Page 93 of Echo: Line
The celebration winds down after an hour. Delaney and I are headed for the door when Kane's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts to mission mode.
"Got a situation." He looks at me. "Burned operator in Nevada. Committee remnant hunting him. Need extraction team."
Mission parameters click into place. Tactical considerations, threat assessment. All the pieces falling into position.
I look at Delaney. "You up for it?"
She's already moving toward the equipment room, that determined set to her jaw that I've learned means she's made her choice.
"Always," she says. "Let's go get him."
I grab my tactical vest from the locker—the one she reorganized—and she's already pulling on her boots. Kane's briefing the team in the operations center, Stryker and Rourke gearing up for extraction. Another burned operator needs us, and we move.
Same as we always do.
Except this time, when I glance back at Delaney loading magazines with practiced efficiency, I'm not wondering if she'll make it. I'm not second-guessing whether she belongs here.
She catches me looking. "What?"
"Nothing." I check my rifle, chamber a round. "Ready?"
She taps the magazine in her vest—the one loaded with the rounds she prepped herself. "Born ready."
20
DELANEY
Six months later, I wake to the sound of Alex breathing beside me.
The quarters we share at Echo Base are small—bed, desk, weapons locker, bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. But they're ours. Our boots lined up by the door, my evidence boards covering one wall, his tactical gear organized with military precision beside my FBI-issue sidearm that I kept as a reminder of where I started.
His arm is draped across my waist, heavy with sleep. Morning light filters through the ventilation shaft that passes for a window down here. Somewhere in the facility, I can hear the distant sounds of the team already moving—Stryker's morning PT, Tommy's keyboards clicking, the low rumble of Kane's voice giving orders.
Home.
I ease out of bed without waking Alex. We just got back from Nevada—another burned operator extracted, another Committee safe house destroyed, zero casualties. It's become routine over the past six months. The missions blur together. But he ran point yesterday, barely slept, and needs the rest.
The kitchen area is communal, shared by the team. Willa's already there with coffee, reviewing medical inventory on her tablet. She glances up when I enter, manages a tired smile.
"Morning. How's Alex?"
"Crashed. Nevada ran him hard."
"You both." She pushes a mug toward me. "You did good work on that op. The tactical planning, the evidence sweep. Kane's impressed."
The coffee is strong enough to strip paint, exactly how I like it. "Just doing my job."
"Your job used to be hunting terrorists. Now you extract them."
"Technically, I profile Committee operatives and build evidentiary cases against them." I lean against the counter. "The extraction support is just a bonus."
"You've changed." Willa's tone is observational, not judgmental. "Half a year ago, you were FBI. Now you're running tactical ops like you've been doing it for years. Yesterday you provided overwatch while Rourke breached."
She's right. I was FBI Special Agent Delaney Ward, by-the-book profiler, trained in firearms but not combat operations. Now I'm running missions with Echo Ridge, providing tactical support, and just helped rescue a former CIA asset the Committee wanted dead.
"You changed too," I point out. "You were a veterinarian hiding in Montana. Now you're patching up gunshot wounds and running field medicine for covert ops."
"Fair point." She sips her coffee. "Think we're better or worse for it?"
