Page 80 of Echo: Line
"Then we better work fast." She meets his stare without flinching. "This evidence needs to be bulletproof. Legally, I mean. We're going through this effort, we do it right."
Kane considers. Then nods. "Agreed. Alex, you provide security while she works. Nobody gets close to those servers."
"Copy that."
The brief continues—backup plans, communication protocols, emergency extraction procedures. Kane's thorough, walking through every contingency he can imagine. But we all know the real test comes when reality deviates from the plan. Plans fall apart. Always do. What matters is how we adapt when everything goes to hell.
Dinner is Echo Ridge tradition. Before major operations, we eat together. No tactical discussion, no mission talk. Just the team being human for a few hours before we potentially die tomorrow.
Stryker cooks—apparently he trained in a restaurant kitchen before joining the Rangers. The pasta is better than it has any right to be considering we're working with safe house supplies.
"So there I am," Stryker says, gesturing with his fork, "dangling from a helicopter by one hand, RPG round incoming, and my spotter's screaming coordinates in my ear like that'll help me not die."
"Did you take the shot?" Delaney asks.
"Took three shots. Hit the RPG mid-flight, the shooter, and the guy trying to reload." He grins. "Then I fell. Fifteen feet onto a tin roof. Broke two ribs and my dignity."
"But you got the targets," Rourke observes quietly.
"Always get the targets."
Delaney laughs. The sound is genuine. Natural. She fits here.
Kane and Willa sit close, that comfortable proximity of people who've stopped fighting what they are to each other.Khalid listens to the stories with quiet intensity, soaking up lessons from operators who survived what many didn't. Tommy abandons his laptop long enough to actually eat, which might be a record.
"What about you?" Stryker asks Delaney. "You've got FBI stories. Let's hear one."
"Most of them are classified."
"We're all felons here. Classification means nothing."
She considers, then smiles. "Okay. There was this serial killer in Nevada. He'd been operating for eight years, thirty-seven victims, and nobody could find a pattern. I studied his case for three months. Couldn't crack it."
"How'd you get him?" Rourke asks.
"I didn't. He turned himself in. Walked into a police station in Reno and confessed to everything." She pauses. "Because he wanted recognition. His entire motivation was being known as the smartest killer the FBI couldn't catch. Once he realized we'd never figure him out, he gave up. No recognition in victory nobody witnesses."
"That's dark," Stryker says.
"That's the job. Understanding what makes broken people do broken things." She looks at me. "Present company included."
"Are we broken?" I ask.
"Probably. But you're the good kind of broken. The kind that breaks toward protecting people instead of hurting them."
The table goes quiet for a moment. Then Stryker raises his glass.
"To being the good kind of broken."
The words come back around the table, rough and honest.
The evening continues—stories, laughter, the kind of camaraderie that only develops among people who trust each other with their lives. Watching Delaney fit into this group feels right. She argues tactics with Rourke, jokes with Stryker,asks Kane intelligent questions about command decisions. She belongs here.
More than that. I want her here.
I find her in the weapons room after dinner, field-stripping her sidearm with competent efficiency. Not operator-level, but good enough to keep the weapon functional.
"Can't sleep?" I ask.
