5. Rook
ROOK
Six months after the ambush, the mountain still followed Rook into his dreams.
Gunfire across the ridges.
Tex bleeding beneath his hands.
Ridge walking toward the storage building.
Viking smiling through blood and smoke.
Prove him wrong.
Rook opened his eyes.
Darkness surrounded him.
For one disorienting second, he didn’t know where he was.
Then waves struck the pilings beneath the warehouse.
Wind pressed against the metal walls.
A narrow beam of moonlight crossed the small room Cutter had converted into sleeping quarters.
Alaska.
He was in Alaska.
Not Afghanistan.
Not buried beneath a mountain.
Alive.
Rook sat on the edge of the narrow bed and dragged both hands over his face.
The clock on the wall read 4:17 a.m.
He wouldn’t sleep again.
He rarely did after the dreams.
Rook pulled on his boots and walked onto the main floor.
The warehouse had changed during the past five months.
Cutter repaired the roof and reinforced the exterior doors. Fathom installed security cameras, encrypted communications, and backup generators. Sniper created a training area near the rear loading bay.
The rusted stairs had been replaced.
The broken windows had been sealed.
Weapons filled locked cabinets hidden behind movable walls.
Three motorcycles and two black SUVs waited near the side entrance under false registrations.
What had once been an abandoned boat-repair warehouse had become a headquarters.
Shadow Division had a home.
But it still didn’t have answers.
Rook stopped beside the memorial table.
Six photographs.
Six challenge coins.
Every morning began here.
He straightened Viking’s coin, though it wasn’t crooked.
“You told me to find him.”
Viking smiled at him from the photograph.
Rook lowered his voice.
“I’m trying.”
The dead didn’t answer.
They never did.
Blue light glowed across the warehouse.
Fathom sat at his workstation wearing the same black shirt he had worn the day before.
Possibly the day before that.
Rook approached him.
“Did you sleep?”
Fathom continued typing. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Recently.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Rook glanced at the half-empty coffee pot.
“You made that?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to it?”
“I made it.”
That explained everything.
Sniper emerged from the training area with a towel draped around his neck.
“You could use that stuff to remove rust from a battleship.”
Fathom lifted his cup. “More for me.”
“No one else wants it.”
“Then everyone wins.”
Rook stopped beside the center monitor.
“Tell me we found something.”
Fathom didn’t answer immediately.
Never a good sign.
Lines of data moved across the screen.
Files opened.
Closed.
Reopened.
Months of digging.
Months of false identities, hidden accounts, and erased records.
Months of watching seven powerful people without getting close enough to prove which one had sold them out.
Rear Admiral Thomas Grayson had retired from public service three months after the ambush and purchased a home in the Cayman Islands.
Director Alan Madow remained protected behind layers of classified authority.
Senator Richard Vance had announced his intention to seek reelection.
General Robert Sheffield continued overseeing sensitive military operations.
Walter Graves had received a promotion.
Commander Jerry Rhodes had vanished from public view.
Mac Stenson had been placed on administrative leave after classified files were discovered on his home computer.
Every development created more questions.
None of them gave Rook what he needed.
Proof.
Sniper leaned against the table.
“What about Stenson?”
“Still under investigation,” Fathom said.
“For leaking classified intelligence?”
“That’s the official accusation.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“I believe someone wanted investigators to find those files.”
Rook looked at Stenson’s photograph.
The evidence against him had appeared too neatly.
No hidden accounts.
No suspicious travel.
No apparent motive.
Then classified mission files were suddenly discovered inside his home.
It looked less like a mistake and more like a frame.
“Someone may be cleaning up the list,” Rook said.
Fathom nodded. “Make Stenson the traitor, convict him in a closed hearing, and declare the mountain solved.”
Sniper’s expression hardened. “While the people responsible walk away.”
“Exactly.”
Rook looked toward Walter Graves’s photograph.
Graves had received a promotion less than five months after six SEALs were buried.
That didn’t prove anything.
But Rook intended to discover who had recommended him for it.
Fathom suddenly stopped typing.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?” Rook asked.
“I found the access record.”
Rook moved closer. “What access record?”
“The final mission package.”
The file appeared on the center screen.
Fathom enlarged the security log.
“Three days before our insertion, someone accessed the complete operation file.”
“One of the seven?”
“No.”
That answer changed the room.
Sniper stepped closer.
“What do you mean, no?”
“The identification field was deleted.”
“Redacted?”
“Deleted.”
Fathom pointed to the timestamp.
“The file was open for forty-two seconds.”
Rook stared at the screen.
Forty-two seconds.
That was all it would have taken to copy the coordinates.
The route.
The timetable.
The extraction point.
Forty-two seconds to condemn nine men to death.
“Can you recover the identification?” Rook asked.
“I’m trying.”
“How long?”
“Five months, apparently.”
Sniper looked at him. “You just found it.”
“I found evidence that it existed. Recovering deleted credentials from a classified system without alerting the people monitoring it is slightly more complicated.”
“Slightly?”
“Would you like to do it?”
“I’d rather shoot something.”
“We know.”
Fathom opened another screen.
The deleted entry carried no name, but a partial authorization code remained buried inside the metadata.
Three letters.
WGS
Rook studied them.
“Initials?”
“Possibly.”
“Walter Graves?”
“Possibly.”
“Or someone wants us to think it was Graves,” Sniper said.
Fathom glanced at him. “You’re learning.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
The partial code was the first tangible lead they had found in months.
It wasn’t proof.
But it was something.
Rook straightened.
“Follow it.”
“I already am.”
“Quietly.”
Fathom gave him a flat look. “I wasn’t planning to send Graves an email.”
The warehouse door slammed open.
Every weapon appeared instantly.
Rook pivoted.
Pistol raised.
Sniper moved left, using a support column as cover.
Fathom pulled a handgun from beneath the workstation.
A tall silhouette filled the entrance.
Broad shoulders.
Military posture.
A duffel bag hanging from one hand.
Snow blew into the warehouse behind him.
For one dangerous second, nobody moved.
Then the man stepped beneath the overhead light.
Rook’s finger eased away from the trigger.
“No way.”
Jake “Reef” Williams kicked the door closed behind him.
Former Navy SEAL.
Former member of Rook’s team.
Brother.
Friend.
Reef looked older than he had the last time Rook saw him. His dark hair was longer, and a scar crossed the edge of his jaw.
But the eyes were the same.
Sharp.
Watchful.
Dangerous.
Reef looked at the three pistols aimed at his chest.
“This is a warmer welcome than I expected.”
Sniper kept his weapon raised.
“You’re supposed to knock.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I thought about it.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is in Alaska.”
Rook lowered his pistol, but he didn’t holster it.
“How did you find us?”
Reef’s humor faded.
“That’s the first thing you’re going to say to me?”
“It’s the only reason you’re still standing.”
Reef studied him for a moment.
Then he nodded.
Fair enough.
He placed the duffel bag on the floor and slowly reached inside his coat.
Sniper’s weapon came up again.
“Easy,” Reef said.
He removed a folded envelope and tossed it onto the nearest table.
A silver sword had been drawn across the front.
Rook went still.
“Where did you get that?”
“Somebody left it inside my fishing boat three weeks ago.”
“You didn’t see who?”
“No.”
“What was inside?”
“Coordinates. A photograph of this warehouse. And a copy of Hammer’s obituary.”
Rook’s gaze shifted toward the memorial table.
The woman with the silver sword had found Reef.
More importantly, she knew he had served with them.
“What else?” Rook asked.
“A message.”
Reef looked directly at him.
“Three of your brothers are alive.”
Silence settled across the warehouse.
Sniper lowered his weapon.
Fathom stared at the envelope.
Rook didn’t move.
“Why did you believe it?” he asked.
“I didn’t.”
Reef’s voice roughened.
“Not at first.”
His gaze moved from Rook to Sniper and then Fathom.
“I attended six funerals. I watched Tex’s daughter accept his flag. I stood beside Viking’s mother while she waited for someone to explain why her son’s body came home without the men who had led him onto that mountain.”
The words hit Rook like blows.
Reef continued.
“I didn’t believe it until I started checking.”
“Checking what?”
“The casualty report.”
Fathom moved closer.
“What did you find?”
“Your names were entered as presumed killed before the recovery team completed its search.”
Rook’s grip tightened around his pistol.
Fathom had found evidence of the same thing.
“The order came from Sheffield,” Reef said. “But the authorization code was routed through Walter Graves’s office.”
The three letters on Fathom’s screen suddenly carried more weight.
WGS.
Walter Graves.
“What else?” Rook asked.
“The official report claims weather forced the recovery team off the mountain for thirty-six hours.”
Reef reached into the envelope and removed a photograph.
“That isn’t true.”
Rook took it.
The image showed a military helicopter sitting at a forward operating base beneath a clear morning sky.
A date and time appeared in the lower corner.
“The weather was clear,” Reef said. “The recovery team was ordered to stand down.”
“By who?”
“Commander Jerry Rhodes delivered the order.”
Another name on the list.
Sniper holstered his weapon.
“You retired last year.”
Reef looked at him. “I remember.”
“You’re supposed to be drinking beer on a beach.”
“I tried that.”
“And?”
“I hate sand.”