Page 7 of Echo: Spark
The words hit like ice water dumped down my spine, each syllable a violation of the careful anonymity I've built around myself. Syria. The village. Eighteen children the brass wanted vaporized because insurgents might be hiding among them, might be using the school as a weapons cache. Children whose faces I can still see when I close my eyes, their laughter echoing through my nightmares. Nobody knows those details. Nobody alive should know the exact reason I disobeyed a direct order and painted a target on my back that will never fade.
My crossbow tracks the speaker with mechanical precision, the weapon an extension of my will. Taller than average, careful movement that speaks of years in the field, eyes that never stop scanning even as he talks. The kind of situational awareness that keeps operators alive in hostile territory. The second man hangs back in a support position, younger, moving like he's nursing recent injuries. Taller and bulkier than the first. Both have sidearms clearly visible but nothing drawn. Suicide, walking in here like this, offering themselves up to the ghost of the Montana wilderness. Unless they know something I don't. Unless this is exactly what it appears to be.
"I was in Crete six months ago," Kane continues, hands raised in the universal gesture of peaceful intent. "My handler sold us out for political convenience. Three of my team died because someone decided we were expendable. I know what it's like to be hunted by the people who were supposed to have your back."
Crete. I'd heard whispers before going completely dark, fragments of intelligence about a blown operation, CIA involvement, good operators dying for bad reasons. The kind of story that's become depressingly common in our line of work. My finger eases off the detonator, but the crossbow stays level, aimed center mass. Could be truth. Could be the most sophisticated approach anyone's tried yet, built on genuine intelligence and calculated to appeal to my sense of brotherhood.
The younger one shifts position, and I catch the subtle favoring of his left side. Recent injury. Torso, probably ribs or lung. These aren't fresh hunters sent after me by handlers with unlimited resources. They're wounded animals, damaged goods, survivors of their own betrayals. Same as me.
I ease out from behind the fallen pine that's been my hide for the past six hours, moving slow enough they can track mymovement but fast enough to maintain tactical advantage. The crossbow never wavers from Kane's chest. His nostrils flare, senses knife-sharp—most people have that reaction when they first see what eight months of mountain solitude does to a man.
I see it in his eyes—the cataloging, the instant tactical math. I don’t think like that anymore. My math is how long before the meat spoils, how deep to bury brass so satellites can’t catch the glint. Different equations. Same outcome.
My hair hangs past my shoulders now, matted with pine sap and mud that serves as natural camouflage. The beard hides most of my face, leaving just eyes that have seen too much darkness, that reflect the feral edge of someone who's forgotten how to trust.
"You've got thirty seconds to explain how you found me." My voice sounds strange after hours of silence, rougher than I remember. "And make it convincing."
"NSA analyst," Kane says simply, no elaboration, no wasted words. "Sarah Andrews. She tracked your supply runs, analyzed your movement patterns, built a behavioral profile. She's also bleeding in your secondary cabin with intelligence you need to see."
My cabin. The words freeze me for half a heartbeat that stretches into eternity. Nobody knows about the secondary shelter, the one I built three miles from here as a fallback position when paranoia demanded redundancy. Nobody except…
The crossbow swings toward the tree line as my mind races through possibilities. A wounded analyst changes every calculation, shifts every variable. Bait? Elaborate trap designed to exploit my protective instincts? Or exactly what it appears—desperate people making desperate plays with limited options?
"Show me." The words come out before I can second-guess them.
We move through my maze of defenses like some deadly dance, me calling out each trap location in clipped military brevity, watching them navigate the deadly puzzle I've spent months perfecting. They follow instructions with absolute precision, no hesitation, no questions that might suggest deception. Professional courtesy between operators. They know I could eliminate them at any point during this movement, and they're trusting me not to exercise that option.
Stryker’s voice drifts forward from behind Kane, pitched low enough not to carry. “I stay alive by counting the names of the dead before I sleep. Reminds me not to join them.”
I don’t want to answer, but the words slip out anyway. “I name the traps. Each one wears a face. Reminds me why I built them.”
Silence stretches between us, the kind that says he understands. Then a rough chuckle. “Morbid works. Morbid keeps us breathing.”
For a moment the mountain feels less empty, less like it wants me swallowed whole.
The cabin materializes from the forest like something from a fairy tale, built into the natural hillside contours with camouflage so complete it seems to grow from the mountain itself. Inside, she's exactly where Kane said she'd be—propped against the far wall, shoulder wrapped in field dressing that's more blood than bandage. Pale, sweating from shock and blood loss, but alert. Her credentials spread across my rough-hewn table beside a tablet displaying files that make my blood turn to frozen slush.
"You're Mercer." Not a question. Her voice carries despite the obvious pain, strong enough to suggest she's tougher than her slight frame implies. "I've been tracking the termination lists for six weeks. You need to know what you've really been doing out here."
"Surviving." The word comes out harder than intended, carrying eight months of justified paranoia and barely controlled rage.
"No." She pushes the tablet toward me with her good hand, the movement obviously painful. "You've been completing their field test. Perfect success rate."
My stomach knots until I can barely draw air. For months I thought paranoia was keeping me alive. Turns out it was keeping their books balanced. I lean one hand against the rough cabin wall, feel splinters bite my palm, ground myself in pain because the alternative is collapse. The ghosts of the five teams press closer, heavier, accusing.
The files swim into focus as my hands steady against the table's rough surface. Names. Dates. Locations. All the teams I've eliminated, but with details I didn't have, context that transforms everything. Jackson Mills, former SEAL Team 6, burned after refusing to assassinate a government whistleblower. David Park, Marine Force Recon, abandoned in hostile territory after exposing contractor corruption. Miguel Santos, Green Beret, betrayed for investigating illegal weapons smuggling to cartels.
"They're using burned operators to hunt burned operators." Sarah's words come slower now, fighting shock that's winning despite her determination. "Coercion, blackmail, threatening families. They know you'll eliminate the threats without asking questions because you can't afford to hesitate. Perfect deniability for systematic housecleaning."
My hands remain steady but my mind tilts sideways, reality reshaping itself into something uglier than I'd imagined. Five teams of brothers, former comrades forced to hunt me, knowing with professional certainty that I'd kill them for trying. Men who'd chosen conscience over command, just like me, driven to eliminate someone who'd made the same choice. The forestsuddenly feels different, heavier, like the weight of their ghosts pressing down through the pine canopy.
I've been defending myself by completing their execution list, one forced confrontation at a time.
The tablet shows more names, scrolling through an endless catalog of betrayal. Forty-three operators confirmed dead across twelve states. Another twenty missing, presumed eliminated. All operators who'd refused illegal orders, exposed corruption, chosen moral clarity over career advancement. A systematic purge disguised as a shadow war, turning our own training and loyalty against us.
"Who's 'they'?" My voice sounds strange, distant, like it belongs to someone watching this conversation from outside their own body.
"Committee designation 'Architect,'" Sarah manages through gritted teeth. "Joint CIA-DOD black project. They're cleaning house before congressional oversight hearings next month. Eliminating everyone who might testify about illegal operations."
