"Clean extraction. Nothing vital was hit. He'll be sore, but he'll recover fully." She pauses at the doorway. "You should eat something. Kane's making coffee in the main room."
I nod but don't move. The flash drive sits heavy in my pocket, pressing against my thigh like an accusation. Everything weneed to destroy Webb's operation, and we couldn't send it. My finger was on the button. Seconds away from releasing it to every journalist, every whistleblower site, every congressional office that might listen.
Seconds that turned into smoke and gunfire and Dylan bleeding on the floor.
The door opens again, and Kane steps inside. He's cleaned up since we arrived, the dirt and grime from the escape replaced with fresh clothes, but exhaustion lines his face in ways that makeup couldn't hide.
"We need to talk strategy," he says. "When you're ready."
"Now's fine." I glance at Dylan's still form. "He'd want to be part of this conversation."
"He will be. But we need to start planning while we have time to think." Kane settles against the doorframe, arms crossed. "The exposé alone won't work."
The words land like a blow to the chest. "What do you mean? We have everything. Financial records, operational logs, communication intercepts. Webb's signature is all over Protocol Seven."
"And the Committee has media contacts in every major outlet. The second we release those files, their people will spin it as disinformation. Foreign propaganda. A coordinated attack on American security services by domestic terrorists." Kane's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "They've been building that narrative since Morrison died. Echo Ridge operators as rogue elements. Dangerous extremists who need to be neutralized for national security."
"The evidence speaks for itself."
"Evidence only speaks if people are willing to listen. And right now, half the country has been primed to dismiss anything that comes from sources like us." He meets my gaze steadily."We need something they can't spin. Something that creates sympathy before we dump the data."
I turn the implications over in my mind, years of journalism training clicking into place. He's right. The most damning evidence in the world means nothing if the audience has already decided not to believe it. You need to build credibility first. Create emotional investment. Make people care before you ask them to understand.
"A witness," I say slowly. "Someone whose story they can't dismiss as propaganda."
Kane nods. "Khalid."
My stomach drops. The fifteen-year-old Syrian boy who survived a chemical weapons test that killed his entire village. Who lost his family while Committee scientists took notes on how quickly human tissue dissolves under their experimental compounds. Who escaped because Dylan risked everything to get him out.
"He's a child."
"He's a survivor. And his testimony would be devastating." Kane's expression doesn't change. "Protocol Seven authorized the testing that killed his village. Morrison signed off on it personally. If Khalid goes public with what he witnessed, it creates a narrative that's impossible to spin as disinformation. A refugee child whose family was murdered by American black ops? That's not propaganda. That's a human tragedy that demands investigation."
"You want to put a traumatized teenager in front of cameras and ask him to relive the worst moment of his life."
"I want to give him the choice." Kane straightens. "We're meeting in the main room in twenty minutes. Mercer and Stryker have arrived. We'll discuss options then."
He leaves, and I turn back to Dylan. His face is pale against the pillow, dark stubble shadowing his jaw, and for the firsttime since I met him, he looks vulnerable. The man who pulled me behind cover when the bullets started flying. Who threw himself between me and a grenade without hesitation. Who took shrapnel meant for all of us and still managed to get us out of that tunnel.
His hand rests on the blanket beside him, and I reach out to cover it with mine. His fingers twitch at the contact.
"Dylan?"
His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they find my face. "Reagan." His voice is rough, scratchy from disuse. "The drive. Do you still have?—"
"I have it." I squeeze his hand. "We're at the hunting lodge. You're safe. Everyone made it out."
He exhales slowly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "How long?"
"A few hours. Willa removed the shrapnel. She says you'll be fine."
"Fine is relative." He shifts slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at his wound. "What did I miss?"
"Kane wants to talk strategy. He doesn't think releasing the exposé alone will be enough."
Dylan's jaw tightens. "He's probably right."
"He mentioned Khalid."
