"Reagan Mitchell." Not a question. "Investigative journalist. Graduated from Columbia, worked for the Washington Post before going independent. Currently investigating governmentblack ops and getting way too close to things that'll get you killed."
"And you are?" My voice stays steady. I'll take that as a win.
"Dylan Rourke. Former Delta Force. Currently working as a private contractor."
"What kind of private contractor?"
"The kind that handles problems the government can't acknowledge." He gestures to a bench. "Sit. We need to talk about what you think you know about Echo Ridge."
"I have documentation. Not speculation."
"You have bait. Carefully constructed to lead you exactly where they want you."
"They?"
"The Committee. The people who actually run the black sites you're investigating. They're very interested in you." His voice stays flat, matter-of-fact. Like he's discussing the weather, not my impending death. "Not in a good way."
So I was right. Six months of following financial trails and disappeared witnesses, tracking unauthorized operations and budget black holes, all led to the same shadow organization. No official name. No congressional oversight. Just whispers about a group of generals and intelligence officials running their own private war. The Committee.
My hand drifts toward the pepper spray in my pocket. He notices. Doesn't react.
"I'm not Committee. If I was, you'd be dead." His voice stays matter-of-fact. "My team is trying to stop them. But you're making that harder by broadcasting your investigation to anyone paying attention. Including them."
"I'm a journalist. It's my job to expose corruption and illegal operations."
"You're a target." The casual tone drops, something harder beneath. "That last document your source sent? Your analysisgot too close. The Committee thinks you have exact coordinates for Echo Base."
My stomach drops. "But I don't. I couldn't pinpoint the location. Just a general area."
"I know. But they don't." His eyes lock on mine. "They think you're holding back. That you found something concrete and just haven't published it yet. So they'll take you. And they'll make you tell them what you know."
"But I don't know anything more than what's already published."
"And that's what makes this so dangerous. You can't give them what they want. They'll keep tearing you apart looking for information that doesn't exist."
Horror creeps up my spine like ice water. Tortured for coordinates I don't have. Unable to satisfy them no matter how much I tell the truth. "That's..."
"A death sentence. Yes." He stands, movements precise and controlled. "They already have your analysis. Your encrypted blog isn't nearly as encrypted as you think. So here's your choice. Come with me, help us protect what you accidentally exposed, and maybe survive the next forty-eight hours. Or walk away, and I'll see you in the obituaries by Friday."
"That's not a choice."
"No." His eyes meet mine, and there's something almost like regret in them. "It's really not."
He walks toward the parking lot. After three steps, he glances back.
"You coming, or do I tell my boss I failed to save the stupidly brave journalist who stumbled into a war she doesn't understand?"
I should call the police. Should run. Should do literally anything except follow a stranger who just threatened me with death in forty-eight hours.
My messenger bag feels heavy on my shoulder as I follow him toward the SUV.
He might be lying about half of what he said. But about the war? He's right. I've been in it since I started this investigation. I just didn't realize the enemy was already hunting me.
And I don't run from a story. Even if the story might kill me... especially if the story might kill me.
Dylan opens the passenger door, waits. The interior light illuminates his face for just a moment. More scars than I initially noticed. This man has been through hell and walked back out. Probably put more than a few people through it himself.
I climb in. The door closes with a solid thunk that sounds disturbingly like a cell door locking.
