Page 73 of Echo: Line
Delaney doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Just stares at the screen showing her face beside the death toll from an attack she didn't commit.
Ten million dollars for her head. Dead or alive. International manhunt. Shoot to kill.
The Committee didn't just destroy her career.
They made her responsible for mass murder and turned the entire world against her.
"Delaney." I touch her arm.
Her skin is ice cold. She's breathing too shallow. Shock setting in as she watches herself become the world's most wanted terrorist. Blamed for killing seventeen federal agents in an attack the Committee orchestrated and framed her for.
I did this to her. Brought her into this fight. Made her a target.
And now there's nowhere in the world she can hide.
16
DELANEY
My own face stares back from the monitor.
Wanted. Federal fugitive. Accused of orchestrating the Denver Federal Building bombing that killed seventeen FBI agents.
The photograph is recent—taken six weeks ago at Quantico during a training exercise. Professional. Composed. Everything an FBI profiler should be. The caption underneath twists reality into something unrecognizable:Special Agent Delaney Ward—Wanted for Domestic Terrorism, Mass Murder, Conspiracy to Commit Acts of Violence Against Federal Officers.
Seventeen agents. Dead. And the Committee fabricated evidence that pins every single death on me.
The rational part of my brain knows this is psychological warfare. Knows Kessler's tech division created deepfake footage, manufactured digital breadcrumbs, planted financial records that paint me as a radicalized federal employee working with domestic extremists. Knowing doesn't make it easier to see my face plastered across every news station in America.
"You're staring," Alex says quietly from his workstation, not looking up from the intel Sarah compiled.
"Hard not to." My voice sounds steady despite the earthquake happening inside my chest. "That's my career burning in real-time. My reputation. My entire life reduced to a wanted poster and fabricated evidence."
He finally looks at me. Dark eyes assess with the same precision he probably used to evaluate combat situations in Syria. "How do you feel?"
The question surprises me. Most people would offer platitudes or reassurances. Alex wants the tactical assessment.
"Honestly?" I lean back in my chair, forcing myself to evaluate objectively. "I should be devastated. Should be planning how to clear my name, contacting every lawyer I know, figuring out how to surrender without getting shot on sight."
"But?"
"But I'm not devastated." The word sits in my throat, unexpected and true. "I'm free."
His eyebrows lift fractionally. That's practically an explosion of emotion from Alex Mercer.
"Free," I repeat, testing the word. "For eight years I played by the Bureau's rules. Followed protocols. Built cases that stood up in court. Profiled killers while ignoring the monsters wearing badges. I knew something was wrong with the assignments Patterson kept giving me. Knew some of the targets were too convenient, too perfectly packaged. But I documented everything properly, submitted my reports, and let the system handle justice."
"And the system was compromised."
"The system was the Committee." I gesture at my wanted poster. "Every assignment I worked, every profile I built, every operation I supported—some were legitimate, sure. But others? They were using me to identify and eliminate threats to their conspiracy. Good people who saw too much. Operators whorefused illegal orders. Analysts who asked the wrong questions. I was their instrument, and I didn't even know it."
The realization should crush me. Instead, it clarifies everything.
"So now they've burned me completely," I continue. "Labeled me a terrorist, destroyed my credibility, made sure nobody in law enforcement will ever believe a word I say. And somehow..." I hold his gaze. "I feel more alive than I have in years."
Alex sets down his tablet with deliberate care. "That's the anger talking."
"No. It's clarity." The words won't come out sitting down. I push to my feet. "For years I've been carrying guilt about cases that felt wrong. Suspects who seemed too clean. Evidence that appeared too convenient. I questioned myself constantly—maybe I missed something, maybe I'm not as good as I thought, maybe I'm seeing conspiracies where there's just human error. But I wasn't wrong. The conspiracy was real, and I was part of it whether I wanted to be or not."
