Page 78 of Echo: Line
The safe house operations center hums with controlled preparation. Stryker field-strips his sniper rifle at the far table, each piece laid out with precision that would make a surgeon jealous. Rourke reviews approach vectors on the tactical display, marking kill zones and choke points in red. Tommy's fingers dance across three keyboards simultaneously, building contingency protocols for every possible failure mode. Sarah cross-references guard schedules against shift change patterns, looking for exploitable gaps.
Kane briefs Willa near the weapons rack. Willa’s body armor fits properly now—sized for her smaller frame but rated for the same threats we'll face. She listens with that veterinarian's focusthat translates surprisingly well to tactical planning. Questions are smart, specific. Kane answers with the respect he'd show any operator.
Delaney stands at her own workstation, organizing evidence collection equipment with the methodical attention of someone who's testified in federal court. Camera gear. Chain-of-custody forms. Biometric scanners. Digital storage with triple redundancy. She's treating tomorrow's raid like a crime scene investigation because that's exactly what it is—we're not just stealing data, we're building a prosecutable case.
"Your magazines are loaded backward."
Her voice pulls me from tactical assessment mode. She's moved close enough to see my gear—situational awareness improving, but still has blind spots.
"They're fine," I say.
"The rounds are facing the wrong direction in that one." Delaney points to the magazine on my left. "Unless you plan to shoot bullets out of your gun backward."
I look down. She's right. The magazine is loaded correctly for insertion but I set it on the table reversed. Minor detail that wouldn't matter except it proves my head's not entirely in prep mode.
"Good catch," I admit.
"I've been watching you work for twenty minutes. You've checked that same rifle three times. Cleaned magazines that were already clean. Reorganized gear that doesn't need reorganizing." She sits on the table edge, close enough I catch her scent—clean soap, dark coffee. Becoming familiar. "You're nervous."
"Concerned."
"About the mission?"
"About you being part of it."
Her jaw tightens. We've had this argument twice already in the past six hours. She's not backing down and neither am I, which means we're at tactical impasse.
"I'm going," she says. "We covered this."
"You're not an operator. If this goes sideways?—"
"Then you've trained me well enough to survive. Trust me, Alex."
The words hit harder than they should. Trust. The thing that died in Syria when command ordered me to paint a target on eighteen kids. The thing that's been slowly, painfully growing back since Kane found me on that Montana ridge.
I look at her—really look, not just tactical assessment but seeing the woman who gave up everything to expose the conspiracy that's been hunting us. Who kissed me on a rooftop like the world was ending. Who fits into this team like she was always meant to be here.
"I do," I say. "Trust you. Shows in what I'm not saying more than what I am."
"Which is?"
"That you stay here. That you run backup from operations center where it's safe. That I don't have to worry about you catching a bullet meant for me."
"But you're not saying those things."
"Because I trust you know your role. Trust you've prepared for it. Trust that when tomorrow goes wrong—and it will go wrong because operations always do—you'll keep your head and do the job."
Something shifts in her expression. Softens. "That might be the most words you've strung together about feelings since I met you."
"Don't get used to it."
"Wouldn't dream of it." She slides off the table, moves close enough that we're sharing air. "For what it's worth? I trust youtoo. To keep me alive tomorrow. To make the hard calls. To do what needs doing even when it costs."
Her hand finds mine briefly. Squeezes once. Then she's back to organizing evidence gear like the moment didn't happen.
Tommy's workstation chimes—incoming secure transmission. He pulls it up on the main screen.
"Cross," he announces. "Updated intel package."
