Page 7 of Echo: Line
"Yes, ma'am."
I down the Diet Coke, crack open the protein shake, and recline the seat as the plane taxis. The caffeine will take twenty minutes to kick in. Until then, I need actual rest. My bodyis screaming for it, and I'll be useless in the field if I'm this exhausted.
Sleep comes fast. Dreamless. The engines' white noise drowning everything else out.
The tactical agent shakes my shoulder gently. "Ma'am. Ninety minutes."
I blink awake, disoriented for a moment before training kicks in. The nap helped. My head is clearer, the fog of jet lag lifting. I finish the protein shake, feeling the caffeine and calories do their work.
Better. Not perfect, but functional.
I pull out the file again, reviewing with fresh eyes. The photos still draw my attention more than they should. Mercer's military ID. The strength in his frame. The control in his movements. The intelligence evident even in surveillance footage. This is someone who's spent years being responsible for other people's lives. Someone who calculates risks and makes hard calls. Someone disciplined enough to survive eight months alone in the Montana wilderness while assassination teams hunted him. Someone who, despite everything I'm supposed to believe about him, looks more like a protector than a threat.
My instincts—honed over eight years of profiling violent criminals—say the evidence doesn't match the conclusion. Say that Mercer's not what they're telling me he is. Which means either my instincts are wrong, or the Bureau is being used. The way my father used his shield.
I close the file. Looking at those photos any longer means asking questions I'm not ready to answer. Questions about what it would be like to meet him. To ask him directly what happened. To hear his side of a story I'm only getting through classified fragments and carefully crafted lies.
The lead tactical agent leans across the aisle. "Ma'am, we'll hit Jackson Hole in thirty minutes. Local field office has thatcabin in the Tetons under surveillance. If he's there, we'll have him in custody by nightfall."
I nod. Look back at the closed file folder.
Find the terrorist. Prove myself. Get the arrest that shows I'm Bureau through and through, not my father's daughter.
The surveillance photo is visible through the folder's clear sleeve. Mercer moving through the trees, weapon raised. Even in the grainy footage, there's presence about him. Confidence. Capability. Someone who would make you feel safer in a crisis, not more afraid.
Professional distance, Ward. You've maintained it for eight years through serial killers, domestic abusers, and terrorists who'd carve your throat open for fun. One burned operator shouldn't be the thing that breaks your discipline.
The plane begins its descent. Wyoming approaching fast. Whatever I'm going to find in that cabin, it won't be what Patterson thinks I'm looking for.
And that might be the most dangerous part of all.
3
ALEX
The needle goes in clean. Fourth time in as many days, and Kessler's technician has the efficiency of long practice. Cold spreads up my arm from the injection site, chemical ice that makes my teeth want to chatter. The compound moves fast—I can feel it creeping through my bloodstream, up past the elbow, into the shoulder. My peripheral vision starts to blur at the edges, and there's a floating sensation like my consciousness is trying to separate from my body.
I lock my jaw and breathe through my nose. Four counts in. Hold four. Four counts out. SERE training. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape. The rhythm keeps me grounded when everything else wants to drift. Focus on the breath. Make it the only real thing in a world that's trying to become soft and malleable. The drugs want me compliant, suggestible, want to turn my thoughts into water that flows wherever Kessler directs. But water can be frozen. Thoughts can be disciplined.
"Let's try this again." Kessler sits across from me in the sterile interrogation room, looking fresh despite the late hour. Or early hour. Hard to tell when they control the lights, the schedule, every aspect of time itself. "Echo Ridge base location."
The drugs make my tongue feel thick. I focus on the breathing pattern. The compound works fast—designed to lower inhibitions, make lying difficult, turn your own mind into the enemy. But chemistry isn't magic. Neural pathways can be redirected with enough discipline. Concentrate on the breath. Nothing exists except the rhythm.
"Montana," I say, because giving them something true makes the lies easier. "Mountains."
"More specific." Kessler's voice stays level, but I catch the tightness around his eyes. Frustration. He's running out of time and patience, and that makes him dangerous in a different way than violence does.
"Lots of mountains in Montana." My words slur slightly. Can't help that—the drugs are doing their work on my motor control even as I fight to keep my cognition clear. "You should visit. Beautiful this time of year."
The backhand comes fast. Basic interrogation doctrine says to separate chemical persuasion from physical coercion—mixing methods reduces effectiveness, creates conflicting stress responses that allow the subject to compartmentalize. SERE instructors drilled that into us from both sides of the equation. Kessler knows better, which means he's frustrated, and frustrated interrogators make mistakes.
I note that. Another data point in the growing list of weaknesses I'm tracking.
My head rings from the blow. Blood in my mouth, copper and salt. The chair I'm zip-tied to is industrial metal, bolted to the floor. They learned from previous escape attempts—everything in this facility is designed to contain people like me.
"Echo Ridge personnel," Kessler tries again. "Names. Specialties. How many operators?"
The chemical cocktail pulls at my thoughts, trying to drag information to the surface. I return to the breathing rhythm. In.Hold. Out. The pattern that keeps me anchored when the drugs want me to drift. I counter with memory exercises. Recite the periodic table backward. Name every weapon I've ever qualified on. List kill shots by distance and wind speed. Fill my head with data that isn't what he wants, train tracks running parallel to his questions but never intersecting.
