“Sure,” Tamara says. “What have you got?”
“He’s freelance intelligence. Got to be. Look.” Naomi gets up, walks over to Hayden’s desk, and shifts a tile to the center of the screen. “See him? He’s here, just off the highway.” She shifts the view. “And way out here… is the wreckage of the Arkinson. He’s sent a starburst copter out to look at it.”
“I see it,” Hayden says. “To the right of the main wreck.”
“That’s it,” Naomi agrees. “He’s circled every fragment twice. Got to be taking pictures to sell.”
Lincoln shrugs. “Entrepreneurs are everywhere.”
But something about the situation makes Tamara uneasy. “Hmm,” she says. Just that. But it’s enough to make Naomi whirl around, eyes wide.
“You think it’s something else?”
“No,” Tamara says thoughtfully. “I think your assessment is correct.”
“Then what?”
Tamara isn’t really sure. “Damn,” she says softly. “I wish we’d destroyed that emblem.”
“The Rogue Lightning emblem?” Naomi asks, side-eyeing Lincoln.
Lincoln is glaring at the screen. “You’re right. We should have. There wasn’t time, but we should have.”
Hayden sounds puzzled when he asks, “You think it could come back to bite us? That wasn’t even our ship.”
“It’s a coincidence,” Lincoln explains. “That’s all. But coincidences get misread all the time. Tamara’s right. It’s a loose end. We should have cleaned it up.”
In the air again, heading north:
True broods over the question of Jon Helm—anonymous mercenary riding the reputation of Rogue Lightning, paying false homage to Diego’s death.
She messages Lincoln: You need to try Hussam again. He’s got to know more about Jon Helm.
Lincoln responds, Fuck him. Hussam is done talking. We’ll find out what we need to know on our own.
True knows he’s got queries out to his contacts and that he’s assigned Tamara’s team to do research, but so far it’s like the man is invisible. Nothing more than a name. There isn’t much on Variant Forces either and what there is, it’s all from dark sites. Chatter leaves the impression that Variant Forces is a sophisticated operation, a PMC that’s involved in finance as well as security, backing enterprises that deal in currency, drugs, petroleum, weapons, hostages.
They reach the coast, head out across the Mediterranean.
A message comes in from Tamara, addressed to both True and Chris: Al-Furat finally issued a statement. They’re claiming Hussam is dead. We gunned him down in cold blood.
Chris responds: Damn, I missed that part.
True asks: They worked out a successor yet?
Tamara: Looks like it’s going to be Rihab. It says he swears revenge.
True: Hussam’s little brother, right?
Chris: No worries. We’ll get him next time.
True sighs and leans back, closing her eyes. Twenty minutes later, they set down again, this time on the helicopter deck of a US Navy destroyer. Chris and Jameson escort the prisoner to the door, where Navy personnel take custody. They cover Hussam with an IR-opaque blanket and lead him away beneath the spinning rotors.
Seconds later, the H215 is in the air again and en route to Cyprus.
Lincoln messages the team’s families, letting them know the mission is done and that everyone is safe and on the way home.
Ghost
They arrive in the middle of the night at a British Sovereign Base Area on Cyprus, setting down on an isolated concrete apron. No media waiting. No fanfare. Just a cluster of British officers and American officials, along with three gray vans.
In the deal worked out by Lincoln, the British have agreed to mediate the repatriation of the civilians but they want to stay outside of an anticipated legal squabble over the activities of mercenaries. So Requisite Operations is to depart immediately—a scenario that suits True just fine. Even better, Lincoln has worked a magic spell, persuading US officials to let Miles Dushane leave with them.
“Chris,” True says over the intercom as the H215’s engines wind down.
“Here.”
“Hold the officials at the door. I want a couple of minutes to talk to Fatima.”
“You got it.”
The curtain of casualty blankets still hangs between the seats. True looks around it to find Felice helping Fatima out of her safety harness. Felice looks up. “Ready?” she asks.
“Just about.”
Fatima appears tired but calm. Her face has been washed and her hair neatly tucked away beneath a thin orange cloth that she’s using as a hijab. She meets True’s questioning gaze and with a hoarse edge to her voice she says, “You want to know if I will throw another mad fit?”
True sits down beside her. “You seem past that.”
“For now,” Fatima agrees.
True says, “Felice has told you that there are US State Department personnel here, waiting to receive you.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll see that you get medical treatment and that you get home. Your parents will be here tomorrow.”
“I understand. Thank you.” Her gaze cuts away. Her hand closes into a tight fist against her thigh. “I’m pregnant.”
This is not a surprise. True tells her, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry he’s laid that claim on you.”
Fatima looks at her again. Her gaze is steady, focused. Angry. “You understand, then. If I bear this child, I will be a slave, his slave, for all my life. My body used by him, to his own ends. I hate it. I hate his voice in my head, so superior, lecturing me how it is all God’s will. I hate this fear he has put into my heart. I hate him. I hate him.”
“He deserves your hate,” True says. “Never forget what he did to you. Never forgive it. Never forgive those who inflict such horror on others.” Her focus slips. She hears again the soundtrack of Diego’s agony—and her own hate bleeds as raw as ever.
She draws in a sharp breath, forces herself back to the surface. “Hate him,” she advises Fatima. “But don’t let him live inside your head. Don’t let him make any decisions for you. It’s on you to decide who you are and why you’re here in the world.”
The ghost of a bitter smile surfaces on Fatima’s face. “Thank you for finding me,” she says. “I am ready to go.”
Chris gets the door open. There’s an awkward moment as they say goodbye to Fatima, to Ryan Rogers, and to Dano Rodrigues. When they are gone, a pair of American intelligence officers comes aboard. Everyone signs an electronic document agreeing to submit to an interview within forty-eight hours of their return to the United States, and after that they transfer to a chartered jet. A cheer goes up as it lifts off. There are fist bumps and yells of “Right action!” Chris even gives a little speech: “We did what we came to do and we did it well. Be proud. This will be one to remember.” He sniffs at the cabin air, shakes his head. “And damn, we stink. As soon as we reach cruising altitude, I want everyone to get cleaned up.”
They use the kitchenette and the tiny restroom to wipe down. The clothes worn on the mission, smelling of sweat and smoke and gunfire, are packed away in plastic bags. They change into civilian clothes. An extra athletic shirt and trousers are found for Miles. He still doesn’t have shoes but he’s not going to complain.
“Who’s got a razor?” he shouts down the aisle. He remembers the coarse length of his beard. “Maybe scissors too.”
Rohan grins. “I’ve got just the thing.” He reaches deep into his pack—and produces a straight-edge razor, of all things. Turning the blade so the cabin light flashes against it, he says, “Of course you might slash your own throat if we hit turbulence.”