Sleep pulls at me despite the fear. Despite the locked door and the camera in the corner and the knowledge that I might not survive the night.
My last thought before darkness takes me is simple.
They want proof I'm worth keeping alive.
In the morning, I'll show them exactly what an investigative journalist can do when she's fighting for her life.
2
DYLAN
Dawn breaks over the mountains, painting the safe house walls in shades of gray that match my mood.
Sleep wasn't an option. I spent the night monitoring camera feeds from Reagan's quarters, reviewing her published articles, cross-referencing her investigation against our intelligence. The woman is thorough. Reckless as hell, but thorough. She found connections to Webb that took us months to piece together, did it in half the time with a fraction of the resources.
Brilliant or lucky. Maybe both. Definitely dangerous.
The coffee maker gurgles in the corner. Black coffee, second cup, and the security monitor shows Reagan still asleep. Curled on her side, her laptop on the desk. She’s making subtle movements of her fingers as if even unconscious, she's working the problem.
Reminds me of someone. Before they turned her curiosity into a death sentence.
The thought needs to stay buried. Lisa's been dead for years. Drawing parallels between my dead wife and the journalist the Committee believes can expose our location is the kind of thinking that gets people killed.
"She awake yet?" Kane's voice comes from the doorway. He moves quiet for a man his size. Old habits from too many operations where noise meant death.
"Not yet."
"Good. Gives us time to talk before I decide whether she's a threat we can't contain."
Kane doesn't make threats lightly. If he decides Reagan compromises our security beyond what we can manage, he'll do what's necessary. But he'll exhaust every option first. The fact that he let me bring her here at all is more trust than I deserve, given what she represents.
"Conference room. Five minutes." Kane disappears down the hallway without waiting for confirmation.
The coffee goes down bitter. One more cup, then I head to the briefing. Five operators, one teenage survivor, and now one investigative journalist who doesn't know when to stop digging. The safe house wasn't built for this many people. Tommy and Sarah Andrews are coordinating from Echo Base with Willa, Delaney, and Odin, which helps, but we're still cramped.
Kane's at the head of the table when I walk in. Stryker to his right, looking like he spent the night cleaning weapons. He did. Mercer's reviewing tactical maps on the display screen, probably calculating firing angles and kill zones like he always does before briefings. Khalid's in the corner with a book, pretending not to listen while cataloging every word.
"Sit." Kane doesn't look up from the file he's reading. Reagan's background check, pulled from every database Sarah could access legally and a few she couldn't. "Let's start with why you didn't eliminate the security breach on sight."
Straight to it then. No preamble, no discussion of tactical options.
"She has six months of research we need."
"She has six months of research that led them straight to our doorstep." Kane slides the file across the table. "Sarah pulled her blog posts, encrypted communications, source documents. She's been broadcasting her investigation to anyone paying attention. Including Webb."
"Webb thinks she has our exact coordinates." I tap the file. "Her analysis got close. Narrowed our location to a 100-square-mile radius. But she didn't have pinpoint coordinates. They don't know that. They think she's holding back, waiting to publish the final piece."
"So we have a journalist who accidentally painted a target on us, and now they're mobilizing to find her because they think she knows more than she does." Stryker leans back in his chair. "How is this not a problem we solve with a shallow grave?"
"Because last time I checked, we were the good guys, and because her investigation proves Morrison wasn't working alone." The tactical display comes up, Reagan's research overlaid with our intelligence. "Look at the financial connections. Before he died, Morrison authorized the Syrian operation, but the funding came through three different shell corporations. Reagan traced them back to Colonel Richard Whitmore at Fort Bragg and General Nancy Turner at CYBERCOM. She's mapped a network we've been hunting for months."
Kane studies the display. His expression doesn't change but I know that look. Running scenarios, calculating risks and benefits, weighing Reagan's value against the threat she represents.
"Morrison, Whitmore, and Turner." Kane's voice stays flat. "That's command authority across three branches. If they're coordinating, this goes deeper than we thought."
"Reagan's files prove it. Documentation, financial records, authorization signatures. Everything we need to prove there’s a much a larger operation."
"And everything they need to eliminate everyone who knows about it." Mercer doesn't look up from his maps. "Now including us, because you brought her here."
