Page 27 of Echo: Burn
The narrow bunk in the quarters Stryker assigned me is comfortable enough, but every time I close my eyes, I see muzzle flashes. Feel the rifle kick against my shoulder. Hear that wet thunk of bullets finding flesh. I’ve killed four people since this nightmare began. Two human beings who woke up this morning not knowing they'd be dead by midnight.
The clinical part of my brain—the trauma nurse who spent too many years in the ER—knows it was self-defense. They came to kill me. I responded with appropriate force. Textbook justified.
The human part of my brain doesn't care about textbooks.
I give up on sleep at 0330 and make my way to the operations center. The base is quiet at this hour, just the hum of equipment and the occasional drip of water somewhere in the tunnels. Emergency lights cast everything in harsh shadows that make the carved rock walls look like they're closing in.
Tommy's still at his console, fingers moving across keyboards with practiced efficiency. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I ask.
"Never do before an op." His voice is younger than his expertise suggests. "Coffee's fresh if you want some."
I pour a cup from the industrial-sized pot, the smell alone providing comfort. "How long have you been with them?"
"Nine months." He pulls up a new screen, code scrolling too fast for me to follow. "Found out the Committee was running an illegal surveillance program targeting US citizens. Made the mistake of thinking someone in government would care. Turns out the someone I told was on the Committee's payroll."
"They tried to kill you."
"Twice before Kane found me hiding in a server farm in Seattle." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are older than twenty-three should allow. "I thought I could handle it—the running, the looking over your shoulder, knowing the wrong mistake gets you killed."
"You can't." I lean against the console. "Six years and I still check the locks three times before bed. Still jump at car doors slamming. Still plan my exits before I enter a room."
"Does it get easier?"
"No." The truth tastes bitter. "You just get better at pretending it does."
The honesty cuts deeper than intended. I thought I was done running when I came to Montana. Thought I'd finally found peace.
Then I saved a dog.
"The briefing's at 0500," Tommy says. "Kane wants everyone combat-ready. Full kit, weapons check, contingency planning."
"I should get ready then."
"Doc?" He stops me before I reach the door. "What you did tonight—engaging those operatives—that took guts. Most civilians would've frozen."
"My father didn't raise a civilian." The words come automatically. "He raised a survivor."
"Good." Tommy's expression is serious. "Because what you're about to do tomorrow makes tonight look like target practice."
The weight of that settles over me as I head to the armory. Stryker's already there, field-stripping weapons with methodical precision. He doesn't acknowledge my entrance, just continues his work with the focus of someone performing a religious ritual.
I select an M4 from the rack, the one I used earlier. It's been cleaned and maintained, ready for whatever comes next.
"Your father was a Marine," Stryker says without looking up. "Gunnery Sergeant, you said?"
"Second Battalion, Sixth Marines. Three tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan." I begin my own weapons check, muscle memory taking over. "He made sure I knew how to protect myself before he died."
"Smart man." Stryker assembles a pistol with practiced ease. "Most fathers teach their daughters to be victims. Teach them to be nice, to not make waves, to trust that someone else will keep them safe."
"My father knew better." I chamber a round, then clear it. "He said the world was dangerous and pretending otherwise was suicide."
"He was right." Stryker finally looks at me. "Kane told you about Kandahar?"
"Some. That someone in your chain of command sold you out."
"Not just us. Nine good men went into that operation. Only six came out, we left three good men and pieces of ourselves behind." He sets the assembled pistol aside. "Morrison thought he could make it on his own. Thought if he kept his head down, stayed small, the Committee would forget about him."
