Page 97 of Echo: Burn
"I can hear you worrying from the hallway." Sarah appears in the doorway, medical kit in hand, moving better despite her injury. "Figured you might need company."
I sit up, grateful for the interruption. "Thought you'd be resting. That wound...”
"Is fine." She settles into the chair beside the bunk, studying me the way she studies wounded soldiers. "Field stitches held. No infection. I'll be operational if things go sideways." A pause. "But I'm not here about my wound. I'm here about yours."
"I'm not injured."
"Physical wounds heal, Willa. It's the other kind that kill you."
I want to deflect, to maintain the facade that I'm handling everything fine. But Sarah's seen too much, knows too much. She was there when I made the call to complete the data upload while under fire. She saw me choose the mission over personal safety.
She knows exactly what that costs.
"I killed people," I say quietly. "At the staging facility. During the siege. I killed them and I didn't hesitate and I don't feel guilty about it." The admission tastes strange. "What does that make me?"
"Alive." Sarah's voice is matter-of-fact. "And part of this team. You think any of us didn't go through the same realization? That moment when you understand you're capable of taking a life and sleeping afterward?"
"Kane said I'm adapting too easily."
"Kane's terrified you'll become what he is—someone who's killed so many times it stops registering as significant." She leans forward. "But that's not what's happening here. You're not losing your humanity, Willa. You're expanding your capacity to survive. There's a difference."
"Is there?" The words come out sharper than I intend. "Several weeks ago I was a veterinarian treating sick animals in a small Montana clinic. Now I'm planning tactical assaults on black site detention facilities and my biggest concern is whether we have enough ammunition for the operation."
"And that should horrify you?"
"Shouldn't it?"
Sarah considers this for a moment. "Maybe. Or maybe it just means you've accepted who you need to be to stay alive. To protect the people you care about." She stands, checking the field dressing on her own wound. "The transformation feels inevitable because it is. You can fight it, or you can embrace it and stay sharp enough to survive what's coming."
"Get some sleep," she adds. "Five hours until we roll out. You need to be sharp."
After she leaves, I lie back down, Odin curled against my legs. The dog's breathing is steady, unconcerned. He doesn't worry about the ethics of violence or the cost of survival. He just exists in the moment, trusting that his people will handle the complicated parts.
Maybe that's wisdom. Maybe that's just being a dog.
Either way, I close my eyes and force my mind to quiet. Tomorrow we go to war again. Tonight, I need rest.
Sleep finally comes, dreamless and deep.
I wake to Kane's hand on my shoulder, his voice low. "Time to move."
The chronometer reads 0400. Two hours until dawn. Three hours until the attack is planned to begin. Five hours until whatever the Committee has planned reaches its endpoint.
We're out of time for preparation. Out of time for doubt.
In the operations center, the team is already geared up. Stryker checks weapons with mechanical precision. Rourke reviews the infiltration route one final time. Khalid secures Odin's tactical vest, the dog alert and focused. Tommy monitors communication channels, looking for any indication the Committee knows we're coming.
Kane briefs us one last time. "Whiskey-Seven is a black site facility built into an old mining complex outside Missoula. Single access road, defensible position, estimated fifty hostiles minimum. We're going in through the mining tunnels—breach from below where they won't expect it. Locate Mercer, extract before they can organize effective resistance."
"And if it's a trap?" Stryker asks.
"Then we adapt." Kane's face shows nothing. "We don't leave without Mercer. Whatever it takes."
The unspoken understanding settles over all of us: some of us might not come back from this. The Committee knows we're coming—they sent us the intel, after all. Whether it's legitimate or bait, we're walking into a situation designed to kill us.
But we're going anyway. Because that's what Echo Ridge does.
We load into vehicles—Stryker driving the lead Suburban, Kane in the passenger seat, me and Odin in back. Rourke andKhalid follow in the second vehicle. Tommy stays at Echo Base to provide remote support and coordinate communication.
