by Isaac Hooke
Sam sighed. "Given the large amounts of money we estimate Al Sifr is siphoning, we suspect he's planning something more elaborate than simple run-of-the-mill terrorist financing. Especially given the clandestine nature of his operations."
"What kind of attack?" Ethan said.
"That's for you to find out. And stop."
And so Ethan had gone.
He looked past the snoring Pakistani at the window. The sun shade was open, revealing the sky beyond. The remnants of twilight colored the horizon, but above, the night was dotted by stars. So many shining points of light. An infinite number.
What am I doing? I've saved up enough to retire. I should be living off the fruits of my labor. Married, kids, the whole package.
He chuckled softly at that. He wasn't the family type, as much as a part of him dreamed of a simpler life. Still, he was getting old, and sometimes he wondered if he had made the right choice. It wasn't too late to change course. Not yet. Though he couldn't help but feel that if he waited any longer, such a family life would never be available to him. Kids were a young man's game, after all.
What are you talking about, Ethan? A man can father kids well into his eighties, and then hire an au-pair to take care of them.
Well, assuming one caveat: that he lived that long.
He felt suddenly cold and he buttoned his blazer over his white dress shirt. When that didn't help, he grabbed the airline-supplied blanket he'd wedged beside his hip. He removed the blanket from the clear plastic bag and spread it over his body.
Still cold.
Turbulence shook the plane. Ethan felt himself zoning out, losing touch with reality. He was in an Airbus, flying over Turkey, and yet he was not. The feeling of disassociation was unnerving. Like a presence of some kind was lurking over him, looking down on him. A presence that was himself.
When he had left Iraq the last time, the terrible memories the mission had awakened didn't fade like they had before. Many years ago, when he had permanently left Black Squadron—the clandestine division of SEAL Team Six—he had been able to banish the memories by the sheer force of his will alone. It was incredibly difficult, but he'd done it.
That didn't work anymore. No matter how hard he pushed, the memories wouldn't go way. He tried everything: psychological tricks such as re-imagining the disturbing scenes in black and white and shrinking the images in his mind. Physical tricks like breathing exercises and myofascial release. But if anything, the memories only became stronger.
Something had changed inside him during the last undercover operation in that country. He and his team had experienced one too many close calls. Sometimes it felt like he was a porcelain figure, dropped countless times on the hardwood floor, and one more fall would shatter him into a thousand pieces.
The turbulence came again, stronger. He heard a disembodied female voice call his name in the distance. The soft sound was nearly lost to his tinnitus.
Ethan.
It was Sam. Trying to call him back from the brink, as she had done once before. He knew it was no use, though. A flashback was coming on.
I refuse to remember this time. I refuse!
The cabin shook. The seatbelt sign lit up, accompanied by that characteristic warning tone. The overhead bins clattered loudly. One of the bin doors fell open and bounced ominously.
Ethan's tightened his grip on the armrests until his knuckles were white. His heart pounded. His breathing increased. The high-pitched tinnitus in his left ear rose in volume until it consumed all else. The beds of his fingers and toes throbbed as his brain remembered the pain of having his nails torn away. He closed his eyes tight.
No no no!
And then he was in Iraq. Reliving his three deployments and the pitched battles therein. He lost close friends all over again. Brothers.
The battles faded, replaced with his trials in Black Squadron. He remembered a boy, his face burned off by white phosphorous. Ethan tried to save him, but couldn't.
Those memories faded, replaced by more recent ones. Trying to save another boy in Syria, who had foolishly joined Islamic militants. Trying and failing. His fellow operatives Aaron and William, getting shot. Sam, under the influence of scopolamine, attacking him in Iraq. Torture at the hand of terrorists.
Then he was staring down the sights of an assault rifle as he surveyed a battle-damaged city street. No, it wasn't an assault rifle, it was a mounted MK 43. He had returned to his second deployment again.
A boy and his sister came into view. The sister, about the same age, retrieved an AK from her abaya. She gave it to the boy who, after suitable prodding from the sister, proceeded to assault Ethan's position. She stood in front of him, acting as a human shield. She was shorter, so that the kid could easily fire over her head.
None of the men with Ethan returned fire.
Ethan aligned his sights over the threat. The MK 43 would easily cut both the boy and his sister in half.
He couldn't bring himself to shoot, not at first. But he knew all it would take was a lucky shot from that kid and one of his men would go down. He couldn't allow that.
He would do his job.
He would do what he was trained to do.
Ethan squeezed the trigger...
"Excuse me sir, are you all right?" she said in English.
Ethan's eyes shot open. He was drenched in sweat, breathing hard. He found himself staring into the face of a sympathetic flight attendant. A friendly, caring face. It was so far removed from what he had just witnessed that he felt his eyes grow moist, and he nearly cracked.
"Yes," he managed, feeling his chin quiver. "Sorry, I'm just—" He couldn't finish.
"Sir—"
He released his deathgrip on the armrests and waved dismissively. He sat up, rubbed his eyes angrily, and then swept a hand across his forehead, trying to wipe away the perspiration. All he did was smear the sweat.
"I'm fine," he managed. His voice sounded more controlled. Good.
The cabin was no longer shaking, he realized, and the seatbelt sign was off.
"I'll be right back." The attendant vanished down the aisle.
Ethan noticed that the people across the aisle were staring at him. They quickly looked away when he met their eyes.
The attendant returned with a hot towel.
He accepted it gratefully and wiped his face. "Thank you. I'm not the best flyer."
His eyes flicked to the Qatar Airways oryx stamped onto the red, brimless cap she wore.
The Arabian oryx. Once nearly extinct, the species had fought its way back from the brink. Would Ethan be able to do the same?
The attendant smiled sympathetically. "Is there anything else I can get for you? Coffee or juice? Some water?"
A part of his mind registered that she was cute. But he truly didn't care in that moment. He felt embarrassed more than anything else. And sickened.
"No. But thank you." He glanced at the other passengers across the aisle. "Did I... did I say anything strange while I was asleep?"
She paused uncertainly. "A few words. But don't worry, it wasn't too loud. I only heard you because I was performing a cabin check."
"What did I say?"
She frowned. "It doesn't matter. It was a nightmare."
The people in the nearby aisle were watching him again.
His hand shot out and he grabbed the flight attendant by the wrist. Hard. "What did I say."
Her expression became a mixture of terror and outrage. "You said: 'I don't want to kill them.' Over and over."
Ethan released her. "Sorry." He returned the towel and she left him to his troubled thoughts.
Beside him, the insurance salesman continued to snore, having slept through the whole incident.
That was the third episode since his Iraq mission. Each time, the all-encompassing memories only seemed to draw him in deeper, threatening to swallow him entirely.
Perhaps he should have told the shrink after all. No, he could get through this on his own. He could.
&nbs
p; And yet he had to wonder what would happen if an episode ever came on when he was in the middle of an important operation. Or a gunfight.
But he already knew the answer to that.
Rubbing his eyes, he accessed the AVOD screen embedded into the seat in front of him. He tried watching an in-flight movie, but his mind constantly drifted off.
Of all the memories that had flashed through his mind, terrible though they were, two bothered him most: the kid with the face burned off by white phosphorous. And the boy in his sights, firing at Ethan's squad while the sister shielded him.
Ethan couldn't remember if he'd shot the two kids.
And that was the most disturbing thing of all.
5
Romania
ETHAN OPENED HIS EYES. He'd napped for a good hour in the passenger seat of the armored Audi A8. Though there was only a two hour time difference between Karachi and Bucharest, he was still feeling slightly jet lagged, even after spending the night in a cheap hotel. He blamed it on the early morning departure from Karachi followed by the long layover in Doha waiting for the connecting flight.
He glanced at the driver, his new partner. She was dressed all in black, with a jumpsuit more suitable to a motorcycle rider, replete with black gloves and boots. At her throat was a short necklace with a silver feather dangling from the middle.
She wore her dark hair in a pony-tail. There was almost no makeup on her pale face, save for dark red lipstick. Her eyes were a startling cerulean. Almost inhumanly bright. No one should have eyes like that. And yet there she was.
He remembered his objections when Sam had told him he'd be working with her.
"You will be assisted by one of my operatives," Sam had told him. "Codename Maelstrom. She speaks perfect Romanian."
Ethan immediately looked up the codename in the secure database on the laptop. Bretta Storm.
"Nice alias," Ethan said.
Sam shrugged. "It's what she prefers."
"You know what I think about tagalongs. Especially ones with names based on weapons."
Sam wore a knowing smile. "She's more than a tagalong. And as for her alias and codename... trust me, both suit her."
"Look, a support team working in the background is fine," he said. "But an inexperienced operative paired directly with me? A translator? Come on."
"She's hardly inexperienced," Sam said. "Besides, you don't speak Romanian, last time I checked. Unless you've been taking lessons without telling me?"
Ethan frowned. She knew quite well he hadn't had time to prepare for the mission.
Sam nodded to herself. "That's what I thought. I'm sorry, I've made my decision. She's the best I have available at the moment. Trust me, you'll like her."
When he had met Bretta for the first time outside the hotel that morning, his objections had only worsened. She was too goddamn beautiful, with the kind of flawless face men fell in love with after the first glance. She would be fine in a Muslim country, wearing a full veil, but not there. He was supposed to be operating undercover—the Romanian government hadn't sanctioned his visit. How the hell was he going to avoid attracting attention with a woman like that at his side?
"You think I'm a sex object?" Bretta said suddenly.
Her voice knocked him from his reverie.
"What?" Ethan said. "No."
"You've been staring at me for the past two minutes."
"My mind was elsewhere. I didn't sleep too well last night."
"I see. Well I hope you had a good nap, then."
"The best," Ethan lied.
"You didn't look too happy when I picked you up at the hotel," she continued. "I take it you're not accustomed to working with a partner?"
"I'll be frank," Ethan said. "You're too good looking for this job. I almost feel like telling Sam I can't work with you."
"Because of my looks?" she sounded exasperated. "My face has often proven to be my greatest asset. Opening up doors that would ordinarily be off limits to a male operative."
Ethan fidgeted. "That may be so, but do you really have what it takes? I mean really? Because where we're going, you blink, you look away even for a moment, you're going to get chewed up and spit out for breakfast. Terrorists don't care if you're a woman, they're going to kill you the same as any man."
"So that's what this is about! That I'm a woman? Not a member of your precious Navy SEAL brotherhood? Oh, don't look so shocked. Sam shared a few choice tidbits from your past."
"It's not so much that you're a woman, but that you're inexperienced. I—"
She abruptly slammed on the brakes and shifted the vehicle into second gear. She flicked the wheel to the right and then spun it hard left, fishtailing the Audi's rear. The vehicle performed a one-eighty in the middle of the highway and came to a complete stop; she immediately shifted into reverse, looked over her shoulder, and slammed down the accelerator so that they were driving backward in the same direction they had been going forward a few seconds ago.
Ethan pressed his lips together. "Bootleg turn to reverse. You got driving skills, I'll give you that. Now would you please turn us back around?"
She spun the wheel hard to the left, shifted into first gear when the vehicle hit the ninety-degree mark, and hit the gas. The rear fishtailed the rest of the way so that the Audi was once again facing the proper direction. She slammed down the accelerator and shifted up.
"And a J-turn back to the front," Ethan said, relieved that they were going forward again. "Nice. But a bit reckless. I'm going to have to give you a C minus for performing dangerous turns in the middle of a major highway like some teenage joyrider showing off to her crush."
"You're hardly my crush," she said petulantly. "And I wasn't trying to show off. Only proving a point. And the highway was completely clear of vehicular traffic."
"It's also hard on the car," Ethan said. "Especially the front tires. And what point exactly did you want to prove? That you can drive? It's not going to help you when we're pinned down somewhere with bullets streaming over our heads, and RPGs about to come in. When the shit breaks through the fan and floods the attic, can I count on you to keep it together? Can I count on you to watch my back and provide cover when I need it most?"
She gripped the steering wheel so hard that the blood pooled beneath her skin on either side of the knuckles. Her body seemed so stiff that Ethan could've probably broken a board against her and she wouldn't have moved.
Then she abruptly relaxed. "You can count on me."
The earnestness in her voice got to him, and a door opened somewhere inside him. A door that he let few people into; he allowed her to step upon the threshold, but no further. Not yet.
He nodded slowly. "All right. Okay. I believe you."
"Though I doubt we'll be facing something so drastic here," she said.
He chuckled softly. "True enough. I was being metaphorical, of course. I mean come on, it's only Romania, not a war zone, right?"
She smiled at him for the first time. "Right." There was nothing hidden behind that smile. No mockery. No distrust. Only sincerity.
"What's that at your neck?" Ethan asked. "An eagle feather?"
She touched the silver object hanging from her neck and smiled. "Yeah." Her voice, and that smile, both seemed a little forced.
"No really," Ethan said. "What is it?"
She hesitated, then said, softly: "An angel wing."
Ethan was a bit taken aback by her tone. Gone was the strong, resolute woman he had been talking to, replaced by someone who seemed on the verge of tears. He'd hit upon a soft spot, apparently, and decided not to pressure her into revealing anything more about it. The bauble obviously had some sentimental value to her, and that was everything he needed to know.
So all he said was: "Oh. Okay."
The two were quiet for a time.
Ethan glanced at the rearview window. "Sam said we were getting a support team."
"Support team Eight-Blue will be meeting us at the destination city."
Ethan
pursed his lips. "I'm used to operating in countries where I don't have a support net."
"You like to brag, don't you?" she said.
"I'm merely stating the facts."
"Welcome to Western Europe," she said. "We have support teams all over the continent."
"Well okay then, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am," she said. "I hate that."
"What do you want to be called? Maelstrom? Miss Storm? You're certainly stormy enough."
"Bretta," she said.
Ethan shrugged, pretending he hadn't heard. "Miss Storm it is. So who's the leader of my support team?"
"Jerry Wong." She glanced at him. "And it's our support team."
"Jerry Wong. Never heard of him."
"I've worked him once before," she said. "He—"
"Worked him, or worked with him?" Ethan interrupted.
"Slip of the tongue," she replied.
"Freudian slip, more likely," he said slyly.
She rolled her eyes. "Look, Jerry's a good guy. Excellent at what he does."
"But not as good as you, I take it?"
She smirked. "No one's as good as me. Not even you."
Ethan sat back. "We'll see."
His eyes were drawn to the lower hem of her jumpsuit, where a very slight bulge told him she wore a concealed ankle holster. "I bet I can guess what sidearm you're packing."
"I bet you can guess, too." It sounded like she had gone through this routine before.
"Beretta Storm Px4 Subcompact."
"Very good," she said sarcastically.
Ethan shrugged. "I know my pistols."
"And my alias obviously had nothing to do with your guess."
"Not at all. Don't get me wrong, the Px4 is a fine weapon. And it's probably a good fit for your small hands."
"Small hands," she said. "Big punch."
"I can see why Sam likes you," Ethan said.
"Really?" Bretta countered. "Well I can't see why she likes you."
"Thanks. I don't care if you actually like me or not. As long as you know who's in charge, then we're good." He nodded toward her ankle. "Anyway, you might want to consider switching to something smaller, like one of the Glock subcompact platforms. You'd get rid of the ankle bulge entirely. And you should wear pants with a looser hem. What you have now is a bit tight. In times of need, when every moment counts, you don't want to waste precious seconds rolling up the hem simply to draw your pistol."
