Page 45 of Echo: Burn
"Domestic deployment," Sarah repeats quietly. "They're planning to use chemical weapons on US soil?"
"I don't know the operational details. I just know the dog became a priority target the second Dr. Hart found him behind her clinic." Cray's eyes find mine. "But there's something else you should know. Something the Committee's particularly interested in."
"What?"
"Dr. Hart's father. Gunnery Sergeant Michael Hart. He was involved in something years ago—classified op, never went public. The Committee has files on him. And when his daughter showed up on their radar..." He trails off meaningfully.
Willa goes absolutely still beside me. "What about my father?"
"Ask Kane." Cray's smile is cold. "His people were there too. Black ops cleanup team, working parallel to the Committee's interests. Small world, isn't it?"
My blood turns to ice. The Yemen operation. The one that went sideways when we discovered a rogue chemical weapons cache that wasn't supposed to exist. We'd burned it down, killed everyone involved, and buried the evidence deep.
Gunnery Sergeant Hart had been one of the Marines on site. I remember him—tough as nails, asked too many questions, wanted to know why a black ops team was torching evidence instead of reporting it up the chain.
We'd told him the same thing we told all witnesses: forget what you saw, or you won't like what happens next.
"Kane?" Willa's voice cuts through the memory. "What is he talking about?"
Before I can answer, Tommy's voice crackles through the intercom. "Kane, we've got a problem. You need to get to operations now."
"On my way." I look at Rourke. "Watch him. If he stops breathing, revive him. We're not done."
I'm already moving, Willa right behind me. The corridor feels longer than usual, every step measured against whatever threat Tommy's found.
The operations center is chaos—controlled, professional chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Tommy's at the main console, screens filled with surveillance feeds and data streams. Stryker and Mercer flank him, both armed.
"What've we got?" I ask.
"Someone made a delivery to Dr. Hart's clinic an hour ago." Tommy pulls up security footage—grainy but clear enough. A figure in nondescript clothing approaches the back of the clinic, leaves a package by the rear entrance, and disappears. "Local PD hasn't responded yet. But Kane..." He switches feeds. "The package has your names on it."
My stomach drops.
Tommy zooms in on the package. Written in neat block letters across the brown paper:WILLA AND KANE.
Not her full name. Not my full name. Just enough to make it personal.
"What's inside?" Willa asks, voice steady despite what I hear underneath—the fear she's fighting to control.
"Unknown. Could be explosives. Could be surveillance intel. Could be a message." Tommy's fingers fly across keys. "But whoever delivered it knew exactly where to find the clinic, and they know you're together."
"Run the footage through facial recognition," I order. "Cross-reference with known Committee assets and contractors. And get me thermal imaging of that package—I want to know ifthere's anything electronic or chemical inside before we go near it."
"Already running." Tommy switches screens. "But Kane? This doesn't match Committee methodology. They don't leave packages. They don't send messages. They just eliminate targets."
He's right. The Committee's whole operational philosophy is efficiency and deniability. Leaving evidence, creating connections, sending messages—it's antithetical to how they work.
"Then who?" Willa moves closer to the screens, studying the figure. "Who knows about us? Who wants us to know they know?"
"Someone with a personal stake." Mercer's voice is grim. "Someone who's not just following orders."
Stryker crosses his arms. "The enforcer. He’s the one we've been hearing rumors about. Some say he has ties to Willa’s father."
The pieces start connecting in ways I don't like. Cray's revelation about Gunnery Sergeant Hart. The Yemen operation. The black ops cleanup that buried evidence of chemical weapons development. And now someone who knows about Willa, knows about me, and is making it personal.
"We need to retrieve that package," I say. "But we do it carefully. Full bomb squad protocol. Nobody gets close until we know what we're dealing with."
"I'll go," Mercer volunteers. "Did a year with EOD before going operator. If it's wired, I'll see it."
