The hunting lodge grows quiet as night settles over the mountains. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows and sending pine branches scraping against the roof. The temperature has dropped enough that someone lit a fire earlier, though it's burned down to embers now, casting a dim orange glow across the main room.
Mercer takes the first watch. Stryker retreats to his room to sleep while he can, his limp more pronounced after a long day on his injured leg. Kane and Willa disappear together, their low voices fading down the hallway.
I find Khalid in the main room, sitting alone in front of the cold fireplace. The dying embers paint shadows across his face, making him look older than fifteen, younger than the weight he carries. He's got a piece of paper in his hands, covered in his careful handwriting.
"Couldn't sleep?" I ask.
"Practicing." He holds up the paper. "My testimony. Delaney says I should write it down, then say it out loud until the words feel natural."
I settle into the chair across from him, ignoring the pull in my side. "Want an audience?"
He considers for a moment, then nods.
"My name is Khalid al-Rashid," he begins, his voice quiet but clear. "I am fifteen years old. I was born in a village in Syria that no longer exists."
He pauses, finds his rhythm, continues.
"On the day my village died, I was drawing water from the well. My father had asked me to help because my brother Sami was sick and needed rest. That is why I survived. Because Sami was sick, and I was at the well when the chemicals came."
His grip on the paper is firm now, knuckles pale against the white.
"My village was designated as a test site for chemical weapons development under a program called Protocol Seven. Three hundred and forty-seven people died that day. I am the only survivor."
Reagan appears in the doorway, drawn by his voice. She leans against the frame, listening, and I see tears on her cheeks that she doesn't try to hide.
Khalid looks up from the paper, meeting my eyes.
"I am here to tell you their names," he continues. "To tell you what was done to them, and who ordered it done. I am here because the men who killed my family thought no one would ever know. Thought no one would ever speak for the dead."
His voice grows stronger, more certain.
"They were wrong."
He sets down the paper. Looks at me with eyes that refuse to look away from what he's lost.
"I will say their names until everyone hears. Until the men who ordered their deaths answer for what they did."
He folds the paper carefully, tucking it into his pocket like something precious. When he looks up, there's no fear in his face. Only resolve.
Tomorrow, the world will hear him.
13
REAGAN
The laptop screen shows a conference room in Washington that could be anywhere. Wood paneling, American flags, the seal of the House Intelligence Committee mounted on the wall behind a long curved table. Seven members of Congress sit in high-backed chairs, their faces arranged in expressions that range from skeptical to openly hostile.
In the corner of the screen, almost invisible unless you know to look, three figures in dark suits who haven't been introduced. Lawyers, according to Kane. Webb's people, embedded in the proceedings to protect Committee interests. I watch them conferring quietly among themselves, and my stomach tightens.
Khalid sits in a chair we've positioned in front of a neutral backdrop, a plain gray sheet that reveals nothing about our location. Tommy has routed our signal through seventeen different servers across four continents. Even if someone tried to trace us, they'd end up chasing ghosts through Eastern Europe.
The rest of the team is arranged around the room. Kane monitors the transmission from a laptop on the dining table. Mercer stands by the window, maintaining watch on the treelineeven now. Stryker sits in the corner, close enough to hear but positioned where the camera won't catch him.
"State your name for the record," the committee chairman says. Gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, the practiced gravitas of someone who has conducted hundreds of these hearings.
Khalid's hands are folded in his lap, the same way they were last night when he practiced. His voice comes out steady, clear. "My name is Khalid al-Rashid."
"And your age?"
