Dylan nods. "Fair enough."
Khalid appears twenty minutes later, hair sticking up on one side, school tablet tucked under his arm. He's grown in the past months. Not taller yet, but broader through the shoulders, filling out from regular meals and Mercer's conditioning program.
"Morning." He slides into his chair. "Is today weapons maintenance or tactical movement?"
"School," Dylan says. "You've got calculus and European history."
"I finished European history yesterday." Khalid attacks his eggs with the enthusiasm of a teenager who burns calories faster than he can consume them. "Turned in the essay on the Congress of Vienna."
"Then you've got calculus and literature." I pull up his school schedule on my tablet. "And your session with Dr. Voss at two."
He makes a face but doesn't argue. We've had this conversation enough times that he knows the sessions aren't optional, even if he chose them himself.
Khalid sleeps through most nights now. Laughs at Dylan's terrible jokes. Talks about engineering programs and college applications.
After breakfast, Dylan heads to the training level for his shift supervising morning drills while Khalid settles into the education pod with his schoolwork. I retreat to my office—one of the converted mine offices Kane allocated, equipped with two monitors, a secure server connection Tommy personally configured, and file boxes full of documents that would give most journalists nightmares.
My current investigation sprawls across both screens. Financial networks, shell companies, money laundering operations that trace back to Committee remnants. The organization bled members after Morrison's exposure, but Webb and the remaining leadership adapted. Smaller now. More careful. Harder to track.
But not invisible.
I'm following breadcrumbs through banking records when my encrypted phone buzzes. Victoria Cross. Our arrangement shifted after the initial prosecutions. What started as her providing intelligence to hurt her enemies evolved into something more professional. Echo Ridge pays for her information at market rates for quality intel. She's reliable, motivated by money and the satisfaction of watching Webb's empire crumble, and smart enough to stay three steps ahead of retaliation.
"Mitchell." I answer on the second ring.
"Good morning, Reagan." Cross's voice carries that perpetual amusement, like everything is slightly funny and she's the only one who gets the joke. "How's domestic life treating you?"
"Surprisingly good. Turns out I'm decent at helping with calculus homework." I settle back in my chair. "You sound like you have something interesting."
"Always do. And I'm glad domesticity suits you—though I suspect you're already restless for the next story." Papers rustle on her end. "Let's talk about the Committee's restructuring. Webb cut loose anyone who showed signs of flipping during the prosecutions. Down to a small core of operatives now, all true believers or too compromised to walk away."
I make notes, my shorthand covering the margin of my current document. "A small group that's still viable."
"More than viable. They're leaner, meaner, and learning from Morrison's mistakes. No more grand schemes, no more Protocol Seven scale operations. They're focusing on what they do best—intelligence brokering, arms facilitation, targeted eliminations."
"Back to basics."
"Exactly. But here's where it gets interesting." Cross pauses, and I hear her take a drink of something. "The power vacuum is filling with new players. Eastern European mostly. Names you wouldn't recognize but connections that go deep. One in particular keeps surfacing in my channels. Anatoly Kosygin."
I type the name, run it through my databases while Cross continues.
"Former FSB, organized crime connections, ties to oligarchs who need dirty work done quietly. He's been making moves in the gap left by Morrison’s death. Not directly challenging the Committee, more like parallel operations with occasional cooperation."
"Russian intelligence operating in Committee space." My stomach drops. That's worse than Morrison.
"It is. And Webb seems fine with it as long as Kosygin stays in his lane. But I don't think that arrangement will last. Kosygin's ambitious, Webb's territorial, and eventually someone's going to test boundaries."
"When they do, we need to be ready."
"Precisely why I called." Cross's tone shifts, more serious now. "I'm sending you financial data. Wire transfers, shell company formations, property purchases. Kosygin's building infrastructure. Following the money might tell you what he's planning before he actually moves."
"Appreciated. Invoice Kane directly?"
"Already sent. Oh, and Reagan?" Cross pauses. "Whatever you're building there in Montana, with Dylan and the kid, don't let Kosygin's people find it. He plays rough."
The call ends. I sit back, staring at the name on my screen. Anatoly Kosygin. Another monster filling the space where Morrison used to operate. Cut off one head, two more grow back.
My phone buzzes with Cross's data dump. Encrypted files, financial records, surveillance photos. I'll spend days tracing these connections, building the next investigation. What I publish keeps pressure on Webb's operations. What I don't publish goes into operational files for Kane.
