Chapter 40
FORTY
NORTHERN NIGER – SAFEHOUSE
Dante leaned over a dusty metal table littered with maps, satellite printouts, and a half-disassembled radio transceiver. He adjusted the scanning dial with hands that looked calm but weren’t. He felt a pulse, then another.
Ford looked up, instantly alert. “You got something?”
Dante lowered the receiver. “The device is on the move.”
Ford swore under his breath. “How fast?”
“Two vehicles. Moving north-by-northeast at military spacing.”
Ford grabbed the topographical map. “That puts them on a path toward… shit… toward the Agadez corridor.”
“That’s toward us.” Dante had no idea Shannon was there too.
Ford closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. “Khalil is accelerating the sale. We’re running out of time.”
A soft triple-click sounded from outside.
Dante stiffened. “That’s Bravo’s signal.”
Ford stood. “Then let’s see how bad it’s gotten.”
THE COMPOUND
Krueger leaned one shoulder against a stack of cracked wooden crates, arms folded loosely, posture casual in the way only a man with a plan and a grudge could be. The warehouse air was thick with diesel fumes and dust, the bare bulb above flickering like it wanted out.
Two of the arms dealer’s men pried open a steel case. Inside lay disassembled AK variants, oil-slicked and immaculate, stacked neatly beside boxes of ammunition stenciled with Cyrillic letters.
The dealer, broad, sweating, a thick gold chain resting against his throat, watched Krueger with small, calculating eyes. “Payment clears,” the dealer said in accented French. “You get your weapons. You move the shipment. No problems, yes?”
Krueger smiled slowly, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. “With me? There are always problems, but I handle them.”
The dealer raised an eyebrow, wary but intrigued. What Krueger didn’t say was that the routes he was taking were stolen. Smuggling paths originally built for CIA shadow operations.
Paths Ford Cox had mapped, tested, and handed off to Chase Security years ago. They were routes buried deep in black files Krueger had pulled apart one stolen page at a time. And now Krueger walked them openly, arrogantly, like a man convinced he’d cracked the system that made him.
He took a drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim light. The ash fell like a tiny meteor to the dirt floor. “The Americans think they run this desert.” He exhaled a slow, poisonous breath. “They don’t.” His smile widened. “I do.”
AIR BASE 201 – FLIGHT LINE – 05:42 LOCAL
The rotor wash thundered beneath them as Shannon hovered her Black Hawk in a tight station-keeping pattern over the convoy. Dust blew up in spirals across the barren Sahel, the horizon shimmering with heat.
The convoy commander’s voice crackled in her headset. “Falcon Three-One, all quiet. Appreciate the overwatch.”
Shannon kept her tone crisp. “Copy that, Viper Six. We’ve got you.”
Beside her in the cockpit, Gil Peters glanced over, helmet tilted just enough to show a grin. “You’re settling in fast, Falcon. Feels like you’ve been on this AO longer than the rest of us.”
Shannon didn’t look away from the terrain lines ahead. “It’s different every time. Quiet doesn’t mean safe.”
“True,” Peters said, adjusting the collective. “Still, two missions with me this week, zero drama? I’ll take it.”
In the back, Keating muttered over internal comms, “Please don’t jinx us before lunch.”
Shannon smirked. They escorted the convoy through two checkpoints and maintained altitude until the commander gave the final all-clear. “Falcon Three-One, you’re good to break. Appreciate the ride.”
“Stay safe out there,” Shannon replied.
She peeled them away cleanly, banking southwest toward the refuel point. The low hills cast long shadows, and the air trembled with heat haze. Shannon felt the shift of the bird beneath her hands, the give and pull of the controls like an extension of her own instincts.
Peters’ voice came through her headset. “Fuel team’s ready. Once we’re down, I’m grabbing some damn breakfast. Pilot privilege demands one too, LT.”
Shannon shook her head, smiling for real now. “Pilot privilege demands you eat something green occasionally,” she shot back.
“Ma’am, in this theater? Vegetables are a myth,” Keating declared solemnly.
Peters snorted.
Shannon brought the Black Hawk down in a smooth, textbook landing on the forward arming and refueling line. As the dust settled, her radio chimed with an incoming message.
FROM: CO, ROTARY-WING OPS
Good work today, Falcon. Keep flying like this.
It wasn’t a speech. It wasn’t a ceremony. But sitting there in the cockpit, sweat drying on her skin, adrenaline settling into warm focus, it was enough. She was finding her footing.
She was earning her call sign. And she was exactly where she needed to be.
BEHIND THE SAFEHOUSE – WALLED COURTYARD – 06:29 LOCAL
Dante stepped into the courtyard first, hands loose at his sides, posture still in the guise of Rafe Moretti.
The morning sun cut sharp shadows through the broken brick wall.
A figure dropped from the rooftop like smoke.
Sean Paulsen. His uniform was dusty, his face was leaner, and his eyes were harsher than Dante had ever seen them.
Two more silhouettes appeared behind him. Red Canal and Beach Sands landed with their rifle barrels low. Ther trigger discipline was perfect. All embodied predators in human skin.
Paulsen studied Dante. “You’re late checking in.”
Dante kept his voice in Moretti’s accent. “Hard to check in with ears around every corner.”
Paulsen’s gaze flicked to Ford behind Dante. “You boys stirred up more shit than you know.”
Ford crossed his arms. “We improvise.”
Paulsen stepped forward, close enough Dante could see the dust caked at the edges of his lashes. “Krueger’s here.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “We know. Tell me how we didn’t know sooner?”
“Looks like he broke his leash,” Paulsen said. “He was spotted two hours ago with Khalil’s secondary unit. They’re converging north of the ridge.”
Ford swore under his breath. “The nuke’s in motion. You need to adjust your perimeter.”
“We are,” Paulsen said. “Crescent Team’s deploying. But there’s something else.”
Paulsen’s eyes locked onto Dante’s. “The Air Force just brought in fresh pilots. One of them picked up a call name—Falcon.”
Dante’s heart slammed. “Shannon?”
Paulsen nodded. “She’s in your operational box.”
Dante’s cover mask cracked for half a second, long enough for Paulsen to understand everything. He stepped in closer. “You keep your head. You lose control now, and you get yourself and Ford killed.”
Dante swallowed. “I won’t.”
Paulsen’s expression softened for only a moment. “I know.”
He nodded at Ford. “And you two? Finish this. Because when that bomb lands in the wrong hands, this region burns.”
Ford nodded sharply. Dante didn’t trust himself to speak.
Paulsen pulled back, fading into the shadow with his men. “Stay dark. And stay alive.” They vanished over the wall in three quick shapes.
AIR BASE 201 – MAINTENANCE HANGAR – 11:11 LOCAL
The HH-60 sat in the center of the hangar like a wounded beast pulled off the kill line, panels removed and wiring exposed. A half-circle of maintainers crouched under her belly.
Shannon stood with Umeh, Touré, Peters, and Keating at her side.
Sweat clung to her spine. Her pulse hadn’t settled since she turned the engine over for the second flight of the day and heard the sound.
It was a sound she’d never forget. It was the same sound she heard just before she fell out of the sky.
Chief Warrant Officer Sarr, the senior maintenance officer, crawled out from under the fuselage, wiping grease across her sleeve. Sarr rarely looked rattled. Today she looked furious.
“Lieutenant,” she said, voice low, “something was done to your bird. You have bionic hearing too.”
Shannon’s chest tightened. “Walk me through it.”
Sarr motioned them closer. “Right intake cowling had micro-abrasion patterns. Someone opened that panel with the wrong torque tool.”
“Wrong how?” Touré asked.
“Wrong for anyone who knows what they’re doing.” Sarr pointed to a set of wires she’d carefully laid out on the workbench. “These signal-control lines were nicked with tiny cuts, the size of a sewing needle. Not enough to flame out. Enough to cause intermittent interference.”
Umeh swore. “Sabotage.”
“Almost elegant sabotage,” Sarr corrected sharply. “Whoever did this wanted the malfunction to look random. But they’re too damn clever for their own good.”
Shannon stared at the thin slices in the wires. In her mind, she saw another thin slice and an ampoule cracked in an evidence bag. Her helicopter spiraling. Mara breaking against her harness.
Her hands curled into fists. “Chief, could this sabotage have caused… signal interference?”
Sarr’s expression darkened. “Yes. Exactly that. Somebody wanted your systems confused.”
“Did they want us to crash?” Keating whispered.
Sarr paused. “Not exactly. They wanted you on the ground. Not dead.”
Touré muttered, “That’s worse.”
Shannon swallowed hard. Someone here wanted her grounded. A shadow slid through her mind—Daniel Krueger.
But she pushed the thought aside. “Can you fix her?”
Sarr nodded once. “Working on it now. But until we isolate who did this, we’re sweeping all your pre-flight signatures.”
Touré crossed her arms. “Good. Because if I find whoever did it, I’m gonna teach them what creative sabotage feels like.”