"Yeah." I cross to her, pull her up from the desk, kiss her properly. "We are."
"Good." She kisses me back, then pulls away. "Because I have work to do. And you have a training session to supervise."
"Later?"
"Later." The promise in her voice makes it clear what later means. "Always later."
I leave her to her investigation and head toward the training area where Khalid's already warming up under Mercer's watchful eye. The kid's form is improving, technique getting cleaner, confidence building.
Kane appears beside me, watching the same scene. "You did good, bringing them here."
"They proved themselves."
"They did." He's quiet for a moment. "The Committee leadership is still out there. The organization is damaged but not destroyed. This fight isn't over."
"I know."
"But you're okay with that."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I didn't get the clean victory. Didn't get the leadership in prison, didn't destroy everything they built." I gesture at Khalid, at Reagan visible through the door still working. "But I got them. Got this team, this place. That's enough."
Kane nods slowly. "Yeah. It is."
Khalid's getting faster. In another year, he'll be formidable. In two, dangerous. The Committee took his family, his home, his childhood.
We're giving him the tools to take something back.
The leadership might be insulated for now. But their organization is bleeding, their people are flipping, and we've proven they're not invincible.
That's a start.
17
REAGAN
The mess hall at Echo Base smells like coffee and bacon when I wake. Dylan's already up, and through our quarters' open door I can hear the low murmur of voices from the common area. Three months at Echo Base, and I still wake before him most mornings. Not today.
Odin's nails click against the corridor floor outside our door. He'll be heading to Khalid's quarters, same as every morning since Willa brought him here.
I find Dylan at one of the corner tables, breakfast laid out for three. He glances up when I enter, and the small smile he gives me is worth more than all the bylines I collected in my previous life.
"Khalid's still in his quarters," he says. "Figured we'd let him have another twenty minutes."
"His last session with Dr. Voss ran late." I pour coffee from the industrial dispenser, settle into the chair beside him. "She says he's making progress with the nightmares."
"Good." Dylan pushes a plate toward me.
Khalid asked for the therapy himself about two months ago. After testifying at the Morrison trials, something shifted. He came to Dylan and said he wanted help processing whatMorrison's people did to him, to his family. Dr. Voss works remotely through Tommy's encrypted system—video calls twice a week. She specializes in trauma survivors and has the security clearance to understand what Khalid actually survived without requiring details that might compromise operations.
"He asked about training again," Dylan says. "Wants to know when I'll teach him to shoot."
"He's a teenager."
"I was fourteen when I first fired a rifle." He takes a bite of toast. "Not saying we should. Just saying I understand why he's asking."
The protective instinct in me says no. The part that killed a man to save him understands.
"Let's see what Dr. Voss thinks," I say finally. "If she clears it, we start small. Basic safety, fundamentals."
