We climb higher into the mountains. The road narrows, becomes more treacherous. Dylan doesn't slow down. If anything, he drives faster. Like he knows every curve, every pothole, every inch of this route by heart.
"How long have you been running from the Committee?"
"Since I chose to save one innocent life instead of following orders."
"What orders?"
"The kind that make you wake up at night wondering if you're still human." His jaw tightens. "We're not having this conversation right now."
"When are we having it?"
"When my team decides you're worth keeping alive long enough to interrogate properly."
Another casual reference to violence. Another reminder that I'm not being rescued. I'm being detained by people who operate in the shadows I've spent my career trying to expose.
The road becomes barely more than a trail. Trees close in on both sides. Dylan kills the headlights, navigating by moonlight or memory or both. The SUV bumps over rocks and roots. I grip the door handle hard enough my knuckles ache.
The trees break. A clearing opens before us.
A cabin materializes from the darkness. Small, maybe twelve hundred square feet. Wood siding weathered gray, metal roof. But the windows are wrong. Too thick. Reinforced. And the door isn't standard issue. Heavy steel with multiple locks visible even from here.
Not a hunting cabin. A fortress disguised as one.
Dylan parks in front, kills the engine. "Rules. You don't speak unless spoken to. You don't move unless told. You don't touch anything, ask questions, or do anything remotely stupid. My team is on edge, heavily armed, and not particularly thrilled about having a security breach in their space. Understood?"
"I'm a person, not a security breach."
"Right now, you're both." He opens his door, comes around to mine. "And right now, the security breach part is the only reason you're breathing. So play nice, keep your mouth shut, and maybe we all survive the night."
The door opens. Mountain air hits me, at least twenty degrees colder than the city. My breath mists in front of me.
Dylan's already moving toward the entrance. A keypad. Scanner. Multiple locks. The door opens with a mechanical hiss.
Inside, it's warmer but not welcoming. The space is functional. Tactical. Tables covered with maps and equipment. Walls lined with weapons racks. Everything positioned for quick access.
And people. Four men, one woman. All of them turn to look at me with expressions ranging from hostility to murderous intent.
A man steps forward. Tall, built like he could walk through walls if he decided to. Burn scars twist over the left side of his neck, disappearing under his collar. Authority radiates from him like heat from a furnace. The one who makes final decisions.
"Kane," Dylan says. "This is Reagan Mitchell."
"The Committee believes she has our exact location and they’ve told that to everyone who will listen, including every operative hunting us." Kane's voice could freeze blood. "Give me one reason I shouldn't eliminate this problem right now."
Dylan steps slightly between us. Subtle. Protective. "Because she has six months of Committee research we need. Connections we haven't found. And because the Committee already thinks she has our exact coordinates. Killing her doesn't solve our problem. It just wastes an asset."
"An asset." Kane looks at me like I'm a cockroach. "She's a liability."
"She's leverage. Webb is part of something bigger. Her files prove it. We need what she knows."
Webb. The name hits me like cold water. General Marcus Webb. The thread I've been pulling for months since Morrison's death. Committee operations, chemical weapons authorizations, civilian casualties buried under classified stamps. Every financial trail, every redacted report, every disappeared witness led back to him. Webb took over after Morrison was eliminated,and he's even more dangerous. But I couldn't prove the connections. Couldn't find the smoking gun.
The air between them crackles with unspoken challenge. Neither man looks away. Kane's hand rests near his sidearm. Dylan doesn't move, but something in his posture shifts. Ready.
Movement catches my eye. A teenager in the corner. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Dark hair, dark eyes, watching with the kind of stillness that speaks of trauma survived. He doesn't say anything. Just observes.
Our eyes meet. He doesn't look away. Doesn't smile. Just acknowledges my presence with a slight nod.
Dylan notices. "Khalid. This is Reagan."
