Page 52 of Echo: Line
"I made that declaration when I shot those operators to save Alex."
Kane studies me a moment longer. Then he nods. "Alright. We travel in two vehicles. Willa and I take lead. You two follow at five-minute interval."
He pulls Alex aside. Not far—maybe twenty feet. But far enough that the conversation's clearly not meant for me.
Catching fragments.
"...sure about her?"
"Yeah."
"That's not tactical assessment, brother. That's personal."
"I know."
Silence stretches between them.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," Kane says. "This life—it breaks people. Destroys relationships. Turns everything good into collateral damage."
"I'm aware."
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you're already in deeper than you should be."
Willa approaches while the men talk. "Kane's worried. He's seen too many good people get hurt trying to help us."
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can." She adjusts the strap on her medical bag. "But Alex is different. He doesn't let people in. Ever. Whatever's happening between you two—it's real. Which means it scares him."
"He told me. About Syria. The nightmares. The people he couldn't save."
Willa's eyebrows rise. "He told you? Already?"
"In the safe house. After he stitched my shoulder."
"Then you understand what you're up against. He's going to keep trying to push you away. It's not about you—it's about his guilt. His fear that caring about someone will get them killed."
"I don't push easy."
"Good. He needs someone stubborn enough to call his bullshit. Just be careful. This world breaks people. Even the strong ones."
Kane and Alex return. The conversation's over but tension hangs between them.
"Let's move," Kane says.
They lead us to two vehicles hidden under camo netting a hundred meters away. Kane and Willa take the truck. Alex and I get the SUV.
Alex retrieves keys from under the wheel well, starts the engine. "Tommy maintains them. Rotates them every few months. Clean vehicles the Committee can't track."
We drive in silence for the first ten minutes. Alex checks mirrors constantly. Watches for tails. Maintains exactly five minutes behind Kane's truck.
Professional. Controlled. The operator mask firmly back in place.
But tension radiates from him. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
"You're trying to push me away because you think it will protect me."
His eyes flick to me, then back to the road. "What?"
