1
REAGAN
The park is deserted at eleven PM, exactly as my source promised.
I adjust my camera, checking the telephoto lens for the third time. My hands won't stop moving. The kind of nervous tell that gets investigative journalists caught by the people they're investigating.
My name is Reagan Mitchell, and I'm about to either break the biggest story of my career or get myself killed. Possibly both.
When my source, Cipher, originally contacted me he claimed he had proof of an off-the-books military operation funded through black sites and unsanctioned by any congressional oversight. He sent me documents, surveillance photos, financial records. All pointing to something called Echo Ridge.
Problem is, Echo Ridge doesn't exist. No paper trail, no budget allocations, no official acknowledgment. Just whispers in dark corners and bodies that pile up when you ask too many questions.
I asked anyway.
Headlights sweep across the parking lot. Black SUV, tinted windows, government plates. My pulse kicks into a higher gear. Either confirmation or elimination. No middle ground.
The driver's door opens. A man steps out. Tall, dark hair, eyes that scan the perimeter with the kind of professional paranoia that comes from years in the field. Military bearing, definitely armed. The way he moves speaks of violence held in careful check.
He's not my source. My source was civilian, nervous, desperate to get the story out.
This man is something else entirely.
I zoom in with the camera, snap photos in rapid succession. Get his face, his vehicle, his weapon. The bulge under his jacket screams tactical holster. Height maybe six-four, broad shoulders, moving with the efficient grace of someone who knows exactly how much force his body can deliver.
He turns, looks directly at me.
My breath catches.
A hundred yards away in darkness behind a stand of trees. He shouldn't be able to see me. But he's staring right at my position like I'm lit up with a spotlight.
Then he smiles. Predatory. The kind of smile that says he's already won and I just don't know it yet.
He pulls out a phone, types something. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number:
Nice camera. Expensive. Would be a shame if something happened to it. Or you.
My hands shake as I lower the camera. Wrong. This is very wrong. Fingers fumble for my phone, already dialing 911.
The text comes before I can hit send:
Calling the police would be a mistake. They can't protect you from people who don't exist. I can. Meet me at the fountain. Two minutes. Come alone or don't come at all.
This is insane. This is how journalists disappear. How sources turn into statistics. How investigations end with closed casket funerals and grieving families who never get answers.
But I'm also out of options. The Committee has been three steps behind me for months. If they know I'm here, they'll find me whether I run or hide. And if this man wanted me dead, I'd already be bleeding out in the darkness.
Forward is the only option left.
Messenger bag over my shoulder, pepper spray in my pocket. I walk toward the fountain. Every instinct screams at me to run. Every lesson my father taught me about trusting systems and following procedures tells me this is wrong.
But my father followed every rule, trusted every process, believed the truth would protect him. He was discredited, bankrupted, died of a stress-induced heart attack before vindication came.
Playing by the rules rarely gets you what you want and often gets you killed. I learned that the hard way.
The man waits by the fountain. Up close, the threat becomes more specific. Sharp features, calculating eyes, visible scars on his neck that disappear beneath his collar. The kind of stillness that comes from absolute confidence. Like he's run through every possible scenario and knows exactly how each one ends.
