They were hunting Saomong CCA—the terrorists who’d brought down Flight 137. But they found far more enemy on the ground than we’d anticipated. Communication was compromised, and mechanical problems with the helicopter slowed the rescue effort. We believe four members of the team were killed in a running battle. Diego was wounded. Badly wounded, we think. He was captured along with Shaw Walker.
The Saomong Cooperative Cybernetic Army: True wasn’t even sure what their political goal had been, or if they’d even had one, beyond fucking things up. The “cybernetic” part of their name was no joke. They were brilliant but brutal, into electronic sabotage and remote-control terrorism, sowing chaos all through Southeast Asia. And they really were an army, small but effective, financed by the drug trade and supplied by outlaw regimes.
Lincoln believed that because Diego was wounded and likely to die anyway, he was picked by his captors to die first. Crucified and burned on high-definition video. Lincoln warned her not to watch it. She watched it anyway. She wanted those scars.
Shaw Walker died several days later, incinerated when a Chinese cruise missile struck the village of Nungsan where he was being held.
What does it mean that an American mercenary with a crippled hand, who claims to have been in Burma, has her eldest son’s name tattooed on his arm? Is Diego a fetish now? A secular saint in some twisted martial religion?
The Last Good Man.
Her anger turns in a slowly expanding gyre.
Just minutes ago she had resolved to keep an emotional distance from the idea of this ambiguous persona labeled “Jon Helm”—but that is impossible now.
She flinches at another touch against her wrist. Miles is watching her with a worried gaze, as if he suspects this is all too much for her. Her eyes narrow. She has seen that expression too many times in her career, but she is not so fragile—and she wants him to know it. So she turns to the tablet and types: Thank you for telling me. We need to figure out who this Jon Helm is. Maybe there’s a bounty on him.
His lip curls. He takes the tablet and types: Let me know. I’d love to hunt that fucker down.
She gives him a sideways smile, unsure if that’s bravado or if he really means it, but she approves of the sentiment all the same. She types, We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes—scheduled refueling stop. Let’s pick up this conversation then.
He nods and leans back, closing red-rimmed eyes.
True watches him. Of course he’s exhausted. He’s been through hell, although he’s weathered it well—so far. Eventually his experiences will circle back on him. No way out of it. He’s facing rough times ahead.
She cocks her head, listening, but the intercom is quiet. Lincoln’s brief interrogation is done, at least for now. She’s grateful for it, grateful for the silence as she considers her next best move.
Refueling Operation
They set down at a small airfield on the edge of the desert. The pilot shuts down the engines—but that doesn’t mean it’s quiet. There is the low, rushing murmur of wind, the rumble of the fuel truck, the clatter of mechanics, the rustle of movement and the shuffle of boots on the floor, with Chris barking orders as he sets up a security perimeter. None of it wakes Miles, who has nodded off in the few minutes since his typed conversation with True.
She lets him sleep. There is no hurry now, not if circumstances work out as she intends. Besides, the mission is ongoing and, like Chris, she has duties.
She moves forward to check on Ryan Rogers and Dano Rodrigues. The Brazilian is asleep but the engineer is awake, alert. She gets him a bottle of water and trades a few words, letting him know they’ll be on their way again in a few minutes.
Felice emerges from the next row where she’s been sitting with Fatima, concealed behind the curtain of casualty blankets.
“How’s she doing?” True asks, peering past the barrier.
Fatima is curled against the bulkhead. A blanket tucked around her hides both her safety harness and her restraints. Her eyes are open, blinking, but she doesn’t look up. She gives no sign that she’s heard True’s question.
“She’s not talking,” Felice says. “But she’s calm. I’d like to take the restraints off.”
“I’d like that too.” She squeezes past Felice and drops into the vacant seat.
“Dr. Atwan?” she asks, just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise. “How are you doing?” Fatima doesn’t respond, not by gesture or eye contact or words. “Talk to me, Dr. Atwan. I need to know that you understand. You’re safe now, and you’re on your way home.”
This time, True’s words have an effect. Maybe it’s the mention of home, but Fatima shivers—a tremor that runs through her whole body—and without turning her head she asks in a plaintive voice, “Are my parents dead?”
“No,” True answers emphatically as a flush of outrage heats her cheeks. “If he told you that, he was lying. Your parents are fine. They are the reason we are here. They asked us to come find you, to bring you home. They miss you so much. They love you.”
Fatima’s lips tremble. She seems on the verge of tears but she still will not look at True.
“We’d like to take off your restraints,” True tells her. “Okay?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead she straightens, stretching as if testing her bonds. Then she says softly, “Thank you. I won’t make trouble.”
By the time True steps back out from behind the curtain, Miles is up and out of his seat, standing with Ryan Rogers at the open door, both of them watching the activity outside.
Hussam is still strapped into a seat at the back of the cabin, eyes hidden by the blindfold and mufflers over his ears to ensure he doesn’t benefit from an overheard comment. Rohan is babysitting, sprawled casually in the next seat. He’s still wearing his visor, his Fortuna held in a loose grip, the muzzle pointed at the floor. He notes True’s gaze and flashes her a thumbs-up. She smiles.
The rest of the seats are empty. Everyone else is outside.
Miles gives Rogers a nudge. The engineer turns, takes note of True. “Hey,” he says. “I think I’m going to sit down before I fall down.” He shuffles back to his seat, water bottle in hand, swaying in exhaustion.
True joins Miles at the open door. “What’d you tell him?” she asks in amusement, indicating Rogers with a subtle tilt of her head.
Outside, the wind sweeps veils of dust through a pool of illumination cast onto the tarmac by a large rack of portable lights. The two-man Eden Transit ground crew works with keffiyehs wrapped around their faces. They’ve hooked up the fuel line; the pump is running with its grating noise. The pilot is with them, observing the operation. The copilot is up front, keeping an eye on the gauges. The entire refueling operation is watched over by two Eden Transit surveillance drones, backed up by Jameson, Nate, and Ted, patrolling beyond the reach of the lights.
Before they landed, True looked over a satellite map that placed the airfield in a dry, denuded plain, just a few scattered residences beyond the razor wire and chain-link fence. Abandoned residences, maybe. She can’t see any lights.
Miles answers her question, saying, “I told him you wanted to do separate interviews.” His lips barely move as he speaks. His voice is just loud enough for her to hear. She frowns. Did she give him the impression she was pursuing a private agenda? Maybe. She eyes Chris and Nasir talking together outside the pool of light. She considers Rohan in the cabin behind her, with his enhanced hearing. She pushes on anyway. There is nothing private about her next request.