Page 95 of Echo: Burn
"Why should we trust anything you say?" Stryker's hand drifts toward his sidearm.
"Because despite everything, I respect what you're doing here. You don't abandon your own." Cray moves to the tactical display, studies the coordinates Tommy has pulled up. His movements are practiced, professional—this is a man who's spent years analyzing facility layouts and planning operations. "And because Mercer's one of yours. That means something."
"You've been to Whiskey-Seven?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral despite the suspicion crawling up my spine.
"Interrogated two targets there myself last year. Before I figured out the Committee wasn't what I thought it was." He traces routes on the map with practiced efficiency, his finger following terrain features and approach vectors like he's done this a hundred times. "It's a black site facility built into an old mining complex. Former Cold War installation, repurposed for modern use. If they're moving him in forty-eight hours, that's not a bluff. That's standard protocol for high-value detainees."
"What's the security like?" Willa moves closer to the display, studying Cray's face for any sign of deception.
"Thirty to forty operatives minimum on normal rotation. But given Protocol Seven's status?" Cray zooms in on the facility's perimeter. "Probably fifty or sixty now. They're not taking chances with anyone on the termination list."
His finger traces the boundary lines. "Three official entry points, all monitored. Biometric access on interior doors. Reinforced structure built directly into the mountainside.Helicopter pad on the north side for rapid extraction—which they'll use if they detect any assault."
"Sounds impenetrable," Stryker observes, his suspicion evident in every word.
"It's designed to be." Cray zooms in on a section of the map, highlighting an area that doesn't appear on the official schematic. "But there's a weakness. The old mining tunnels. They connect to the facility's lower levels but aren't on any official schematic. The Committee assumes they're collapsed or unstable."
"Are they?" I ask.
"Not all of them. I used them once to bypass a biometric checkpoint during an operation." He meets my eyes directly, and I see something there that might be genuine. "The main tunnel entrance is here, about half a klick from the facility. It runs parallel to the access road before branching into three separate passages. Two are collapsed. But the third connects directly to the facility's sub-level detention area."
"You're certain about this?" Rourke asks through comms, clearly listening to the entire exchange.
"I've been through those tunnels personally. Mapped them as an emergency extraction route in case an operation went sideways." Cray pulls up a hand-drawn schematic from memory, sketching it onto a tablet. "The passage is narrow—single file only in most sections. You'll need climbing gear for one vertical section, about twenty meters. But once you're through, you come up inside the detention block. Behind their security perimeter."
"Why?" The question comes from Willa, her voice carrying the skepticism we're all feeling. "Why help us?"
Cray is silent for a moment, studying each of us in turn. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. More reflective.
"Because I spent ten years believing I was protecting national security. Eliminating threats. Following orders that came frompeople I trusted." He turns back to the display, and I see his jaw tighten. "Then I found out the Committee was using me to silence whistleblowers and eliminate political inconveniences. That they'd lied about everything. About who the real threats were. About what we were actually protecting."
He zooms in on the detention block area. "Mercer's there because he was doing what I should have been doing—fighting against a corrupt system instead of enforcing it. If I can help you get him out, maybe that squares some of the debt I owe for all the people I hurt when I was still following orders."
The room is quiet. Everyone's looking at me, waiting for the call.
I study Cray's face. Looking for deception. For the angle. For any sign this is another trap. Years of reading people in hostile environments, of detecting lies in interrogation rooms, of surviving by trusting my instincts about who's genuine and who's playing an angle.
All I see is exhaustion and something that might be genuine remorse. The kind that comes from realizing you've been the villain in someone else's story.
"You get us in," I say finally, my voice carrying the weight of command. "You provide the intelligence we need to extract Mercer. The tunnel routes, the security protocols, the detention block layout. Everything you know about that facility."
I pause, making sure he understands the terms. "And after that, we're even. You don't owe us protection, we don't owe you anything. You walk away and we never see you again. Deal?"
"Deal." Cray extends his hand.
I shake it, feeling the firmness of his grip. Operator to operator. A promise made and acknowledged. The kind of agreement that means something to people like us, even when trust is thin.
"Tommy, I need everything you have on Whiskey-Seven's current operational status," I order, already moving into mission planning mode. "Satellite imagery, communication intercepts, anything that tells us what we're walking into. Cray, work with him. Give him everything you know about the facility's layout and security protocols."
"Copy that," they both say.
"Stryker, Rourke—start pulling together equipment manifests. We breach those tunnels, we need climbing gear, breaching charges, and backup power systems in case they've sealed sections we need to access."
"On it," Stryker confirms, already moving toward the armory.
"Willa, I need you working medical contingencies. If Mercer's been in their custody this long, we don't know what condition he'll be in. Prepare for everything from minor injuries to severe trauma. Chemical exposure. Psychological breakdown. Assume worst-case."
She nods, already moving toward Sarah's station where the medical supplies are organized.
