"They were already hunting us. This doesn't change that."
"It accelerates the timeline." Kane's jaw tightens. "If they think she knows where we are, they'll mobilize everything they have. We're not talking reconnaissance teams. We're talking full assault."
My phone buzzes. Encrypted message routing through from Echo Base. Sarah.
"Cross just made contact." I pull up the message on the main display. Victoria Cross's communication protocol is elegant. No video, no audio, just text encrypted through layers that would take NSA months, if not years, to crack.
Dylan's journalist has become expensive. Committee offering 500K for her location, double for live capture. Minimum six teams deployed, possibly more. They believe she has coordinates to primary target. They're already triangulating her last known position for systematic sweep. Webb personally authorized the operation. Morrison may be dead, but his successor is even more dangerous. Desperate men make mistakes, but they also stop caring about collateral damage. Protect your asset or eliminate her. Sitting on the fence will get you all killed. - Cross
The message disappears after thirty seconds. Standard Cross protocol. No traces, no evidence, nothing anyone can intercept.
Stryker checks his watch. "Assuming they don't get lucky and find her faster."
"They won't find her. She's here in a secure location with no digital footprint leading back to us." I look at Kane. "We have time to use her research. Build a case against Webb and the Committee that's solid enough to bring down their entire network."
"Or we have a narrow window before they mobilize a force large enough to overrun this position, and we're defending a journalist who can't shoot straight against operators who've been hunting us for months." Kane's hand rests near his sidearm. "I need more than 'she has good research' to justify that risk."
"She found connections we missed. Traced financial networks through systems designed to be invisible. Identified patterns in operations that we've been too close to see." I pull up her analysis, display it alongside our intelligence. "She's worth more alive than dead."
"And if she's not?"
The question hangs between us. Kane's not asking whether I can control Reagan. He's asking whether I'll make the call if she becomes a liability we can't afford.
"Then I'll handle it."
Kane holds my gaze. Looking for uncertainty, hesitation, anything that suggests I'm compromised by guilt or some misguided protective instinct. He won't find it. The difference now is choosing who to protect instead of who to eliminate.
"You have a limited window to prove she's worth keeping alive. If they find this location before then, or if she becomes a liability we can't contain, you eliminate the problem. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Good. Now go wake up your journalist and let's see if her research is as good as you claim."
Stryker heads for the armory to inventory ammunition. Mercer stays at his maps, marking defensive positions and firing lanes. Khalid follows me into the hallway, quiet as always, watching everything with those dark eyes that see too much.
"You like her."
I stop walking. Khalid stops beside me, patient as stone. Fifteen years old and already more perceptive than half the operators I've worked with.
"I respect her intelligence."
"That's not what I meant."
The kid reads people better than I did at twice his age. But admitting that requires admitting I'm using Reagan to balance scales that don't balance, to redeem choices that don't redeem.
"Go help with the perimeter check. Stryker needs an extra set of eyes."
Khalid nods, doesn't push. Smart. Knows when to let something rest.
Reagan's quarters. The lock disengages with a quiet click. Standard entry protocol. No warning, no courtesy knock. She needs to understand she's a detainee, not a guest.
When I enter the room, I see her laptop is closed but there are research files scattered across the desk. Reagan sits up fast when I enter, hand reaching for something that isn't there. Defensive instinct. Good. She's smart enough to be scared.
"Morning. We need to talk." I gesture to the laptop. "Bring your research. You're about to justify why I didn't put a bullet in you last night."
She blinks, processing. Morning light from the hallway cuts across her face. No makeup, hair disheveled from sleep, wearing yesterday's clothes. But her eyes are sharp. Alert. Already working the problem.
"The team wants me dead."
