Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
The room buzzed with radio chatter: his militia relaying positions, supply vehicles checking in, scouts reporting convoy sightings. Krueger was almost bored.
Khalil didn’t look up from the map spread across the table. “Is it relevant to the sale?”
“Not the sale, sir,” the runner stammered. “It’s about the American woman pilot. The one who—”
Krueger’s head lifted sharply. “Say that again.”
The runner swallowed. “The… the female lieutenant who survived the crash. Johnson.”
Krueger’s pulse surged with a hot, electric snap. “What about her?”
The runner held up a scraped-together transcript. “Her helicopter nearly hit an IED, but she saw a reflective tripwire while in flight and evaded at the last second. They gave her a call sign.”
Krueger snatched the paper. It hit him like a blade to the spine. “Falcon,” he tasted the name like poison.
Khalil glanced up now, expression unreadable.
Krueger paced, breath turning jagged. “She’s flying again? She’s in my deployment zone?”
The runner nodded quickly. Krueger smashed the metal table with both hands, sending radios skidding. “She was supposed to be broken.” He kicked the table. “She was supposed to be ash in that crash.”
Khalil raised one brow. “Impressive piloting is hardly—”
“SHUT UP!” Krueger snarled.
The guards straightened, startled.
Khalil lifted his chin, icy calm. “Mr. Krueger, I suggest—”
Krueger stormed forward, grabbing the man by the front of his tunic. “I don’t care about your hierarchy,” he hissed. “That woman is not walking away from this region alive.”
Khalil looked down at the hand gripping him. “You forget yourself.”
Krueger froze… then slowly released him, breath shaking.
Khalil smoothed his tunic. “We have a nuclear transfer to complete. Your fixation is… inconvenient. Perhaps the other American was right? You are a child in a warzone.”
Krueger stepped closer, voice low and venomous. “I’ll complete your deal. But when the nuke is secure? I’m finishing her.”
He turned, shoulders shuddering, eyes burning. He whispered it again: “Falcon.”
CHASE SECURITY HQ DC – 1355 HOURS
Ian Chase was reviewing foreign intel when Martin Bailey knocked twice and entered without waiting. “Ian, we got a sitrep from the Niger desk.”
Ian looked up sharply. “Ford or Dante?”
Martin shook his head. “Shannon.”
Ian froze. “Show me.”
Martin handed over the encrypted report. “She saw a tripwire during a low-altitude maneuver. No pilot should have been able to spot it.”
Ian exhaled slowly. “She’s her mother’s daughter.”
Martin nodded. “There’s more.”
Ian looked up. “The interference before the IED? It matches what hit Shannon’s bird before her crash.”
Ian’s blood chilled. “Same signature?”
“Almost identical.”
Ian stood. “Tell Bravo. Tell Sean. Tell Ford and Dante’s safehouse handler.”
Martin hesitated. “Ian… they’re busy.”
Ian’s voice turned to iron. “They’re busy chasing one nuke. I need them to understand someone just tried to kill Shannon again.”
He stared at the report once more. “Whatever’s happening in Niger, we’re out of time.”
AIRBASE 201 – 19:02 LOCAL
Two days later, the Black Hawk carved tight orbits over the desert, rotors beating a steady war rhythm through the late-morning heat. Shannon kept her eyes locked on the convoy below. Three trucks churning dust, canvas covers rippling in the wind.
Her console flickered again. Radiation spike. Then another. Never back to baseline.
“Falcon Three-One, Eagle Actual,” the radio cracked. “We’re receiving your telemetry. Stay on that convoy. They are not ours. Ground teams are moving, but you’re their eyes.”
“Copy, Actual,” Shannon kept her tone even while her pulse climbed.
Beside her, Touré adjusted the thermal lens and tagged each vehicle. “These readings aren’t accidental. They’re hauling something they shouldn’t be.”
“And they think no one’s close enough to notice.” Shannon tightened their orbit then keyed her mic. “Eagle Actual, be advised convoy is turning southeast. Speed increasing.”
Actual didn’t hesitate. “Falcon Three-One, maintain visual. Do not lose them. Repeat, do not lose visual.”
Shannon pushed the Hawk into a sharper bank, shadowing the turn with perfect precision.
Her grip stayed steady on the controls. “We’re not losing them.”
Not this convoy. Not with what was riding inside those trucks.
LANGLEY – CIA HEADQUARTERS – SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM
The conference room at Langley was cold enough to bite. The CIA seal glowed faintly on the frosted glass wall, the only decoration in the otherwise sterile space.
The deputy director for counterproliferation sat at the head of the table, flanked by two stone-faced division chiefs.
Their posture said “defensive” long before they opened their mouths.
Daniel Krueger slipped his leash three days earlier.
Chase Security was only notified when they called to confirm he was still in custody after receiving the report of the interference on Shannon’s helo.
Martin Bailey didn’t bother with politeness. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly, expression sharp.
Mike Johnson sat forward, calm hiding something far uglier beneath. “You lost him. He killed three more men, and you lost him.” He slammed his hand down. “And you didn’t bother to tell us. If we hadn’t called—"
The deputy director stiffened. “Krueger was a DoD-managed asset. We were assisting—”
“You’re covering for them,” Martin’s voice like cut glass. “And now Krueger’s running weapons routes in the Sahel that intersect with Air Force corridors. That’s not ‘assisting.’ That’s incompetence.”
One of the division chiefs bristled. “Krueger knows our playbook. He’s unpredictable. These things happen.”
Mike’s jaw flexed. “My daughter is flying in that battlespace. My people are operating there. And your ‘unpredictable asset’ just linked up with a network moving nuclear material.”
The deputy director spread his hands. “We’re aware of the severity—”
“No,” Martin leaned in, “you’re aware you’ve lost control. We’re the ones who still have to clean up the mess.”
“You don’t have authority to run unilateral operations against Krueger,” the deputy director snapped.
“Authority?” Mike stood, slow and steady, the room shifting around his presence. “If Krueger crosses Chase Security again, he won’t need supervision. He’ll need a coffin.”
Silence punched the room flat.
Martin rose beside him, gathering the thin folder of intel under his arm. “Gentlemen,” he turned toward the door, “when this blows open—and it will—write whatever report you want. We’ll be the ones containing him.”
They didn’t wait for permission to leave. The door shut behind them with a final, echoing click.
CHASE OPERATIONS CENTER DC – WAR ROOM
The wall-length display glowed with the live feed from Falcon Three-One. Three trucks crawled across the Sahel, tiny dark shapes against miles of gold. Ian stood at the center of the room, hands braced on the metal table, jaw set like granite.
Martin’s voice cut through the war room. “Those trucks match both the radiation profile and the convoy pattern from Ford’s intel. The spikes indicate there are at least two devices.”
Mike’s eyes locked on the screen. “And Krueger’s running the route.” His voice was flat with controlled fury. “These are the corridors he stole.”
An analyst at the rear called out, “Bravo Team reports they’re four klicks out from the northeast ridge. Crescent One is in flight. Ford and Dante are two klicks out.”
Zach Wentworth’s encrypted feed crackled through the speaker, tense and clipped. “Four klicks is too far. If those trucks reach the dunes, Falcon Three-One loses line-of-sight and possibly the nukes. It’s up to Dante and Ford.”
Ian didn’t look away from the screen. “They know the risk, but they’ll move when the window is real.”
Martin nodded. “And that window opens when they lay eyes on those trucks and hopefully Krueger.”
The room fell silent.
On the screen above them, Shannon banked the Black Hawk, chasing the convoy as it veered toward a stretch of desert that intelligence analysts knew too well. A smuggling route. One mapped years ago by Ford Cox.
IN FLIGHT
The convoy pushed southeast, three trucks throwing dust into the shimmering heat. Shannon held Falcon Three-One in a tight orbit, eyes fixed on their thermal signatures as they slid in and out of broken terrain.
Her console chimed again. Radiation spike, then another—stronger.
“Falcon Three-One, Eagle Actual,” comms snapped. “Hold visual. Ground units are moving.”
“Copy.” Shannon banked lower.
Beside her, Touré tapped the IR overlay. “We’ve got movement behind the trucks.”
Shannon flicked a glance at the screen. Heat signatures. Multiple. Closing fast. Not locals. Not wildlife. And definitely not friendly-looking.
Her fuel alarm chimed.
FUEL 14%
13%
12%
“Actual, we’ve got unknown movers approaching the convoy from the north and
northwest,” Shannon reported. “No ID.”
“Stay on them,” Actual ordered. “Repeat, stay eyes-on.”
Shannon’s voice was steady despite the fuel warning pulsing on her console. “Eagle Actual, Falcon Three-One requesting mid-flight refuel. We’re approaching BINGO.”
Static, then her CO’s clipped reply: “Negative, Falcon. Tanker can’t reach your grid in time. You hit BINGO, you RTB. Do not push past it.”
Shannon swallowed hard, eyes locked on the convoy below. “Copy. Marking fuel state. Holding as long as physics allows.”
She dipped lower, threading the Hawk above jagged ridges. The trucks ducked under a stone overhang, their heat signatures flickering, then disappearing.
“Damn,” Touré hissed. “Lost them.”
Shannon swung wide, trying to catch the angle. There was a faint return with one truck still glowing hot.
Her alarm shrieked.
FUEL 10%
“Falcon Three-One,” Actual barked, “state fuel.”
Shannon swallowed. “Ten percent and dropping.”
“Falcon Three-One, that’s BINGO. Break off. Now.”
Touré didn’t hide her relief. “We’re done, Falcon. We push any harder, we’re walking home.”