel's in the basement. Let me just finish this call and I'll show you."
Good girl. Buying time. Keeping him in play while we move into position.
I abandon the SUV and move in on foot, HK416 hidden under my coat, suppressor already attached. Too recognizable with the scars—Cray would make me instantly if I walked through that door. But I can get close. Can be ready when this goes sideways.
Because it will go sideways. It always does.
Through the audio feed, I hear them talking. Cray's probing, testing, trying to determine if she's alone or working with someone. Willa's deflecting, playing the concerned civilian perfectly.
Then Cray says it: "Fifteen years in this work, you develop instincts. Right now, my instincts say you're more than a small-town vet who saved a dog."
"Stryker, do you have a shot?" I ask, moving into position behind the clinic.
"Negative. Angle's wrong. Can't get clean separation between them."
Through the window, I watch Willa back toward the basement door, Cray advancing on her with predatory patience. He knows. Knows she's not what she seems. Knows this is a setup.
And he's going to kill her anyway, just to be sure.
"Rourke, prep for dynamic entry," I say. "Back door, my signal. Mercer, when Rourke moves, you engage from inside."
"Copy," Rourke responds.
One tap from Mercer.
