Page 2 of Echo: Line
The helicopter's engine noise fills the silence. I catalog options, run scenarios. Every one ends badly. If I talk, Echo Ridge falls. If I don't, they become fugitives hunted by their own government. Kessler has me boxed in, and he knows it.
"How long do you think it took?" Kessler asks suddenly. "For Kane to decide you were expendable? Thirty seconds? A minute? You saved his life in Montana, covered his extraction, and he left you behind without hesitation."
"It was the right call."
"Was it?" Kessler's voice drops, intimate and venomous. "Or was it convenient? You're the outsider, Mercer. The hired gun. Kane, Rourke, Stryker—they're family. Blood and history. You're just the muscle. Disposable."
The words dig in like fishhooks. I've thought the same thing more times than I want to admit. Late nights in Echo Ridge, watching the others, seeing the bonds forged through various ops. Kane and Rourke moving in perfect sync. Stryker and Sarah with their easy banter. Willa and Kane with their unspoken understanding. And me, always one step outside the circle. Useful. Skilled. But not family.
"You don't believe that," I say.
"Don't I?" Kessler shrugs. "Then where are they, Mercer? Where's your team?"
The helicopter begins its descent. My stomach drops, and through the window I catch glimpses of landscape below—flat scrubland, no lights, nothing for miles. The kind of nowhere that swallows people whole.
We land hard. The rotors wind down, and the guards move with practiced efficiency. They haul me upright, and my legs nearly buckle. The beating took more out of me than I thought. Blood rushes to my feet, pins and needles shooting up my calves. I lock my knees and stay standing through sheer stubbornness.
The facility is underground. Of course it is. They march me across fifty yards of packed earth to what looks like a storm shelter entrance, concrete stairs descending into darkness. The air changes as we go down—cooler, stale, the smell of disinfectant and something else underneath. Sweat. Fear. This is a place where bad things happen.
Three levels down, the stairs open into a corridor. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. Cinderblock walls painted institutional beige. No windows. No indicators of where we are or how deep we've gone. The doors we pass are solid steel with electronic locks. Some have observation slits. I don't look inside.
They take me to a room at the end of the corridor. Small, maybe ten by ten. Concrete floor with a drain in the center. Metal chair bolted to the floor. Hooks in the ceiling. The walls are bare except for dark stains that could be rust but probably aren't.
The guards cut the flexicuffs. Blood flows back into my hands, painful and sharp. Before I can react, they slam me into the chair and secure my wrists to the armrests with fresh restraints. These are metal, built into the chair itself. My ankles get the same treatment.
Kessler enters and closes the door. The sound of it locking echoes in the small space.
"Comfortable?" he asks.
I test the restraints. No give. The chair is solid, professionally installed. Designed for exactly this purpose. I scan the room for weaknesses, catalog details. The drain suggests they hose down between sessions. The door opens inward, heavy steel, likely reinforced. No windows. One camera in the corner, red light blinking.
"You're looking for escape routes," Kessler observes. "There aren't any. This room has held men much more resourceful than you. CIA officers, special operations personnel, foreign agents. They all thought they could outlast us. They were wrong."
He walks a slow circle around me. I track him in my peripheral vision, keeping my head still. Stay neutral.
"We'll start simple," he says. "Name everyone currently operating out of Echo Ridge. Include support personnel, technical staff, anyone with knowledge of operations."
I say nothing.
"I know you're thinking about resistance timelines. How long you can hold out before your body gives up or your mind breaks. You're calculating when Kane might realize where you've gone, how long it would take to organize a rescue. You're wondering if your team knows they're already being hunted." He stops in front of me. "Let me save you the trouble. You'll talk. The only question is how much you'll suffer first."
Footsteps in the corridor. The door opens, and a man enters wearing surgical scrubs. He's carrying a metal case. Sets it on a table I didn't notice before, positioned just out of my line of sight. The latches click open. Glass vials clink together.
"Dr. Hayes specializes in chemical interrogation," Kessler explains. "A combination of compounds that enhance suggestibility, lower inhibitions, and make lying physiologically difficult. Think of it as a more refined version of sodiumpentothal. The side effects are unpleasant—nausea, vertigo, temporary memory disruption—but the results are impressive."
Hayes prepares a syringe. I watch the liquid catch the light, amber-colored and viscous. My heart rate kicks up despite my training. Chemical interrogation is harder to resist than physical pain. It bypasses conscious control, attacks the nervous system directly. SERE training covered it, but theory and reality are different animals.
"Last chance," Kessler says. "Cooperate voluntarily, and we can skip this part."
I meet his eyes. Keep my voice level. "Go to hell."
He nods to Hayes. The doctor approaches, and the needle stings my arm. The liquid burns going in, hot and wrong. I count heartbeats. Five. Ten. Everything tilts sideways, edges blurring. My mouth goes dry. Sweat breaks out across my forehead.
"Give it a minute," Hayes says. His voice sounds distorted, underwater. "The initial wave is disorienting."
Disorienting doesn't cover it. My vision doubles, triples, then snaps back into focus so sharp it hurts. Colors are too bright. The fluorescent lights become suns, burning into my retinas. I close my eyes, but that's worse. Darkness spins, and nausea claws up my throat.
"Name your handler at Echo Ridge," Kessler's voice cuts through the chaos. Commanding. Insistent. "Who gives you orders?"
