Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
NORTHERN NIGER – ABANDONED AGRICULTURAL CO-OP
Everything about it screamed no witnesses and no second chances.
Ford—Lex Harper—walked across the dust-blown courtyard with the slow, languid confidence of a man who’d spent his life buying the sins of others. His linen jacket fluttered just enough in the breeze to show he wasn’t carrying overt weapons.
Dante—Rafe Moretti—walked one step behind him, just close enough to kill anyone who needed killing. His hand hovered near the inner hem of his jacket, not as a threat, as a promise. His eyes scanned rooftops, angles, corners.
Two men appeared from behind a cracked water tank. Local muscle. Kalashnikovs. Cheap sunglasses and enough swagger to hide how nervous they were.
One spoke first. “Mr. Harper.”
Harper smiled like he’d been waiting to hear that all night. “You must be Rami,” he said smoothly. “Or one of the men who takes orders from him. Hard to tell; you boys like to mix and match your little warlord fashion choices.”
Rafe didn’t move. The two gunmen stiffened.
Harper’s grin widened as he flourished, confident and sharp. “Relax. If I wanted you dead, my guy would’ve put you down before you finished saying hello.”
They both flicked quick looks at Rafe. He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He just watched, predatory and quiet. The kind that made lesser men sweat.
A third figure emerged from behind a stack of rotting crates. Taller and better-fed with a scar running from the corner of his mouth to the hinge of his jaw—Rami.
He carried himself like a man who’d survived enough firefights to believe he was untouchable. He wasn’t. He approached Harper with exaggerated indifference. “We do not appreciate disrespect, Harper.”
Harper shrugged lightly. “Then don’t provide reasons to dish it out.”
Rami’s eyes sharpened. Rafe stepped half a pace forward, subtle enough the casual observer wouldn’t notice. But men who ran guns and bought weapons for militias noticed everything.
Rami did. “And this?” His chin lifted at Rafe. “Your shadow?”
Harper clicked his tongue. “This is Mr. Moretti. He’s here to ensure our conversations stay civil.”
Rafe gave no greeting. No nod. Nothing. He kept his eyes on Rami’s hands.
Rami studied him. “Your man does not speak?”
Harper smirked. “Only when I need someone to bleed.”
A ripple of unease passed between the guards.
Rami shifted his attention back to Harper, reassessing. “You come with confidence.”
“I come with money,” Harper corrected. “Confidence is free.”
Rami didn’t smile. “You want to buy something heavy.”
Harper’s tone turned cool. “I want to know if the thing I came for is real.”
“Come with me.” Rami turned toward the half-collapsed warehouse.
Harper followed. Rafe ghosted in behind them, each step slow and quiet as sifted sand.
Inside, the air smelled of rust, old motor oil, and heat baked into concrete for decades. A single generator-powered bulb flickered overhead, revealing crates stenciled with Cyrillic markings.
Rami tapped the nearest crate. “We provide proof before we discuss price.”
Harper put a hand up. “Before any proof, I need something else.”
Rami’s eyebrow twitched. “What?”
Harper gestured at the room’s shadows. “Tell your snipers on the north roof to stand down.”
Rami flinched.
Rafe didn’t even look up at the roof. “Three shooters. Two on the parapet, one in the gap behind the satellite dish.” His voice was rasped, hard-edged. It was Moretti’s voice, not Dante’s.
Rami’s eyes snapped to him. “Impossible.”
Rafe shrugged casually. “They breathe loudly.”
One of the guards nearly dropped his rifle.
Harper gave Rami a look that said try to play us again, and we walk.
Rami raised a hand, and distant feet scuffed. A rifle was slung. Another shifted position. The air changed just enough for Rafe to track it.
“Better,” Harper said smoothly. “Now we can do business.”
Rami studied both men before finally lifting the crate lid. Inside was a metal cylinder, unmarked and cold to the touch, with radiation shielding. Rafe’s jaw clicked once. This was no bluff.
Harper leaned in, eyes hooded. “Now we’re talking.”
Rami smiled like a man who believed he held all the cards. “Mr. Khalil will be happy hearing your response.”
“And now,” Harper said, straightening, “you tell me who else is bidding.”
Rami’s smile sharpened. “Buyers talk too much.”
Harper’s eyes went flat. “I don’t ask twice.”
Rami hesitated.
Rafe stepped forward, slow and predatory, his presence filling the cramped space with quiet violence.
Rami’s pulse visibly kicked. He lifted his palms. “Very well. There is… another interested party.”
Harper’s voice was soft. “Name.”
Rami’s gaze flicked once toward a shadowed corner.
Something in Rafe’s chest went cold. He knew that instinct. That shift of danger.
Harper checked his watch. “Who?” That told Rafe that Harper caught it too.
Rami exhaled. “A new arrival,” he said reluctantly. “American. Former military. Very eager.”
Harper and Rafe locked eyes. Rafe’s heartbeat slowed.
Rami continued, “His name is Daniel Krueger.”
The temperature in the room dropped. Harper’s expression didn’t change. Rafe’s did a fraction. For the first time since transforming into Moretti, he felt something burn.
NIGER – AIR BASE 201, AGADEZ – 18:12 LOCAL
Heat slammed into Shannon the moment she stepped off the C-130 ramp. Not the dry desert heat she’d imagined. It was a thick, shimmering furnace wrapping around her, pulling sweat to her skin instantly. The air smelled like jet fuel, red sand, and distant woodsmoke.
“Lieutenant Johnson?” A tall master sergeant in sun-bleached fatigues approached, clipboard under his arm, the desert etched into the lines of his face.
“That’s me.” She adjusted her pack.
“Welcome to Agadez. Grab your gear. Briefing’s in twenty.” He started walking. “Don’t wander. Sun’ll cook you before the enemy can.”
The base wasn’t large, but it was buzzing: mechanics on ladder rigs, intel officers hustling between ops tents, crews refueling helos that shimmered in the evening heat. She spotted several HH-60G Pave Hawks parked in a row like sleeping beasts, armored and ready.
Her breath caught. She really was going to fly again.
Aviation crew jogged past her, boots pounding on dusty earth. She fell into step behind them, her hip twinging once as memory rather than pain. She touched the spot lightly. “I’m ready,” she whispered.
THE CISTERN – COMMAND ANNEX
After the meeting ended, Harper and Rafe were walking toward the exit when Rami intercepted them. “Khalil has new intelligence,” Rami said. “He wants you to hear it before the next step.”
Harper’s face stayed neutral. “We’re listening.”
Rami walked them deeper into the annex. A map was pinned to a table with circles marked in charcoal, paths connecting them like veins.
Khalil stood behind it, arms folded. “Our American,” he said without preamble, “is nearby.”
Harper didn’t move. “Which one?”
Khalil smiled slightly. “The one who… dislikes your people.”
Rafe felt the cold click in his bones. Krueger.
“How close?” Harper asked.
Khalil tapped a point on the map, one that made Rafe’s stomach tighten. “That ridge line is twenty kilometers from here,” he said. “He traveled light. He is impatient.”
Harper kept his tone bored. “He’s a child in a warzone.”
Khalil’s gaze sharpened. “He is useful, but unpredictable.”
Rafe leaned forward, voice low, accent thickening into Moretti’s street bite. “Unpredictable gets people killed.”
Khalil acknowledged him. “He may become irrelevant soon. My concern is that you both understand, if he interferes, he will be… removed.”
Harper nodded. “Good policy.”
Rafe nodded too, but Dante wondered, How did Krueger get this close without warning?
NORTHERN NIGER – SAFEHOUSE
Ford counted out bundles of marked dinars. Dante checked the magazines on a weapon he wasn’t supposed to own under this cover.
A faint vibration made Dante’s wrist tremble—an encrypted pulse. He glanced at Ford. “Bravo’s moving.”
Ford didn’t look up. “How close?”
“Forty klicks east.”
Ford exhaled a humorless breath. “Sean doesn’t like being this close to the lion’s den unless something’s accelerating.”
“It is,” Dante said. “You heard Khalil; Krueger’s in-country.”
Ford set the cash down slowly. “I heard him. This just went from a negotiation to a powder keg.”
Dante nodded. “Bravo will set up a shadow perimeter. We’re going to have boots in every direction by dawn.”
Ford rubbed his jaw. “We need to move the timeline with Khalil. Fast.”
Dante looked out the broken window toward distant lights flickering on a horizon of sand. “Yeah. Before Krueger decides to move it for us.”
AIR BASE 201 – TACTICAL OPS TENT
The briefing tent was packed with pilots, medics, intel analysts, and flight engineers, shoulder to shoulder, the dull whir of fans barely cutting the heat.
Captain Lawson, her new commanding officer, stood at the front.
She was a tall woman with desert lines around her eyes and a voice like gravel.
“Listen up,” she barked. “We’ve got three active hotspots.
Bandit activity is increasing along the supply trails.
Today we lost a convoy outside Inabag. We expect more. ”
She gestured toward Shannon. “This is Lt. Shannon Johnson. New rotorhead joining the 33rd. Clear for flight and SAR. You’ll meet your crew chief next.”
A gruff man with a shaved head and grease-stained sleeves stepped forward. “Staff Sergeant Umeh.” He extended a hand. “I’ll keep your bird in the air. You keep us from dying in it.”
Shannon grinned. “Fair trade.”
Next came her door gunner. She was a wiry woman with sharp eyes and a sharper grin. “Corporal Neema Touré,” she said. “I shoot straight and complain loudly.”
Shannon laughed. “Perfect.”
Their medic, PFC Aaron Keating, waved shyly. “Uh… ma’am, if you get shot, please don’t yell at me. I pass out when yelled at.”
Touré clapped him on the back. “He’s lying. Mostly.”
The crew laughed. It felt like a family forming around her in real time.