Page 74 of Echo: Line
"Delaney..."
"They murdered seventeen people and blamed me, Alex. Seventeen agents who probably stumbled onto Committee operations, who asked too many questions, who were investigating something that threatened their power structure. And when the Committee decided to eliminate them, they made me the perfect scapegoat—the profiler who went rogue, who radicalized, who decided her own government needed to be destroyed."
"You're wanted by every law enforcement agency in the country," Alex says, his voice carrying that steady calm that probably kept his team alive through a hundred firefights. "International warrants. Your face on every news station. The narrative they've created is comprehensive and convincing."
"I know."
"You can't go back. Can't clear your name through official channels. The Committee owns enough people in enough agencies that any attempt to surrender would likely end with you dead in custody before you could testify."
"I know that too."
"So what do you want to do about it?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility. He's not asking what I should do. He's asking what I want.
"I want to finish this." The words come out harder than intended, carrying eight years of buried fury. "I want to make them pay for using me. For killing those seventeen agents. For destroying everything I built. I want to expose them so thoroughly that every fabricated piece of evidence, every manufactured charge, every lie they've told about me gets revealed for exactly what it is."
"That's a tall order."
"You asked what I want. Not what's realistic."
Alex's mouth twitches. Might be a smile. Hard to tell. "Fair enough."
He stands, moves to the tactical display where Sarah has been aggregating intel on Committee leadership. Photographs, locations, security details, communication intercepts. The web of conspiracy mapped out in digital precision.
"Then we make it realistic," he says. "We use the intel I gathered during Kessler's interrogation. Combine it with Cross's information about the Denver operation. Build a case so airtight that when we go public, the Committee can't spin it away."
"Who's Cross?"
"Victoria Cross. Intelligence broker," Alex says, pulling up an encrypted message on the screen. "Twenty minutes ago. Brief video call establishes she's been tracking the situation, has resources that might be useful. She's providing initial intel as what she calls 'a freebie'—proof that the Committee orchestratedthe bombing and framed you. The surveillance footage was created by Kessler's tech division. Same AI algorithms they used to create other false evidence."
I read the message twice, processing the implications. An intelligence broker with her reputation doesn't give away information for free. This is an investment—proof she has valuable assets, demonstration that she can deliver results. When we need her again, the price will be steep.
"Show me the evidence," I say.
Alex opens the file. Technical specifications scroll past—metadata analysis showing the surveillance footage was created using deepfake technology, financial records that trace the fabricated evidence to shell companies linked to Kessler's operations, communications intercepts that prove Committee involvement in the Denver bombing.
It's comprehensive. Damning. Exactly what we need.
"This doesn't exonerate me completely," I point out. "Just proves the Denver bombing was fabricated. Doesn't address how they'll spin my disappearance, my involvement with Echo Ridge."
"So we get ahead of the narrative." Kane's voice cuts through the operations center as he enters, Willa close behind him. "We don't just prove you didn't do it. We prove why they wanted everyone to think you did. Expose the Committee's entire playbook—how they manufacture terrorists, how they eliminate threats, how they've infiltrated every level of government."
"That's a federal prosecution-level case," I say, FBI training kicking in automatically. "Chain of custody, evidence standards, witness testimony, documentation that'll stand up under the most aggressive defense attorneys."
"Which is why you're an asset," Kane says bluntly. "You know how federal prosecutors think. Know what they need tobuild cases. When we take down the Committee, we do it right—documentation, protocols, everything admissible in court."
"If we survive long enough to make it to court."
"That's always the question."
Willa stands close to Kane. Not touching, but the space between them feels deliberate. Claimed.
"Team meeting in ten minutes," Kane says. "Full operational briefing. We're planning the assault on Committee leadership using everything Alex brought back from Kessler's interrogation plus Victoria's intel. You're both required."
The operations center fills with Echo Ridge's core team over the next five minutes. Stryker arrives first, moving with that economy of motion that speaks of years in special operations. He nods at me—acknowledgment without warmth, professional respect earned through shared combat. Sarah settles at her workstation, fingers already dancing across keyboards as she pulls up additional intel. Rourke leans against the far wall, arms crossed, watching everything with sniper's patience. Tommy hunches over his laptop, code scrolling across multiple screens. Khalid stands near Kane, young but steady, carrying himself like someone who's seen too much death too early.
And Alex, positioned to my right, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Claiming proximity. Making a statement without saying a word.
