Page 94 of Echo: Burn
"Internal factions," Willa says. "The Committee isn't a monolithic organization. They're fragmented. Fighting amongst themselves."
"Exactly." Tommy highlights different sections of data. "This group here is focused entirely on neutralizing Echo Ridge. But this second faction seems more interested in something called Project Blackout—some kind of operational timeline tied to the inauguration. And this third group is actively countermanding orders from the other two, trying to maintain what they call 'structural integrity.'"
"A power struggle," I conclude. "They're fighting for control."
"Which could work in our favor," Willa suggests. "Divided enemies are weaker. More vulnerable to infiltration and exploitation."
"Maybe," I agree. "But it also makes them unpredictable. We don't know which faction has Mercer, or what their specific agenda might be. One faction might want him alive for intelligence. Another might see him as a liability to eliminate."
The implications of that hang heavy in the air. Mercer could already be dead. A bullet to the head, body dumped in some remote location where it'll never be found.
Or he could be somewhere much worse—a black site facility where they can take their time breaking him down, extracting everything he knows about Echo Ridge's operations, capabilities, and personnel.
"Can you trace where they've taken him?" I ask Tommy.
His expression darkens. "I'm trying. But they've gone completely dark since the capture. No communications mentioning his location, no movement through any of their known facilities. It's like he vanished."
"They're keeping him off-grid," Willa says. "Somewhere isolated. Somewhere they can work on him without interference from rival factions or oversight from anyone in their organization who might have ethical concerns about their methods."
I don't like where this is going. Isolated means no rules. No limits. No boundaries on what they might do to extract information.
"Keep digging," I tell Tommy. "Any scrap of intel, any communication pattern that might tell us where they've taken him. I don't care how thin the thread is—we follow it."
He nods, already turning back to his screens with renewed focus.
I move to the tactical display, studying the map of potential Committee facilities within a five-hundred-mile radius. Dozens of marked locations, each one a possibility. Too many to hit systematically, and every hour we waste searching is another hour Mercer spends in their custody.
"We need leverage," I say aloud. "Something to force their hand. Make them reveal his location or at least narrow down the possibilities."
"Like what?" Willa challenges, moving to stand beside me. "We've already taken out one of their staging facilities. Killedtwo dozen of their operatives. What else can we threaten them with that they'll actually care about?"
I'm about to answer when Tommy makes a sharp sound of surprise.
"Kane. You need to see this."
I'm at his station in three strides. "What is it?"
"Encrypted transmission. Came through on a frequency we've been monitoring but never saw active before. It's... someone's trying to contact us. Specifically us."
"Show me."
The screen displays a text-only message, heavily encrypted but bypassing every security protocol we have in place like they don't even exist. The sender's identity is completely masked, but the message itself is crystal clear:
MERCER ALIVE. BLACK SITE DESIGNATION WHISKEY-SEVEN. WYOMING SECTOR. 48 HOURS UNTIL TRANSFER TO PERMANENT FACILITY. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WINDOW. COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.
—A FRIEND
Then, seconds later, a second message appears with GPS coordinates.
"It's a trap," Willa says immediately.
"Probably," I agree. But my mind is already working through the angles, calculating odds and probabilities. "Or it's someone inside the Committee trying to play both sides. Or it's a rival faction trying to use us to eliminate competition. Either way, it's the only lead we have."
"Whiskey-Seven." The voice comes from the prisoner’s cell, where Dominic Cray is still ensconced. Kane unlocks the door and Cray moves past him.
He’s moving better now, the gunshot wounds he received are healing nicely. His face is still pale, but his stance is steady.Operational. He's wearing clean tactical pants and a dark shirt, looking more like the professional killer he was before I put rounds in him.
"I know that facility," Cray continues, moving into the command center without waiting for permission.
