Page 6 of Echo: Line
I was sixteen when Internal Affairs arrested him. Walked into our house at 6 AM with a warrant. My mother screamed. I stood in the hallway in my pajamas, watching them put cuffs on the man who'd taught me that his shield meant integrity. That law enforcement was about service, not power.
He looked at me as they walked him out. Not shame in his eyes. Anger. Like I was supposed to understand. Like everyone did it, so why was he being singled out?
I understood then that he'd never believed in any of it. Authority without accountability. Power without principle.
My mother tried to explain it away. The job didn't pay enough. He was just trying to provide for us. Everyone cut corners. But I was old enough to know the difference between cutting corners and actively participating in the destruction of our neighborhood. Between taking a free coffee and taking drug money to ignore murdered kids whose bodies turned up in alleys.
So I decided to earn credentials that would mean something. FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation. The good guys. The ones who rooted out corruption, stopped terrorists, protected innocent people from the monsters wearing human skin. The ones who investigated people like my father.
Sixteen-year-old me believed that absolutely. Believed that carrying federal credentials meant being better. Being held to a higher standard. Never having to look away from the truth because someone powerful wanted silence.
Thirty-four-year-old me still wants to believe it. Still needs to believe that I'm not just wearing a different shield for the same corruption. That when I clip on my credentials every morning, it means more than what my father's shield meant to him.
But standing here in my condo, about to leave to hunt a man I'm not convinced is actually a terrorist, I feel that faith straining. What's the difference between my father looking away from gang violence because the Castellanos paid him, and me hunting a man without being allowed to ask why? Between his authority protecting criminals, and mine being used to eliminate someone who might be a witness to something the powerful want buried?
My phone buzzes. Thirty minutes until I need to leave for the airport.
I pull out Mercer's file one more time. Spread the photos across my kitchen counter. Military ID. Surveillance footage. Crime scene images. Psychological profiles.
The military ID photo catches the light. Professional. Controlled. But there's awareness in his eyes that the camera captured despite his discipline. Not hardness exactly. The recognition that comes from seeing things most people never will, surviving situations that shouldn't be survivable.
He's attractive in a way that has nothing to do with conventional good looks and everything to do with competence. Weathered from being tested and not breaking. Strong jaw, probably stronger before whatever happened in Syria carved lines around his mouth that shouldn't be there on a man in his mid-thirties.
The surveillance footage shows him moving through the forest with lethal precision. Weapon discipline that speaks to thousands of hours of training. Dangerous in a way that makes tactical teams nervous. Yet the psych evals paint someone else entirely. Protective of his team. Went out of his way to minimize civilian casualties even when it complicated missions.
The eval from his commanding officer before Syria notes "Mercer's the best overwatch I've ever had. His moral compass sometimes conflicts with operational efficiency, but every operator who's worked with him trusts him to keep them alive."
Dangerous from discipline and skill, not instability or fanaticism. I find myself tracing the edge of the photo with one finger, cataloging details I shouldn't notice. The capable hands visible in one of the surveillance shots. The way he moves with absolute confidence in his body even in grainy footage. Wondering what he looks like when he's not being photographed for official purposes. Whether he ever smiled before his entireworld burned down around him. What his voice sounds like. Whether those eyes would look different if they weren't constantly calculating threats.
I shouldn't be cataloging these details. Shouldn't be wondering what drives a man to throw away his entire career rather than compromise his principles. Someone you could trust, a traitorous voice in my head suggests. Someone who won't compromise even when it costs him everything. Or someone whose principles got warped somewhere along the way, turning him into exactly what Patterson says he is.
Wait.
I flip back to the operational summary. "Mercer evaded multiple attempted apprehensions by intelligence assets over an eight-month period, resulting in significant casualties among pursuing teams."
Casualties among pursuing teams. Not civilian casualties. Not random violence. Defensive kills against people actively hunting him.
That's not domestic terrorism. That's survival.
I lean back against the counter. The classification is wrong. The narrative is wrong. They're painting Mercer as a terrorist, but the evidence—what little they're showing me—suggests something completely different. He's not attacking government facilities. He's defending himself against an organization that's trying to kill him. The staging facility assault looks like a coordinated operation, but the casualty pattern suggests a defensive position that got overrun, not an offensive strike.
And if Echo Ridge isn't a terrorist cell, what is it? A group of burned operators fighting back against the intelligence apparatus that betrayed them? That would make Mercer not a terrorist. It would make him a whistleblower. A threat to someone powerful enough to manipulate the FBI into hunting him.
My stomach drops. If that's true, then I'm not being sent to apprehend a criminal. I'm being sent to eliminate a witness.
I gather the photos, shoving them back into the folder. This is paranoia. Exhaustion and conspiracy theories born from too many true crime podcasts during layovers. The Director wouldn't weaponize the Bureau against innocent people. Patterson wouldn't deliver those orders if they weren't legitimate.
Except my father wore his shield too. Used it to protect criminals. And when good cops started asking questions, he used his position to shut them down.
I grab my duffel, lock the condo, and head for the airport. The drive is automatic, muscle memory from dozens of field assignments. Check in at the private terminal the Bureau uses. Flash credentials. Board the small jet already warming on the tarmac.
The tactical team is already aboard. Four men, all serious and professional. They nod acknowledgment when I board but don't engage in small talk. They've read the briefing. Know Mercer's record. Understand the risk.
I settle into a seat, and exhaustion hits me like a physical blow now that I'm sitting still. The adrenaline that got me through the briefing is fading fast.
"Ma'am?" One of the tactical agents holds up a can of Diet Coke and a Caffe Latte protein shake. "Found these in the galley. Figured you might need them after an international flight."
"You're a lifesaver." I take both gratefully. "Wake me in ninety minutes?"
