Page 89 of Echo: Line
She stares at the screen for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is flat. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going back."
"Delaney—"
"I can't, Alex." She meets my eyes. "Even if they wanted me, which they won't after this. I crossed too many lines. Used FBI resources to go after the Committee, broke into a federal detention facility, participated in an unauthorized op. My career there is done."
The resignation in her voice cuts deeper than it should. "You okay with that?"
"I think so." She leans back against the pillows, gaze distant. "I became an agent to catch monsters. Turns out the Bureau had plenty of its own. Maybe it's time for a different approach."
The door opens before I can respond. Kane steps in, Tommy and Sarah behind him. The team's given us space the last two days, running interference while Delaney heals. Now Kane's expression is all business, but there's something else underneath. Respect, maybe. Gratitude.
"Delaney," he says. "Good to see you upright."
She manages a tired smile. "Takes more than a bullet to keep me down."
Kane nods, pulls a chair closer to the bed. Sarah and Tommy flank him, and their combined attention makes the room feel smaller.
"You did good work," Kane says. "The profile on Kessler, the evidence analysis, strategic planning during the op. You completed the mission objective under fire, held your position when most people would have run. That's operator thinking."
“My primary role is not as a field operative.” Delaney's voice is steady. “I’m a profiler. Evidence specialist. That's what I'm good at."
"Agreed, which is exactly what we need." Kane leans forward slightly. "Echo Ridge isn't just shooters and demolition experts. We need intelligence analysts. Strategic planners. People who can see the patterns, build the cases. Willa handles medical, Sarah runs signals intelligence and tech. We need someone on evidence and behavioral analysis."
She looks at me, question in her eyes.
"You earned it," I tell her. "But it's your choice."
She's quiet for several heartbeats. Then she turns back to Kane. "I'm in. But remote support, not field ops. I'm not trained for that, don't pretend to be. Intelligence analysis, behavioral profiling, evidence work—that's where I can help."
"That's exactly what we need." Kane extends his hand, and Delaney shakes it despite the obvious discomfort in her side. "Welcome to Echo Ridge. Officially."
Sarah grins. "About damn time. Been doing all the analysis and evidentiary work myself, and I hate it."
"Tommy will get you set up with secure systems," Kane continues. "Encrypted comms, access to our intelligence networks, whatever resources you need. Take time to heal first. We'll start the briefings when you're ready."
They file out after a few more minutes of logistics talk, leaving us alone again. Delaney sinks back against the pillows, and I catch the tremor in her hands before she can hide it. Adrenaline crash, delayed shock, the weight of everything finally hitting.
"Hey." I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her. "You sure about this?"
"About Echo Ridge?" She looks at me, and there's steel under the exhaustion. "About this life?"
"All of it."
"About you?" Her hand finds mine. "Always. Everything else? One day at a time."
Two weeks later, the underground corridors of Echo Base have started feeling less like a facility and more like home.
Delaney moves through the small kitchen area with only a slight hitch in her stride, the wound healed enough that Willa cleared her for light training. She's been running drills with the team, learning basic tactical movement and weapons handling. Not to make her an operator—we're all clear on that—but because anyone attached to Echo Ridge needs to know how to survive if things go wrong.
She's good at it. Disciplined, methodical, doesn't take unnecessary risks. Sarah's been teaching her urban evasion techniques, and Tommy set her up with the evidence analysis systems. She's already working two cases, building profiles on Committee operatives still in the wind.
We've fallen into a rhythm. Morning PT together, breakfast while she reviews intelligence reports, afternoons spent training or working separate tasks. Evenings are ours—cooking dinner, decompressing, learning how to exist in the same space without mission parameters defining every interaction.
It should be perfect.
Instead, I catch myself pulling back. Small moments where I create distance. Old habits dying hard. The part of me that expects this to end, that knows I don't deserve this kind of good.
It comes to a head over something stupid.
