Page 18 of Echo: Burn
"She's also a civilian," Kane counters.
"Who just killed three trained operatives without hesitation," Rourke adds. "Stop treating her like she's fragile."
Kane gestures toward the screen. "Fine. Look."
The images make my stomach clench. Crime scene photos. Autopsy reports. Intelligence briefings. Dominic Cray isn't just a killer. He's an artist, and his medium is death.
"Sixty-seven confirmed kills," Tommy narrates. "Probable count is more than double that. Former British SAS, then freelance. Specializes in what the Committee calls 'complex problem resolution.'"
"Is that what I am?" I ask. "A complex problem?"
"You and Odin both." Mercer studies the screens. "Cray's signature is clean work. No forensic evidence. No witnesses."
Six years ago, I ran from Jack thinking he was the worst monster I'd ever face—I was wrong.
"So what do we do?" I ask.
"We wait." Kane's tone suggests this is the last thing he wants. "Cray works alone. He'll need time to gather intel. That gives us a window."
"How long?"
"A day. Maybe two if we're lucky."
"I need air," I say suddenly, the walls pressing in.
"Bad idea." Kane steps into my path. "You're safest here."
"I said I need air, not that I'm leaving." I meet his eyes. "Just show me somewhere I can breathe."
Something shifts in his expression—understanding. He knows about walls that close in.
"Follow me."
We walk in silence through tunnels that wind deeper into the mountain. Emergency lights cast everything in harsh shadows.
"How long have you been here?" I ask.
"About two years. The cabin below, longer." He navigates turns without hesitation. "After Kandahar, I needed distance."
"What happened in Kandahar?"
He's silent so long I think he won't answer. Then: "We were running a black ops mission in Kandahar. High value target, standard extraction. Except it wasn't standard. Someone in our chain of command sold us out to the Committee. They wanted the target eliminated along with everyone who knew about the operation—including us."
"They sent people to kill their own team?"
"Not people. A kill squad. Professional, well-funded, and they had our exact position." His voice goes flat, emotionless in the way people get when they're describing something too painful to feel. "We were ambushed in a safehouse. They came at us with everything—grenades, automatic weapons, the works. Nine of us went in—only six made it out, but just barely. Spent months going to ground, hiding, trying to figure out who we could trust."
His hand touches his neck scars. "There was another. Morrison. He was one of ours. He thought he could make it on his own. Thought he was too low down to be of any interest. By the time he realized his mistake and contacted us to get him out, the Committee had caught up with him in Kalispell. Rourke and I got there too late. All we could do was make sure they paid for it."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He knew the risks." Kane stops at a metal door, punching in a code. "We all did."
The door opens onto something impossible—a natural cavern with a crystal clear lake reflecting emergency lights like stars.
"This is beautiful."
"It's private." Kane's voice echoes off stone. "No one comes here except me."
