Page 98 of Echo: Line
Unknown number:
Nice camera. Expensive. Would be a shame if something happened to it. Or you.
My hands shake. I lower the camera, fingers already dialing 911.
The text comes before I can hit send:
Calling the police would be a mistake. They can't protect you from people who don't exist. I can. Meet me at the fountain. Two minutes. Come alone or don't come at all.
This is insane. This is how journalists disappear.
But I'm also out of options. The Committee—the organization I've been tracking for six months—knows I'm here. If I run, they'll find me. If I hide, they'll flush me out.
Forward is the only option left.
I grab my bag, check my pepper spray, and walk toward the fountain.
The man is waiting. Up close, he's more dangerous than the photos suggested—sharp features, calculating eyes, the kind of stillness that comes from absolute confidence in violence.
"Reagan Mitchell," he says. "Investigative journalist. Graduated from Columbia, worked for the Post before going independent. Currently investigating government black ops and getting way too close to things that'll get you killed."
"Who are you?"
"Dylan Rourke." No attempt to hide his identity. Bad sign or good sign? "Former Delta Force. Currently working private security."
"Private security."
"The kind that handles problems the government can't acknowledge." He gestures to a bench. "Sit. We need to talk about what you think you know about Echo Ridge."
"I don't 'think' I know anything. I have documentation."
"You have bait. Carefully constructed to lead you exactly where they want you."
"They?"
"The Committee. The people who actually run the black sites you're investigating. They're very interested in you—and not in a good way."
My hand drifts toward the pepper spray. He notices, doesn't react.
"I'm not Committee," he says. "My team is trying to stop them. But you're making that harder by broadcasting your investigation to anyone paying attention. Including them."
"I'm a journalist. It's my job to expose?—"
"You're a target." His voice hardens. "You found Echo Ridge's location. You don't even realize it yet, but that last document your source sent? It has coordinates embedded in the metadata. Coordinates to a place that absolutely cannot be compromised."
Horror creeps up my spine. "If the Committee gets those coordinates..."
"They already have them. Because you published your findings on your encrypted blog that isn't nearly as encrypted as you think." He stands. "So here's your choice. Come with me, help us protect what you accidentally exposed, and maybe survive the next forty-eight hours. Or walk away, and I'll see you in the obituaries by Friday."
"That's not a choice."
"No. It's really not."
He walks toward the parking lot. After three steps, he glances back.
"You coming, or do I tell my boss I failed to save the stupidly brave journalist who stumbled into a war she doesn't understand?"
I should call the police. Should run. Should do literally anything except follow a dangerous stranger who just threatened me.
Instead, I grab my camera bag and follow him toward the SUV.
Because he's right about one thing—I'm already in this war. I just didn't know it until now.
And I don't run from a story. Even if the story might kill me.
Especially if the story might kill me.
