I run deeper searches, cross-reference databases. References to a Baltimore operation that went wrong surface in the files. An analyst who went missing. Suspected Committee action, but no confirmation.
No confirmation means no body. No body means possibility.
I check the dead drops I established before going dark. From when we were careful and hopeful and believed we had time.
There are messages. Dozens of them. Starting early in my operation and tapering off recently.
I read them in chronological order, watching her desperation escalate with each entry.
The first few are carefully worded. Operational updates. Questions about when I'll surface. Nothing that would compromise security if intercepted.
Then they change.
Micah, I need help. Cover blown. Committee hit. Please respond.
Emergency extraction needed. Can't go through official channels. Please, Micah.
Gabe's missing. They took him. I can't do this alone. Please, Micah. Please.
The timestamps show me exactly what I missed. They show me the exact moment she stopped believing I'd answer.
The last message is dated weeks ago. Just two words.
Never mind.
I sit in the safe house and stare at the screen until the text blurs.
The handler comes back with paperwork for me to sign. Debriefing complete. Mission accomplished. They're moving against the organization within the month, and my intelligence made it possible.
"What about the NSA analyst?" I ask.
He looks confused. "Which one?"
"Sarah Andrews. Baltimore operation. Hit by the Committee."
"Oh." Recognition dawns. "She's alive. Pulled herself out, apparently. Reckless and undertrained, but she got lucky." His mouth tightens. "She's with Echo Ridge now. That whole circus. They operate outside the chain of command and call it heroics. No oversight, no accountability. It's a liability dressed up as legend, and a threat to every legitimate operation in the field."
Relief hits, sharp and unexpected, but I keep it off my face. Sarah's alive. That's what matters. Everything else—Echo Ridge, the handler's contempt, the professional implications—I can deal with later.
The handler gives me a look I can't quite read. "You know her?"
"Used to." Past tense. Because whatever we were died while I was playing spy in their network. "Good to know she made it out."
"Yeah." He hands me the paperwork. "Sign here, here, and here. You're cleared for reassignment. Take some time, decompress, let us know when you're ready to get back to work."
I sign where he indicates. The handler shakes my hand and congratulates me on a job well done.
All I can see is Sarah's bruised face.
I take extended leave instead of the next assignment they offer.
The official story is burnout. Long operations take a toll, they understand completely, take all the time I need. Truth is I can't face another mission knowing what the last one cost.
I try reaching out. Once. A message to the last known contact for Sarah, carefully worded to avoid compromising her if she's still operational.
It bounces back. Address inactive. No forwarding information.
She doesn't want to be found. At least not by me.
