Page 22 of Echo: Line
"Not the government. A shadow organization inside it. The Committee." He watches me, gauging my reaction. "And now you've seen their operational methods. They sent a tactical team to kill an FBI agent when she found me. Because you represented risk."
They tried to kill me. The reality of it hasn't fully sunk in yet. Patterson's voice on the phone, so reasonable, so concerned. The tactical team at the cabin, professional and efficient. All of it designed to eliminate a problem. To eliminate me along with it.
The badge was supposed to mean something. Justice. Truth. Protection.
Now nothing makes sense anymore.
I turn away, needing space to think. My phone sits on the floor, screen dark to conserve battery. I pick it up and tap it awake. The battery icon flashes critical. Before it dies, I need to check something.
Pulling up the case file Patterson sent me. Alex's photo, service record, charges. Domestic terrorism. Treason. Conspiracy against the United States.
Then I pull up the supporting documentation—incident reports, witness statements, and intelligence assessments. I've reviewed these documents a dozen times, memorized every detail, built my entire investigation around them.
Now looking for what's missing.
The incident reports—no specific locations. The witness statements—no actual witnesses named. The intelligence assessments—vague operational details. Everything reads official but doesn't prove anything concrete.
And the dates don't line up. Reports filed weeks after incidents supposedly occurred. Intelligence assessments referencing events before they happened. Citations leading nowhere.
I scroll further, checking sources. The story falls apart under scrutiny. Not obviously—you have to be looking—but the cracks are there. Inconsistencies. Missing details. Sources that don't exist.
Fabricated. Professional disinformation designed to destroy credibility.
My phone battery flashes a final warning.
"What are you looking at?" Alex's voice makes me look up.
"Lies." The word tastes bitter. "They're good lies. Well-constructed. But they're still lies."
"You believe me now?"
Do I? Twenty-four hours ago, the answer would have been immediate. No. He's a fugitive. A terrorist. My job is to bring him in.
But that was before Patterson, or whoever controls him, tried to have me killed. Before the tactical team's rules of engagement became clear. Before sitting in this cabin treating wounds that tell a story of torture and survival.
"I believe they tried to kill us both," I say carefully. "I believe there's something wrong with the official narrative. I believe..." Trailing off, not ready to say it out loud yet.
"You believe maybe I'm telling the truth." He doesn't make it a question.
"Maybe." Setting the phone aside. "Tell me about Scorch. The burns."
"You don't want to know."
"I'm treating your injuries. I need to know medical history." It's deflection and we both know it. But he doesn't call me on it.
"Scorch is their interrogator. Real name's classified—probably not even the Committee knows it. He specializes in enhanced interrogation." The clinical term sounds obscene. "Burns are his signature. Controlled. Precise. Designed to maximize pain without killing."
"For four days."
"Yeah." He closes his eyes. "I remember most of it. That's the worst part. If I'd blacked out, I could pretend it wasn't that bad. But I remember."
The matter-of-fact delivery makes it worse somehow. Like torture is just another mission parameter. Something to endure and move past.
Reaching for his wrist without thinking, checking his pulse again. But fingers linger, feeling the steady beat beneath scarred skin. His pulse jumps slightly at the contact.
"Why are you helping me?" He asks it quietly, eyes open now and watching. "You could have left. Called Patterson. Turned me in. But you didn't."
"Because they tried to kill me." The answer comes automatic. "Because nothing about this adds up. Because..."
