Page 98 of Echo: Burn
The drive takes four hours through mountain roads already showing signs of dawn. Nobody speaks. We're all running through personal preparations—checking equipment, reviewing tactics, making peace with the possibility this is a one-way trip.
I scratch Odin's ears, feeling his warmth, his trust. Whatever happens today, he's with us. We're in this together.
Kane's hand finds mine across the seat, squeezes once. No words. Just acknowledgment that we're in this together.
Whatever comes next, we face it as a team.
The coordinates lead us to an abandoned mining complex thirty miles outside Missoula proper. From the outside, it looks exactly like what the intel suggested—old industrial infrastructure slowly being reclaimed by nature. Rusted equipment. Collapsed buildings. No visible security presence.
But Odin alerts immediately, his body going rigid in that particular way that means he's detected something dangerous.
"Chemical signatures," I confirm, reading his behavior. "Multiple compounds. Recent activity."
"Fan out," Kane orders. "Stryker, secure the perimeter. Rourke, overwatch position. Khalid, you're with me and Willa. We're going in through the tunnel entrance Cray marked."
We move fast, weapons ready, Odin leading the way. The tunnel entrance is exactly where Cray said it would be—hidden behind a collapsed equipment shed, barely visible unless you know where to look. The opening is narrow, just wide enough for single file movement.
"Tommy, we're entering the tunnel system," Kane reports through comms. "Going dark for approximately twenty minutes until we reach the facility connection point."
"Copy that. I'll maintain surveillance on the external perimeter. Any sign of Committee response, you'll know immediately."
We descend into darkness, headlamps cutting through the black. The tunnel is exactly as Cray described—narrow passages carved from living rock, still structurally sound despite being abandoned for decades. The air is cold and damp, carrying that distinctive mineral smell of deep underground spaces.
Odin moves ahead, his detection vest equipped with a small camera that feeds back to Tommy. If there are any chemical traces, any indication of recent Committee activity in these tunnels, the dog will find it.
We reach the vertical section Cray mentioned—a twenty-meter climb up what was once a ventilation shaft. Kane goes first, testing the climbing anchors Cray promised would still be in place. They hold. One by one, we ascend, weapons secured across our backs, trusting equipment and each other in equal measure.
At the top, the tunnel continues another hundred meters before opening into what Cray identified as the detention block's maintenance level. We pause there, weapons ready, listening for any indication the facility knows we're here.
Nothing. Just the hum of ventilation systems and distant machinery.
"This is it," Kane says quietly. "Beyond this point, we're inside their perimeter. No more stealth. We locate Mercer, we extract, and we don't stop for anything."
"Understood," we all acknowledge.
Kane breaches the maintenance door with practiced efficiency. The corridor beyond is exactly as Cray described—industrial, utilitarian, designed for function rather than form. Emergency lighting casts everything in harsh shadows.
And it's empty.
Too empty.
"Where is everyone?" Khalid whispers.
"Good question," Kane responds, his rifle tracking potential threats. "Stay alert. This feels wrong."
We move through the facility, clearing rooms one by one. Interrogation chambers with blood on concrete. Restraint equipment. Medical stations designed for chemical interrogation rather than healing. This is where they held Mercer. This is where they tortured him for information.
But he's not here now. Nobody is.
"Kane." Rourke's voice crackles through comms, urgent. "Northeast rooftop. You need to see this. Now."
We rush through corridors, following the route Cray provided, until we reach an observation point overlooking a helipad carved into the mountainside. And there, maybe two hundred meters away, we see it.
A black helicopter, rotors already spinning up to speed. The distinctive whine of turbines powering up fills the cold morning air. Committee operatives loading someone into the passenger compartment—someone in restraints, face bloodied but unmistakable even from this distance.
Mercer.
He's alive. Barely conscious, supported between two operatives, but alive.
