Kessler is escalating. The Committee is moving. And somewhere between tactical planning and threat assessment, I need to decide if I'm willing to fight for more than just Rachel and Lucas's survival.
I need to decide if I'm willing to fight for a future where I don't walk away when the mission ends. Where staying matters more than the careful distance I've maintained for years.
10
RACHEL
Days buried in a mountain and I'm starting to understand why prisoners go insane.
No windows. No natural light. No way to tell if it's morning or night except by checking the digital clocks scattered throughout Echo Base. The ventilation system hums constantly, pushing recycled air through corridors carved from solid rock.
Lucas adapts better than I do. Kids always do. He's made friends with Khalid and Odin, learned the layout of the communal areas, claimed his room as his territory. This morning he woke up asking if we could explore the gym, eyes bright with excitement that comes from treating this whole situation like an adventure instead of captivity.
I couldn't tell him no. Couldn't explain that being trapped inside a mountain makes my skin crawl. That I keep checking exits even though there's nowhere to run. The confinement triggers something primal left over from Mateo's compound—not because the spaces are similar, but because I can't leave when I want to.
So here we are, standing at the entrance to Echo Base's training facility while Lucas practically vibrates with energy beside me.
The gym is massive. Weight equipment lines one wall. A boxing ring occupies the center. Mats cover the floor in sections designated for different training purposes. Punching bags hang from chains bolted into the rock ceiling.
Stryker stands in the boxing ring with Mercer, both of them stripped down to tactical pants and compression shirts. Sweat gleams on exposed skin. They circle each other with the focused intensity of predators, every movement deliberate and controlled.
Heat pools low in my belly watching him move. Dangerous and lethal and still the most attractive man I've ever seen.
"Whoa," Lucas breathes beside me. "Are they fighting for real?"
"They're training," I correct, unable to look away as Stryker throws a combination that Mercer blocks with practiced efficiency. "Learning how to defend themselves."
"Can I learn?"
"Maybe when you're older."
Mercer feints left, then drives forward with a blow aimed at Stryker's ribs. Stryker pivots, redirects the momentum, and suddenly Mercer hits the mat with Stryker's knee pressed against his spine and one arm twisted behind his back in a hold that looks painful even from here.
"Yield," Mercer grunts.
Stryker releases him immediately and offers a hand up. "You're telegraphing the feint. I see it coming every time."
"Noted." Mercer rolls his shoulders, testing the joint. "Again?"
They reset, and I force myself to look away before the heat building in my core becomes obvious. Watching Stryker move like that does things to me I'm not ready to acknowledge.
Lucas has already wandered over to where Tommy is spotting Sarah on the bench press. Khalid appears fromsomewhere, Odin padding along beside him, and Lucas lights up at the sight of his new friends.
"Can Lucas hang out with us?" Khalid asks me. "I was going to teach Odin some new commands. Lucas could help."
Relief floods through me. "That would be great. Thank you." I meet Khalid's eyes, hoping he understands how much I appreciate him spending time with a kid almost a decade younger. "Really. Thank you."
Lucas bounds over to Khalid without a backward glance, already chattering about what tricks Odin should learn next.
I move to one of the benches along the wall and settle in to watch. Partly because leaving Lucas feels wrong, partly because I need the distraction, partly because watching Stryker train is better than sitting alone in our quarters counting the hours until something happens.
Mercer and Stryker go at it again, and this time there's no holding back. Mercer comes in hard with strikes designed to overwhelm, but Stryker slips most of them and counters with devastating precision. A knee to Mercer's midsection doubles him over. Stryker follows with an elbow that stops just short of Mercer's temple.
"Dead," Stryker says flatly.
"Christ." Mercer straightens, breathing hard. "You're faster than last month."
"Motivated." Stryker's eyes flick to me, just for a second, before returning to Mercer. "Can't afford to be slow anymore."
