Chapter 18
Rav
The Pompeii Amphitheater rose before us, a monument to both human achievement and human suffering. Two thousand years of history compressed into stone rings—a place where crowds once cheered for blood and death, now preserved for tourists to snap photos and marvel at ancient engineering.
The difference between the archaeologist and the soldier didn’t seem so far away anymore.
“Access is through the eastern entrance,” Percival said, consulting a brochure he’d picked up earlier. “The arena floor is straight ahead.”
Percival and I walked on either side of Brooke. She’d been quiet since we emerged from the underground tunnels, the familiar furrow between her brows telling me she was working through a problem.
The main corridor opened into the arena floor, where groups of tourists clustered around guides with colorful flags.
The oval-shaped performance space sprawled before us, surrounded by tiered seating that rose in concentric rings.
Nature had reclaimed much of the original stone seating, with grasses and small shrubs covering the ancient seats.
Brooke moved along the low wall that circled the floor, her movements purposeful despite her obvious frustration.
Some of the rocks were loose, making it hard to find the drainage holes from this side.
At the midpoint of the amphitheater, on the southern side, she stopped. Pointing, she said, “There’s one.”
I crouched to examine the opening. Using my phone’s flashlight, I peered inside, seeing nothing but rock and darkness. “This crack may go all the way to the sewer, but it’s not lined.”
She knelt a few feet from me, checking another hole. “Here it is. I can see the connector.” She sat back on her heels. “They’d need so much pressure to pump it out more than ten or so feet. Why use this location?”
“Why use liquid Greek Fire at all in this setting?” Percival whispered. “Remember Barin Kala?”
Of course I did. I remembered looking at Brooke when she said we’d found what she was looking for. We’d proven the tip the OPCW had received was genuine, and we’d be able to shut down the makeshift chemical weapons lab.
I remembered spending too much time looking at her, and missing the gun that appeared in the window. I should have been on alert, not marveling at how beautiful she was in her moment of triumph.
“Only you and I were affected,” Percival said to her. “Nobody else in the room suffered any effects.”
That, I didn’t remember. The last thing I could find in my memory was diving at her.
Then the pain.
And the darkness.
I remained crouched, staring into the crack that led nowhere, fighting the emotions threatening to pull me under.
If I’d stayed focused that day, I would have eliminated the threat, and everyone would have walked out.
No one would have crashed into the bottle of Lewisite, and no one would have left in a chopper.
“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” Brooke said, her voice steady.
Was she not haunted by these memories? “Liquid contact requires proximity. You’d only hit people standing right at the edge.
Even if they pressurized it enough to travel more than ten feet, the people at the edges would block it from traveling further. ”
A tour group approached, forcing us to stand and assume our tourist personas.
The guide, a young Italian woman with short curly hair, stopped her group nearby.
“The amphitheater once seated twenty thousand spectators. For modern events, we typically limit capacity to eight thousand for safety reasons.”
“Do you have concerts here?” asked one of her group, a young woman with a Cockney accent.
“We do. In fact, this weekend’s Rebirth of Antiquity concert has been sold out for months.”
A middle-aged woman raised her hand. “Will there be fireworks like last year? My sister said they were spectacular.”
“Yes! The organizers have planned an even larger display this year,” the guide confirmed. “They launch them from the upper rim of the amphitheater, creating a dazzling effect over the entire venue.”
I caught Brooke’s eye immediately. The spark of recognition in her gaze confirmed what I was thinking—an aerial deployment method.
When the tour group moved on, I closed ranks with Brooke and Percival.
She whispered, “Fireworks would provide perfect cover for distributing the powder form.”
What were the tactical implications? “If they incorporate Greek Fire powder into the pyrotechnics—”
“It would rain down already ignited,” Brooke finished. “Burning at over one thousand degrees, adhering to whatever it touches.”
“While the liquid form comes up through the floor,” Percival added.
Brooke’s face paled. “Dual deployment. Maximum coverage.”
Eight thousand people. Families with children, couples on dates, tourists like the ones we’d just listened to.
“I need to check the upper rim,” I said, studying the rows of seating above us. There weren’t any stairs or gates leading up from the ground, and metal railings lined the entry tunnels. But at the western end, there was a path up to the top that was clear of grass.
Without further discussion, I wandered in that direction, as though heading for the exit. Confidence sold the lie better than elaborate deception. Instead of leaving, I loitered by the short wall, taking a few photos of the steps where vegetation hadn’t taken hold.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Percival and Brooke move closer, studying the information plaques while keeping me in sight. Good. They understood the drill.
With a glance, finding no security guards, I vaulted over the wall and began climbing the steps two at a time. The stone was worn smooth by millennia under ash and centuries of weather, but solid beneath my boots. I moved with purpose, as though I belonged.
At the top tier, I systematically photographed the rim, focusing on spots where fireworks could be set off. The view was spectacular, but I couldn’t afford to be distracted by the scenery.
Metal connectors were embedded in the highest stone blocks at regular intervals. They were perfect anchor points for pyrotechnic equipment.
“Look at that, honey!” I heard Percival say from below, far louder than necessary.
A guard strolled in from the western entrance, glanced around the space, and I switched my camera to take selfies. The guard shouted up in Italian, gesturing emphatically for me to come down.
Time for the confused tourist act.
I called back in French, injecting a genuine-sounding surprise and apology into my tone as I kept taking photos. The key was to act oblivious rather than defiant.
The guard grew more agitated, speaking rapidly into his radio. Backup was coming.
I had maybe two minutes before this became a real problem. I snapped the last few photos I needed, then began my descent, switching to heavily broken English and offering profuse apologies.
The guard met me at ground level, his face flushed with irritation. I launched into an elaborate explanation about being French, not understanding the signs, just trying to get photos for my wife back home.
He escorted me to the exit, issuing a stern warning about respecting restricted areas.
I found Percival and Brooke waiting by my rental SUV in the parking lot. “Got what we needed.”
“Let us see?” asked Brooke.
I leaned against the SUV’s hood and pulled out my phone, angling the screen for them. The images clearly showed the mounting fixtures along the upper rim.
“Permanent mounts,” I noted, zooming in on the metal fittings. “They’re on top of the raised blocks that dot the rim.”
“They were used to hold the original velarium, apparently.” Percival must have learned that from the brochure as well. “The canvas roof.”
Brooke pulled the phone closer. “From that height, with properly positioned release points for the fireworks, they could blanket the entire amphitheater with aerosolized particles.”
Percival gave a low whistle.
“Catastrophic thermal injuries,” Brooke said grimly. “Napalm, but worse.”
I switched to a different image, showing the drainage openings. “Why pump in the liquid?”
Brooke clasped her hands behind her neck and muttered something like a chemical formula I didn’t recognize.
Percival leaned back against his car, unfazed by Brooke’s words. “Eight thousand people.”
The number hit me again. Eight thousand innocent people. Including children. “This can’t be about healing. The devastation would be—”
“I’m not convinced that’s Fenix’s actual plan,” Brooke interrupted. “Noah specifically mentioned the phoenix statue. If they truly believe in its ritualistic significance—”
“Maybe something inside the statue is supposed to control the effect somehow?” Percival suggested.
She shook her head. “There’s no scientific basis for that.”
“Fanatics rarely operate on scientific principles,” I said, thinking of every extremist group I’d encountered in my military career. Logic and fanaticism were mutually exclusive.
“Wait.” Brooke froze, and I recognized her look—the moment when disparate pieces clicked into place in her brilliant mind. “What if that’s exactly their plan? Burn from above with the powder form, then attempt to heal with the liquid from below?”
The horrific logic of it made my stomach turn. “You think they believe that combination would work?”
“The powder causes thermal damage, and the liquid triggers cell growth.” She grew more animated the longer she spoke. “From their warped perspective, they could be attempting to demonstrate both destruction and rebirth—literally burning away the old to make way for the new.”
“Jesus,” Percival muttered. “Would they actually believe that?”
“That’s literally what happens in the phoenix mythology.
” The certainty in her voice was chilling.
“The interaction would be catastrophic. But a group calling themselves Fenix and obsessed with a phoenix statue?” She shook her head.
“They might genuinely believe they’re going to orchestrate some kind of miraculous mass regeneration. ”
And if there was too much wind, the ash from the fireworks, laced with Greek Fire, could spread far beyond the amphitheater. “We need to intercept both the statue components and the Greek Fire before they reach the venue.”
“The underground cameras will help,” Percival said. “But we need eyes on the pyrotechnic preparations too.”
“We could set up cameras,” Percival replied, “but with legitimate fireworks being set up, we’ll have a hard time distinguishing between normal event prep and Fenix activity.”
Brooke’s frown deepened. “That’s the problem. Anyone up top would blend right in with the authorized crew. And if we call in the police, we have no evidence. What would they do? Open the fireworks and find all sorts of powder inside, exactly like they’d expect?”
“For fuck’s sake.” Percival checked his watch. “I should get back and brief the team. We’ll need to coordinate our surveillance approach.”
“Reynolds needs to see these findings, too,” Brooke said. “I’ll head back to the villa with Rav.”
“I’ll check in tonight.” Percival touched her arm, smacked mine, and left. As he drove away, Brooke and I stood by the SUV in momentary silence. The comfortable rhythm we’d fallen into during our reconnaissance disappeared without Percival’s buffer between us.
The late afternoon light caught the highlights in her hair, and for a moment I was transported back to Afghanistan—to stolen moments between missions when it felt like we were the only two people in the world.
Before everything went to hell. Before I learned exactly how badly I could fail someone I cared about.
“We should head back,” I said, forcing myself to stay in the present instead of the past. “We need to discuss the fireworks angle with the team. Hopefully, Noah will fill us in tomorrow morning.”
The drive back stretched ahead of us. Twenty minutes alone in a car, trying to maintain professional distance. The longer the silence lasted, the more my brain returned to that touch in the dark tunnel. Her hand on my chest.
How often had she done that once upon a time?
And why couldn’t I shake that memory and focus on the amphitheater? On Fenix?
It was the same problem I’d had six years ago. I just had to be sure I kept her safe this time.