Page 53 of Echo: Burn
"No," I say. "They don't know where we are yet. But if they keep searching, they'll find the access points eventually. Time to thin their numbers before they get that chance."
I look at the tactical display one more time. Eight signatures closing in through the mountain passes. Kessler could be out there somewhere watching, waiting to see if his revenge plays out the way he planned.
He's going to be disappointed.
I pull Willa closer with one arm while signaling the team with the other. Whatever he thought would happen when he photographed us, when he marked her as a target—he was wrong.
The Committee's coming. Let them. Let Kessler watch from whatever hole he's hiding in.
They're all about to learn what happens when someone threatens what I've claimed as mine.
12
WILLA
The operations center empties fast once Kane gives the order. Stryker and Mercer move in sync—vests on, magazines checked, weapons secured—all without a wasted motion or spoken word. Rourke heads to coordinate perimeter defense. Tommy stays at his console, fingers flying across keyboards, coordinating what I'm starting to realize is a much larger operation than I understood.
Kane pulls on his tactical vest, checking magazines by touch. His movements are automatic, muscle memory from years of operations I know nothing about. The burns on his neck catch the harsh lighting as he adjusts the straps.
"Stay here with Tommy and Sarah," he says without looking at me. Commander voice. The one that expects obedience. "We'll clear the search teams before they get close enough to find the access points."
"How many teams?" I ask.
"Eight signatures scattered across five miles." He chambers a round in his sidearm. "Maybe more we haven't detected yet."
Eight trained operatives. Maybe more. And he's planning to go hunt them in the dark.
"That's suicide," I say.
"That's Tuesday." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are already distant. Already in combat mode. "We've done worse with less."
Before I can argue, he's gone. Stryker and Mercer follow, the three of them moving through the corridor like shadows. The heavy door seals behind them with a pneumatic hiss that sounds too final.
Silence settles over the operations center. Tommy's hands blur over the keys. Sarah shifts in her chair, wincing as the movement pulls at her healing wounds. Khalid sits in the corner with Odin's head in his lap, watching everything with those too-old eyes.
I should feel safe here. Underground, hidden, surrounded by reinforced stone and security systems. But all I feel is restless. Useless.
I'm not built to wait while other people fight.
"How long have they been doing this?" I ask Tommy.
His fingers don't stop moving. "Depends on what you mean by 'this.'"
"Going out to eliminate threats. Running operations. Fighting a war nobody else knows exists."
"Kane's been operational for twenty years. The team as it exists now? Ever since Kandahar." Tommy pulls up surveillance feeds showing thermal signatures moving through the forest. "But the war against the Committee? That's been going on a lot longer than any of us."
I move closer to his console, watching the screens. Eight heat signatures spread across the mountain range, searching in a pattern that looks almost random but probably isn't. And somewhere out there, three more signatures—Kane, Stryker, Mercer—moving to intercept.
"Tell me about Kandahar," I say.
Tommy's hands finally still. He glances at Sarah, who nods slightly.
"Black ops mission gone bad," he says. "Someone in their chain of command sold them to the Committee. They walked into an ambush in Kandahar. Nine men went in, six came out—barely. Morrison thought he could disappear after. The Committee found him three weeks ago in Kalispell."
"Kane mentioned him." I remember the flatness in Kane's voice. "He died?"
"Screaming. Kane and Rourke got there too late to save him."
