I open my mouth to respond, but he continues before I can speak.
"I want to say their names where people will hear." His dark eyes meet mine, and I see something in them that looks like determination hardened by grief. "I want the world to know what was done to them. And I want the men who ordered it to answer for it."
Behind me, I hear Dylan shift on the bed as he pulls his pants on. Feel his presence as he moves to stand beside me, one hand braced against the doorframe for support.
"Khalid," he begins, and I hear the protest forming in his voice.
But the boy just looks at him with eyes that have seen too much and says the words that change everything.
"You saved my life, Dylan." His voice is quiet but steady. "Let me do something with it."
Dylan doesn't answer. His grip tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white, and I watch him struggle against every protective instinct he has.
But Khalid doesn't look away. Doesn't back down.
After a long moment, Dylan exhales slowly and steps aside to let him in.
12
DYLAN
The hunting lodge has become our war room. Maps cover the dining table, edges weighted down with coffee mugs and spare magazines. Secure laptops occupy every flat surface, their screens casting pale light against the log walls. Kane has established perimeter sensors in the treeline, and Mercer maintains overwatch from a position he changes every few hours. What started as a place to regroup has become the staging ground for an operation that could finally start to drag the Committee into the light.
My side throbs with every breath, a constant reminder of how close that shrapnel came to ending everything. The wound pulls when I shift my weight, sends bright flares of pain shooting through my ribs when I forget and move too fast.
I watch Khalid through the doorway of the main room, where he sits in front of a laptop with Delaney's face filling the screen. Her voice carries through the speakers, calm and professional, walking him through what congressional testimony actually looks like.
"They'll try to rattle you," she explains. "Some of them won't believe you. Others will believe you but want to discredit you anyway because the truth is inconvenient. Your job isn't toconvince them. Your job is to tell the truth clearly enough that the people watching at home can't look away."
Khalid nods, absorbing every word with the same intensity he brings to learning anything. The kid survived a chemical weapons test that killed his entire village. He escaped Syria, crossed continents, and built a new life from the ashes of everything he lost. Congressional questioning shouldn't intimidate him.
But it does. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands stay folded too tightly in his lap. This isn't combat, where training and instinct take over. This is something entirely different, and he knows it.
Reagan appears at my side, her shoulder brushing mine. "He's doing well."
"He shouldn't have to do this at all."
"No. But he wants to." She turns to face me, and I see understanding in her eyes alongside what might be concern. "You agreed to let him."
"I agreed because he was right." The words taste bitter, but they're true. Last night, when Khalid looked at me with those eyes that have seen too much and told me he wanted to speak for his dead family, I couldn't find a single argument that mattered more than his need to be heard. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."
"You're allowed to worry about him."
"Worrying is the only thing I can do right now." I gesture at my side, where the wound Willa stitched together still pulls every time I move too quickly. "Kane won't clear me for operational status. Says I'm a liability until I can move without wincing."
"He's not wrong."
"I know he's not wrong. That's what makes it worse."
Reagan's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. The contact grounds me in a way I've come to depend on, and thatdependency should terrify me more than it does. Lisa used to do the same thing when I was spiraling, when the weight of classified operations and moral compromises threatened to drag me under. The comparison hurts and heals in equal measure.
"Come help me with lunch," she says. "Khalid needs a break anyway."
The kitchen is small but functional, stocked with supplies Willa brought from Echo Base along with whatever Kane's contacts could source locally. Afternoon light filters through a window above the sink, catching dust motes that drift lazily through the air. Reagan moves through the space with an efficiency that speaks to years of living alone, managing her own schedule, taking care of herself without relying on anyone else. She's tied her hair back, exposing the curve of her neck, and I find myself watching the way her hands move as she works.
I lean against the counter and watch her, my role reduced to chopping vegetables because anything more strenuous pulls at my stitches. The knife is good quality, probably something Kane sourced along with the other supplies. It feels solid in my grip, familiar in a way that domestic tasks rarely are anymore.
"You're staring," she observes without turning around.
