Page 24 of Echo: Burn
"Maybe." Her breath plumes in the cold. "Or maybe he'd say I should've left Montana the second that dog showed up at my clinic."
"Smart men don't always give the right advice."
She almost smiles. "He'd have liked you anyway."
"Sounds like a good man."
"He was the best man I ever knew." She pauses. "Then I met Jack and came to realize how rare men like my father really are."
The bitterness in those words cuts deeper than she probably intended. I've heard that tone before, in the voices of people who've learned the hard way that evil doesn't announce itself. It just smiles, shakes your hand, then waits for you to turn your back.
"Your ex. How long?"
"Six years since I ran. Eight since the first time he put his hands on me." She delivers it like a diagnosis, doctor's detachment keeping the pain at arm's length. "I don't know why I stayed as long as I did before I finally accepted that he wasn't going to change."
I've killed men for less than what she's describing. Killed them and slept fine afterward because the world's better without predators who prey on the people who trust them.
"Did he ever find you?"
"I’m not sure he looked. I went underground—sort of. I didn’t change my name, but I moved to Montana, became a veterinarian, and built a life that had nothing to do with the woman I used to be. The trauma nurse who lived with Dr. Jack Williamson, cardiologist and respected pillar of the medical community simply disappeared." The sarcasm cuts like broken glass. "I thought I was safe. I thought I might finally have outrun the monsters."
"And then you saved a dog and found new monsters."
"And then I saved a dog." She almost smiles. "Story of my life. I can't leave broken things alone. Even when leaving them alone is the smart choice."
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. Because we both know she's not just talking about the dog anymore.
"Willa...”
"Contact moving." Her voice snaps into focus, professional and controlled. "North sector. One signature breaking from the tree line."
I swing my optic to confirm. She's right. One of the contacts is advancing toward the cabin while the other holds overwatch. Still tactical, still controlled, but they're moving into engagement range.
"Tommy, I need an ID on these contacts," I say into my comms.
"Working on it. Facial recognition is useless with the storm, but I'm running gait analysis and movement patterns against known Committee operatives." His fingers clatter across keys. "Give me thirty seconds."
We don't have thirty seconds. The contact's moving faster now, closing the distance with purpose. Two hundred meters from the cabin. One-fifty. One hundred.
"He's heading straight for your place," Willa observes.
She's right. The approach vector puts him on a direct line for the cabin. They're not looking for Echo Base—they don't know it exists. They're looking for the hermit who supposedly lives alone in the wilderness. Looking for me.
Or looking for evidence that I'm something more than a hermit.
"Mercer, do you have a shot?" I ask.
"Affirmative. Clean line. Eight hundred meters. Wind's tricky but manageable."
"Hold fire. Let him get close. I want to know what he's after."
"Kane." Willa's voice carries a warning I don't like. "If he reaches the cabin...”
"The cabin's clean. Nothing there that proves anything except a guy who likes his privacy." I watch the contact advance. "He's looking for proof. Let's not give him any."
The contact reaches the cabin. Through the thermal imaging, I watch him circle the structure, checking windows, testing the door. Professional. Thorough. This isn't some hired gun. This is someone with training.
"Boss, I've got an ID." Tommy's fingers stop flying across the keyboard. "Former Delta. Dishonorable discharge three years ago. Multiple allegations of excessive force. He's been freelancing in the private sector since. Last known employer was...”
