Page 82 of Echo: Burn
I'm going to lose.
A gunshot cracks through the chaos.
Kessler jerks sideways as the round impacts his tactical vest. Not a kill shot—center mass, stopped by armor—but enough to break his concentration. He releases me, stumbling back.
I see Willa fifty meters away, her pistol raised, Stryker beside her providing cover.
Instead of running to safety, she stayed. Saved my life.
Kessler sees her too. His expression twists with rage and recognition. "Hart's daughter. The reason he died silent."
"Don't." I force myself upright despite the screaming pain in my ribs. "She had nothing to do with..."
"She had everything to do with it!" Kessler draws his backup sidearm. "Hart loved her more than truth. More than justice. More than his brothers in Delta. So I'm going to take her. Make you watch. Make you feel what Hart felt."
He pivots, weapon tracking toward Willa.
I don't think. Just move.
Tackle him from the side as he fires. The round goes wide, sparking off concrete. We hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. His weapon skitters away. Mine's somewhere in the smoke. Just us now. Just pain and rage and guilt and the ghost of Michael Hart watching everything.
I get on top, land three solid punches to his face. His nose breaks with a wet crunch. Blood sprays. But he doesn't stop fighting. Bucks me off, reverses position, gets his hands around my throat.
The world starts to gray at the edges. Chemical fumes burn my lungs. His grip tightens like a vice.
I bring my knee up hard into his groin. Not clean. Not honorable. But effective.
His grip loosens just enough. I break free, gasping, roll away. Spot my sidearm three meters away in the toxic fog.
Kessler sees it too. We both lunge.
I get there first. Spin. Weapon up.
He freezes, halfway to his feet, eyes locked on my barrel.
Should finish it. Should put him down permanently. One round, right between his eyes, problem solved.
But I don't.
Behind us, the facility's chemical alarms reach a crescendo. Something inside detonates—not an explosion, but a massive venting of pressurized gases. Component A and B mixing in the atmosphere. Anyone still inside is dead. Anyone downwind has minutes.
"You should run," Kessler says, spitting blood. "Unless you want to die choking on the same chemicals Hart discovered."
"Why?" I keep my weapon trained on him. "Why come after her? After us? What's the endgame?"
"Justice." He wipes blood from his mouth. "Hart was my brother. We served together for ten years. Iraq. Afghanistan. Yemen. Ten years watching each other's backs."
The words hit harder than his punches.
"And your team," Kessler continues, voice thick with rage and grief, "put a gun to his head and told him if he ever spoke about Yemen, you'd kill his daughter."
The world stops.
"What?"
"You didn't know?" Kessler laughs bitterly. "Of course you didn't. You were just the weapon. Someone else pulled the trigger. But Hart knew. He knew they'd kill Willa if he talked. Sohe kept his mouth shut and died with those secrets eating him alive."
The guilt crashes over me like a tidal wave. I knew we'd destroyed Hart's credibility. Knew we'd threatened him. But explicit death threats against his daughter? Against Willa?
