Page 97 of Echo: Line

I look at the ring on my finger—silver band catching the light. Delaney Mercer. I'll probably keep Ward professionally, but this... this is different. Personal. It should feel strange, this new identity.

It feels like coming home.

"What are you thinking?" Alex asks.

"That six months ago, I was trying to arrest you." I turn to face him. "Now I'm married to you. And I wouldn't change a single thing."

"Not even the part where you got shot?"

"Especially not that part." I press against him. "That's when I knew you weren't leaving me behind. That's when I knew we were in this together, no matter what came next."

"Till death or victory," he says softly.

"Till death or victory."

Outside our quarters, I can hear the team settling in for the night. Stryker's music, Willa's laughter, Tommy's keyboards clicking. The sounds of family.

The sounds of home.

Tomorrow, we'll face whatever threats are gathering in the darkness. Reagan Mitchell's investigation. Kessler's plans. The Committee's inevitable retaliation.

But tonight? Tonight we have everything that matters.

And that's enough.

REAGAN

The park is deserted at eleven PM, exactly as my source promised.

I adjust my camera, checking the telephoto lens for the third time. Nervous habit. Bad habit. The kind that gets investigative journalists caught by the people they're investigating.

My name is Reagan Mitchell, and I'm about to either break the biggest story of my career or get myself killed. Possibly both.

The source called himself "Cipher"—original—and claimed he had proof of an off-the-books military operation. Black site funding, unsanctioned missions, government officials involved at the highest levels. He'd sent me documents, surveillance photos, financial records. All pointing to something called "Echo Ridge."

Problem is, Echo Ridge doesn't exist. No paper trail, no budget allocations, no congressional oversight. Just whispers in dark corners and bodies that pile up when you ask too many questions.

I asked anyway.

Headlights sweep across the parking lot. Black SUV, tinted windows, government plates. My pulse kicks. This is it—either confirmation or elimination.

The driver's door opens. A man steps out—tall, dark hair, eyes that scan the perimeter with professional paranoia. Military bearing, definitely armed, absolutely dangerous.

He's not my source. My source was civilian, nervous, desperate to get the story out.

This man is something else entirely.

I zoom in with the camera, snap photos in rapid succession. Get his face, his vehicle, his?—

He turns, looks directly at me.

Shit.

I'm a hundred yards away in darkness. He shouldn't be able to see me. But he's staring right at my position like I'm lit up with a spotlight.

Then he smiles. Not friendly. Predatory.

He pulls out a phone, types something. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes.