Page 92 of Echo: Burn
Stryker nods, already moving to the next body. We work in practiced silence, years of black ops experience making the grim task efficient if not easy. Every weapon we recover is one less the Committee can use against us. Every piece of intelligence might tell us something about their organizational structure, their command protocols, their next move.
Might help us find Mercer before it's too late.
I'm searching the third body when I find it—a tactical radio still clipped to the operative's vest. The encryption is military-grade, but Tommy can crack anything given enough time. I pocket the device and continue the sweep.
"Kane." Willa's voice pulls my attention. She's approaching from the northwest corner, Khalid at her side. Both look exhausted—Willa from coordinating the defense from inside the facility, Khalid from close-quarters fighting. "Sarah's stable. The wound needs proper cleaning but Khalid got the bleeding stopped."
"How soon?" I ask.
"She says she's good for transport now," Khalid reports, his voice tight. "But the wound needs to be cleaned out properly and she needs antibiotics. She's worried about infection."
I calculate timing in my head. Twenty-four hours to get Sarah to Echo Base's medical bay. Twenty-four hours to plan and execute a rescue operation for Mercer. Twenty-three hours until the inauguration puts the entire federal apparatus under Committee control.
Not enough time. Never enough time.
"We move in thirty minutes," I decide. "Get Sarah prepped for transport. Khalid and Odin escort her back to Echo Base. The rest of us stay mobile."
"And Mercer?" Willa asks quietly.
"We find him," I say. "We bring him home."
The drive back to Echo Base takes several hours through mountain roads barely wide enough for the vehicles. Stryker drives the lead Suburban with Sarah secured in the back, Khalid beside her monitoring her condition. The rest of us follow in the second vehicle—me driving, Willa in the passenger seat, Tommy in back with Rourke on overwatch. Odin sits alert between them, the dog's head swiveling at every sound.
Nobody speaks. We're all thinking the same thing, running through the same calculations. Mercer's been gone for nine hours now. Nine hours of interrogation, chemical enhancement, psychological manipulation. The Committee has specialists who can break anyone given enough time, and we have no idea which facility they've taken him to or what protocols they're following.
"Stop spiraling," Willa says softly, not looking at me. "I can hear you thinking from here."
"We should have pulled him back sooner," I say, the words tasting like ash. "Should have known they'd stage a diversion."
Willa looks as though she’s been struck. “I’m sorry.”
“You made the right tactical call with the information you had. We all agreed splitting up was necessary to cover the perimeter."
She turns to face me, her expression fierce. "Mercer knew the risks. He's been doing this as long as you have. He made his own choices out there."
"Doesn't make it easier."
"No," she agrees. "It doesn't. But beating yourself up doesn't help him either. What helps is staying sharp, staying focused, and planning his extraction properly instead of rushing in on emotion."
Logic doesn't erase the guilt, but she's not wrong.
Tommy's voice cuts through from the backseat. "I've been analyzing the tactical radios we pulled off the bodies. The encryption is good, but not perfect. I'm seeing communicationpatterns that suggest they were coordinating with at least two other teams during the assault."
"How many total?" I ask.
"Best estimate? Sixty to eighty operatives staged across multiple positions. They weren't just trying to breach the facility—they were trying to contain us. Keep us pinned down while a smaller extraction team grabbed Mercer from his position."
"Which means they knew our formation," Stryker adds from the driver's seat. "Knew where each of us would be positioned defensively."
Nobody speaks for a long moment. The Committee has been watching us. Tracking our movements. Learning our patterns and protocols well enough to predict our tactical responses.
Which means they've been planning this operation for weeks. Maybe months.
"They have someone on the inside," Willa says what we're all thinking. "Or they've compromised our communications."
"Tommy?" I ask.
He's already shaking his head. "I sweep our systems daily. No external access, no malware, no monitoring software. If they're tracking us, it's not through our tech."
