Page 11 of Echo: Line
The arrest I've been chasing for years. The one that would prove I earned my place through skill, not because someone was trying to compensate for having a dirty cop's daughter on the roster.
"Understood," I say, because what else is there to say? "I'll call once I have eyes on."
"Make it quick. We've got press standing by for the announcement." He hangs up.
Press. They're already planning the victory lap before I've even confirmed the target. The unease that's been gnawing at me since Quantico sharpens into something closer to alarm.
The cabin materializes around the next bend. Small structure, maybe twelve hundred square feet, backing up to dense forest. A single access road—the one I'm on. No secondary escape routes visible from this angle. The intel packet described it as a hunter's cabin, abandoned most of the year, perfect for a fugitive trying to stay off-grid.
Perfect. That's the word that keeps nagging at me. Too perfect.
I pull over half a mile out, grab my binoculars from the bag. The tactical team's lead vehicle appears in my rearview, and I wave them to hold position. They stop, engines idling, patient in the way people trained for violence learn to be patient.
Through the binoculars, the cabin looks just like the photos. Wood siding weathered to gray, metal roof showing rust spots, windows dark. There's a pickup truck parked beside it—newer model, incongruous with the rundown structure. Rental plates. That matches the intel.
What doesn't match is the positioning. The cabin sits exposed in a clearing, visible from three directions. No defensive value. No counter-surveillance setup. For someone with Mercer's training and paranoia level—eight months evading kill teams in the Montana wilderness—this location is tactical suicide.
Unless he's injured badly enough that he had no choice. Or unless someone wanted him easy to find.
My phone buzzes again. Text from Patterson:
Make the approach. Time sensitive.
Time sensitive for whom? For the arrest, or for something else?
I scan the tree line one more time. No movement. No reflection of optics. No birds flushing from sudden presence. Either there's no one there, or they're very good at not being seen.
I should wait for backup. That's the smart move. The career move is going in alone and getting the credit. The right move is somewhere in between.
I key the radio. "Team One, I'm making initial approach on foot. Hold outer perimeter. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes or if you hear shots, move in fast."
"Copy that, Agent Ward. We'll be ready."
I check my Glock. Seventeen rounds, one in the chamber. Two spare magazines on my belt. Body armor under my jacket. Everything by the book. Everything professional.
Everything feels wrong.
The walk to the cabin takes four minutes. I move tree to tree, using cover even though there's no indication anyone's watching. FBI training isn't tactical like military, but we learn enough to stay alive. Keep your profile small. Move deliberately. Watch your sectors.
Fifty yards out, I spot the blood.
Dark stains in the dirt leading from the tree line to the cabin's back door. Recent—still wet in the center where the sun hasn't dried them. Drag marks suggest someone wounded, moving under their own power but barely. The trail is erratic, weaving, the pattern of someone who's lost too much blood to walk straight.
I key my radio, voice low. "Team One, I have blood trail leading to structure. Multiple indicators of injury. Moving to entry point."
"Copy. Standing by."
The back door is ajar. More blood on the frame. Handprint smeared across the wood—someone grabbed for support and missed. The print is large, masculine, consistent with Mercer's build from the surveillance photos.
My heart rate kicks up despite my training. This is where profilers usually step back and let tactical do their job. But Patterson's voice echoes:Make the arrest.
I draw my weapon, keep it low and ready. "FBI! Alex Mercer, if you're inside, I need you to respond!"
Silence. Just wind through the pines and the distant sound of a bird I can't identify.
"I'm coming in! Keep your hands visible!"
I push the door open with my foot, the Glock tracking my line of sight. The cabin's interior is dim after the bright day outside. Takes my eyes a moment to adjust. Kitchen to the left—small, functional, nothing remarkable. Living area straight ahead—basic furniture, wood stove, everything covered in a thin layer of dust except where someone's disturbed it recently.
