"For fourteen years, I was an operative for a shadow organization embedded within our intelligence and military apparatus," Dylan continues. "We referred to it internally as the Committee. I conducted interrogations, eliminated targets, and helped cover up operations that violated every law and treaty the United States has ever signed. Including the chemical weapons test that killed Khalid's village."
"You admit to participating in war crimes?"
"I admit to following orders from men who positioned themselves as patriots while committing atrocities in the name of national security." Dylan's voice is flat, controlled, but I can hear the steel underneath. "General David Morrison authorized Protocol Seven. He personally signed off on using Syrian villages as testing grounds for chemical weapons delivery systems."
"General Morrison is deceased."
"I'm aware. His death doesn't erase what he authorized." Dylan leans forward slightly. "And the man who succeeded him, General Marcus Webb, has continued and expanded Protocol Seven operations. The documentation you've received includes operational orders, financial transfers, and communication intercepts that trace directly to Webb's office. This isn't a rogue operation. It's policy."
The questions continue for another hour. Dylan walks the committee through the structure of the organization, the chainof command, the mechanisms by which Protocol Seven was authorized and concealed. Some operational details are redacted in real time by Tommy, protecting Echo Ridge's location and methods. But the core testimony is devastating.
The lawyers try to intervene repeatedly. They challenge Dylan's credibility, his motives, his mental state. They suggest he's a bitter ex-operative seeking revenge for being "terminated." They imply his testimony is fabricated, coordinated with hostile foreign intelligence services.
Dylan answers each attack with calm precision, citing dates and documents and operational details that the lawyers clearly weren't expecting.
When it's my turn, I take my place in front of the camera and feel the weight of everything I've documented pressing down on my shoulders. This is what I've been working toward for months. Late nights following money trails. Dead ends that led to breakthroughs. Sources who trusted me with information that could get them killed. All of it comes down to the next few hours.
"State your name and occupation for the record."
"Reagan Mitchell. Investigative journalist."
The chairman consults his notes. "Ms. Mitchell, you've provided this committee with extensive documentation regarding alleged ongoing operations under General Webb's leadership. Can you summarize your findings?"
I pull up my notes on the tablet beside me, though I barely need them. I've lived with this investigation for so long that the details are burned into my memory.
"My investigation began with financial irregularities in defense contractor payments that didn't align with any known programs." I keep my voice steady, professional, the voice I've used in a hundred interviews. "Those payments led to shell companies, which led to operational funding streams, which led to a pattern of activities that revealed the existence of a shadoworganization operating outside any congressional oversight. The same organization Mr. Rourke described."
"What kind of activities?"
"Targeted eliminations of individuals this organization deemed threats. Fabrication of evidence to discredit whistleblowers. Infiltration of federal agencies to suppress investigations." I look directly at the camera. "And continuation of Protocol Seven testing, not in Syria, but in other locations where the deaths can be attributed to civil conflict or natural disaster."
The lawyers object. The chairman overrules them. I continue.
"The documentation I've provided includes financial records showing payments from Webb's office to contractors involved in these operations. Communication intercepts discussing the suppression of previous investigations. And operational reports that reference ongoing 'field testing' of chemical compounds in civilian populations."
"Ms. Mitchell," one of the lawyers interrupts, his voice dripping with condescension. "You're a journalist, not an intelligence analyst. You have no expertise in evaluating classified operations. And frankly, your publication history suggests a pattern of conspiracy-minded speculation rather than legitimate journalism."
"My publication history includes two national journalism awards and a Pulitzer nomination," I respond evenly. "And the documents I've provided can be authenticated by independent forensic analysis. I'm not asking you to take my word for it. I'm asking you to examine the evidence."
The hearing continues for another two hours. By the end, my voice is hoarse and my nerves are raw. The lawyers have attacked every piece of testimony, every document, every claim. They've painted Khalid as a traumatized child manipulated byterrorists. They've painted Dylan as a disgruntled operative fabricating evidence for revenge. They've painted me as a conspiracy theorist chasing shadows.
But the committee members themselves are different. I can see it in their faces, in the way they've stopped taking notes and started truly listening. The cumulative weight of three witnesses, each corroborating the others, each providing documentation that aligns with the larger pattern, has created momentum that the lawyers' objections can't derail.
After the video link goes dark, the hunting lodge is silent for a long moment.
"That's it," Kane says finally. "Now we wait."
Within hours, the media coverage begins. Someone on the committee leaked fragments of the testimony, and suddenly the investigation I've spent months building is everywhere.
I scroll through the coverage on my laptop, watching the story spread across platforms. The major networks run it as their lead story, though the framing varies wildly depending on the outlet. Some emphasize the shocking allegations. Others emphasize the "controversial sources" and "unverified claims."
The response is exactly as divided as I expected. Mainstream outlets treat the story cautiously, emphasizing the "allegations" and "claims," noting that the witnesses have not been independently verified. They give equal weight to the lawyers' objections, framing the narrative as "disputed" and "controversial." One anchor, a man I've respected for years, uses the phrase "conspiracy theories" twice in his two-minute segment.
Independent journalists are more aggressive. They start pulling threads from my documentation, cross-referencing with their own sources, building on the foundation we've laid. Within a day, three separate investigative teams have confirmed elements of the financial trail I uncovered.
Social media is chaos. Conspiracy theories bloom in both directions. Some accounts insist we're government plants spreading disinformation. Others claim we don't go far enough, that the Committee controls everything from the media to the weather. The signal is buried in noise, which is probably exactly what Webb intended.
But underneath the noise, something is happening. Federal investigators formally request my documentation through official channels. The request comes with the kind of bureaucratic language that usually means nothing will happen, but Kane's sources say otherwise. Someone with authority signed off on this request. Someone who isn't in Webb's pocket.
