Sleep finally comes, though it's restless and full of half-formed anxieties. Dylan's arm stays around me. Steady. Solid. Reminder that I'm not alone in this.
When I wake, early morning light is filtering through the curtains. Dylan's already up, dressed, expression unreadable.
"Tommy finished the dead man's switches," he says. "Kane's coordinating with the journalists. Stryker's got secure communication channels established."
"So we're ready."
"We're ready."
I sit up. Today feels different. Sharper somehow. Like the air before a storm breaks. What we've built comes down to the next few hours.
I reach for my laptop. Pull up the exposé one more time. Scan it for any last issues that need fixing. Find none.
"Let's send it," I say.
Dylan takes my hand. His grip is solid, grounding. We walk to the command center together.
Kane's already there. Stryker too. Khalid in his corner. Tommy's face on the video feed from Echo Base.
"Status?" Kane asks.
"Ready." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "The exposé is complete."
"Journalists are standing by," Stryker reports. "They'll publish simultaneously once they receive the files and verify authenticity. Two hours from now at most."
"Tommy, kill the dead man's switch," Kane says. "We're sending manually. Don't want automated backups firing and muddying the release."
"Disabling now." On the video feed, Tommy's fingers fly across his keyboard. "Switch is offline. You're clear for manual transmission."
Kane looks at me. "Last chance to reconsider. Once those files go out, there's no taking them back."
"Good." I open the email client. Start attaching files to messages addressed to journalists I've worked with. Trusted contacts who will verify before publishing.
The files attach one by one. Morrison's war crimes. Protocol Seven documentation. Webb's financial corruption. Cross's intelligence on Committee vulnerabilities. Names. Dates. Evidence that can't be dismissed.
My finger moves toward the mouse.
The alarm screams.
Perimeter breach. Multiple contacts. North and east approaches.
"They're here," Kane snaps. "Everyone move. Now."
Dylan's hand closes on my shoulder. "Save the files. Disconnect. We're leaving."
"But the exposé?—"
"Can't send it if we're dead. Move."
I yank the drive from my laptop and shove it into my pocket. The files sit unsent in my drafts folder, the send button I never clicked still glowing on the screen. Stryker's already at the door, weapon up. Kane barks orders into his radio. Khalid appears from his corner, book abandoned, face set.
Six months of work trapped on a drive in my pocket while professional killers pour through every entrance. One click. That's all it would have taken. One click and the Committee's secrets would have reached reporters who would tear their worldapart. One click and we’d have found out if Dylan's strategy worked or if we'd just made ourselves targets that nothing can erase.
10
DYLAN
The command center door explodes inward, and my body moves before I finish thinking.
