Page 46 of Echo: Burn
"Take Stryker for overwatch. And Mercer?" I meet his eyes. "If this goes sideways, you pull back immediately. We can't afford to lose anyone else."
"Copy that."
They're gone within five minutes, geared up and moving with the practiced efficiency of men who've done this too many times.
Willa watches the screens beside me, arms crossed. I can feel the tension radiating off her. "What did he mean? About my father and Yemen?"
I can't lie to her. Not now. Not after last night. "A number of years ago. Joint operation with Marines providing security while my team investigated reports of chemical weapons development by a rogue faction. Your father was one of the Marines on site when we found the cache."
"And?"
"And we burned it. All of it. Weapons, research, everyone involved. The Committee wanted the evidence buried, and we were the ones holding the shovel."
Her jaw tightens. "Did you kill my father?"
"No." I turn to face her. "He died of a heart attack. Natural causes. But he knew what we did. Knew we destroyed evidence instead of reporting it. The Committee's been tracking his family ever since, probably worried he told someone before he died."
"He didn't." Her voice is hollow. "He never said a word about Yemen. Never mentioned chemical weapons or black ops teams or any of it."
"Because he was protecting you." I reach for her hand, find it cold. "The Committee destroys anyone who knows too much. Your father kept quiet to keep you safe."
She pulls away. I let her go, even though every instinct says to hold on. "And now they want me dead because I saved a dog that knows where they're hiding more weapons. Because my father saw something years ago that he never even told me about."
"Willa...”
"No." She rounds on me, eyes fierce. "Don't tell me it's going to be okay. Don't tell me we'll figure it out. My father died keeping secrets that are now threatening my life. You were partof burying those secrets. And now someone out there knows about us—about us—and is leaving packages like this is a game."
Every word is justified. Every accusation earned. But there's something underneath the anger—betrayal, maybe. Fear that being with me means inheriting all the ghosts I've spent five years trying to outrun.
"You're right," I say quietly. "About all of it. Your father died protecting you from a truth he should never have known. I was part of the operation that put that target on his back. And being with me makes you visible to every enemy I've made in twenty years of operations."
I step closer, hold her gaze. "But I'm not going to apologize for Yemen. I'm not going to apologize for the choices I made to survive. And I'm sure as hell not going to apologize for pulling you into this cave and keeping you alive."
"I'm not asking you to apologize." Her voice cracks. "I'm asking you to tell me the truth. All of it. No more surprises. No more revelations from prisoners. If I'm standing beside you, if I'm in this war, I need to know exactly what we're fighting."
Fair. More than fair.
"Okay." I nod. "After we find out what's in that package, I'll tell you everything. Every operation. Every ghost. Every reason the Committee wants me dead. Deal?"
She studies my face for a long moment. Then nods. "Deal."
Tommy's screen lights up. "Kane, Mercer's at the clinic. He's got eyes on the package."
We crowd around the monitor. Through Mercer's body cam, we see the package up close. Brown paper, neat lettering, no visible wires or trigger mechanisms.
"Thermal's clear," Mercer reports. "No electronic signature. No chemical markers. Just paper and whatever's inside."
"Open it," I order. "Carefully."
The body cam shifts as Mercer produces a knife. He cuts through the tape with surgical precision, peels back the paper. Inside is a manila folder.
He opens it.
My blood goes cold.
Photographs. Dozens of them. Surveillance shots taken over days, maybe weeks. Willa at her clinic. Odin in the recovery kennel. Me leaving the cabin. Willa and me together in the parking lot after the ambush. Willa's truck on the mountain road heading toward the cabin.
Professional-grade surveillance. Clean angles. Perfect timing. This isn't amateur hour. Whoever took these has done this before—probably to people like us—and won't stop until we're dead.
