Page 8 of Echo: Line
"Classified," I say, and the word comes out wrong. Too soft. The drugs are winning this round.
Kessler stands, moves behind me. I can't see him but I track his position by sound. Four steps. Stop. The rustle of clothing as he crosses his arms. Textbook intimidation tactic—invade the prisoner's space, create vulnerability through positioning. It would work better if I hadn't spent three years teaching SERE training to Delta operators. I know every technique in the manual, and most of the ones that aren't.
"Mercer." His voice drops, goes almost friendly. Another tactic—rapid switching between threat and rapport to keep the subject off-balance. "You're a professional. You know how this ends. Everyone breaks eventually. The drugs, the exhaustion, the isolation—your body will give up even if your mind wants to keep fighting. Why make this harder than it needs to be?"
Because the moment I give him what he wants, I'm dead. They'll put a bullet in my head and dump my body somewhere it'll never be found. The only thing keeping me breathing is that I still have value as an intelligence source.
"Committee assets," I slur, letting the drugs pull the words out but choosing them carefully. "You work for them now. Used to be something better."
I feel him tense behind me. Hit a nerve. Good. "I work for people who understand that national security requires hard choices. Your team doesn't. You're vigilantes operating outside legal authority, eliminating government personnel because you disagree with policy."
"Eliminating assassins." The correction comes automatically. "Defending ourselves against kill teams. There's a difference."
"Not according to the law." Kessler moves back into view, and his expression has shifted. Less frustration, more calculation. This is the interrogator I need to worry about—the one who's thinking tactically instead of emotionally. "You attacked a federal staging facility. Twenty-seven dead. That's not self-defense, Mercer. That's domestic terrorism."
The staging facility. Where they ambushed us, where Sarah went down, where I got grabbed trying to pursue Kessler through the chaos. My fault. I broke formation, abandoned tactical discipline because I wanted him dead. Walked right into the trap he'd set.
Kane's face flashes in my memory, watching Kessler's team drag me to the extraction helicopter. The controlled fury in his expression, the weapon he didn't raise because taking the shot would've gotten everyone killed.
Focus. Breathing. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out.
"Federal contractors," I manage. "Not law enforcement. Not legitimate government personnel. Private military working for Committee interests."
"Semantics." Kessler leans against the wall, and something in his posture tells me we're shifting to a different phase. The drugs have had time to work. My resistance is good but not perfect. He knows I'm fighting the chemical persuasion, so now he'll try psychological leverage instead. "Tomorrow, an FBI profiler locates you. Clean arrest. On camera. Justified use of force when you resist." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Legal. Legitimate. Everything the Committee needs to bury Echo Ridge for good."
The words penetrate through the drug fog. FBI. Tomorrow. Setup.
They're not just interrogating me. They're staging my execution.
"Public capture," I say, and even through the drugs I hear how my voice has gone flat. Dead. "Destroy Echo Ridge's credibility. Make us look like terrorists instead of witnesses."
"Finally." Kessler smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "Yes. The Committee doesn't just want you dead, Alex. They want you discredited. Your team exposed and delegitimized. Every operation Echo Ridge has conducted, every piece of evidence you've gathered—all of it becomes fruit from a poisoned tree. Inadmissible. Worthless. Because it came from domestic terrorists, not legitimate whistleblowers."
The room doesn't tilt—my understanding does. This isn't about silencing me. It's about ensuring that even if Kane or the others manage to expose the Committee, no one will believe them. They're the associates of a known terrorist. Everything they say is suspect.
"The FBI agent," I hear myself ask. "She knows?"
"Agent Ward?" Kessler's smile widens. "She's perfect. Eight years with the Bureau, impeccable record, the kind of agent who still believes federal credentials mean something. She'll follow orders because that's what good agents do." He pauses, studying my reaction. "We've done our homework on her. She won't question this assignment. Won't see the setup until it's too late."
Agent Ward. FBI profiler. True believer being manipulated into facilitating an assassination. Something twists in my chest that has nothing to do with the drugs. She's like I was before Syria. Before I learned that following orders doesn't mean doing the right thing. Before I discovered that the people giving those orders sometimes have their own agenda that has nothing to do with protecting anyone except themselves.
They're going to use her faith in the system to destroy her. She'll pull the trigger—or watch the tactical team do it—believing she's stopping a terrorist. And she might never know the truth. Might spend the rest of her career thinking she did the rightthing while the knowledge that she was the Committee's weapon slowly hollows her out. That her integrity, her dedication, everything she believed about justice was just another tool for them to exploit.
I know what that does to a person. Watched it destroy good operators who realized too late they'd been killing the wrong people for the wrong reasons.
If I survive the next eighteen hours, Kane needs to know about her. Needs to understand she's not the enemy—she's another victim in Kessler's plan.
When I survive. Not if. Language matters, even in my own head.
"She won't find me here," I say. "This facility isn't on any federal database."
"No." Kessler pushes off the wall. "But the cabin in Wyoming is. We'll transport you there in about twelve hours. Stage it perfectly. Weapon visible, threatening posture, everything the tactical team needs to justify lethal force. Agent Ward will believe she's arresting a dangerous terrorist. The cameras will show a clean shoot. And Echo Ridge becomes a cautionary tale about what happens when operators go rogue."
He moves toward the door, and I realize this session is ending. The technician will come back, take me to whatever cell they're keeping me in, let the drugs work through my system before the next round. Standard protocol.
"Get some rest, Alex." Kessler pauses at the door. "You'll want to be alert for the transport. Wouldn't want you to miss your big performance."
The door closes. Locks engage. I'm alone with fluorescent lights and the chemical fog still clouding my thoughts.
