51. Cobra
CObrA
Cobra had been given three instructions.
Very simple instructions.
Do not touch the aircraft controls.
Do not disturb the rescued men while they slept.
And under no circumstances was he to use explosives inside the cargo plane.
The third instruction felt unnecessarily specific.
Also insulting.
He had never detonated an explosive inside an aircraft.
Not while it was flying.
Fathom sat across from him, working on a secure laptop.
Files moved across the screen.
Names.
Financial records.
Evidence recovered from Black Site Theta.
Very serious things.
Cobra leaned closer.
“What are you doing?”
“Making copies.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“That seems excessive.”
Fathom looked at him.
“You carry eleven explosive charges into grocery stores.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Cobra considered the question.
“Grocery stores can be dangerous.”
Fathom returned to his computer.
Cobra looked around the cargo bay.
Wade slept between Sarah and Jack Parker.
Grant Barrett had finally stopped watching the doors.
Luke Dawson remained beside Hale’s stretcher.
Jackson Cole guarded the remaining bacon as if it contained nuclear launch codes.
The rescued men looked different when they slept.
Younger.
Less haunted.
Still too thin.
Still marked by everything that had happened.
But safe.
Cobra’s humor faded.
He had seen prisoners of war before.
Men rescued after weeks.
Sometimes months.
Never five years.
He couldn’t imagine waking under the same fluorescent lights every day, knowing the world thought he was dead.
He couldn’t imagine surviving it.
Fathom stopped typing.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That worries me more than the explosives.”
Cobra ignored him.
“What happens to them now?”
“The survivors?”
“Yeah.”
“Medical treatment. Debriefing. Reconnecting with families. Learning how to live outside the prison.”
“Sounds hard.”
“It will be.”
Cobra looked toward Wade.
“Can we help?”
Fathom studied him.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Treat them like men. Not broken things.”
Cobra nodded.
That he could do.
He reached into one of his equipment bags.
Fathom immediately tensed.
“What are you taking out?”
“Relax.”
“I have worked with you too long to relax.”
Cobra removed a small calculator and tossed it into Fathom’s lap.
Fathom stared at it.
Then at him.
“What is this?”
“You said you were buying me one.”
“So you brought your own?”
“I like to be prepared.”
Fathom turned the calculator over.
A handwritten label covered the back.
TACTICAL MATH ONLY.
For several seconds, Fathom said nothing.
Then he laughed.
Not his usual dry exhale.
An actual laugh.
The sound woke Rook.
“What happened?”
Fathom held up the calculator.
Rook read the label.
His expression flattened.
“No.”
Cobra frowned.
“What?”
“You are not using a calculator to justify explosions.”
“It improves accuracy.”
“It improves nothing.”
Wade opened his eyes.
“What’s happening?”
Sarah didn’t move from his shoulder.
“Cobra has a calculator.”
Wade considered that.
“Is that bad?”
Every member of Shadow Division answered together.
“Yes.”
Cobra looked offended.
“None of you respect science.”
Jackson lifted his head.
“I saw what you did to that truck.”
“Exactly.”
“That wasn’t science.”
“It was mostly science.”
“What was the rest?”
Cobra smiled.
“Enthusiasm.”
Wade laughed.
The sound traveled across the cargo bay.
Cobra looked toward him.
The man appeared exhausted.
Hollowed out by years most people would never understand.
But he was laughing.
That felt important.
“You know,” Wade said, “I spent five years imagining what freedom would be like.”
Cobra waited.
“It never included you.”
“Nobody’s imagination is perfect.”
Grant chuckled from beneath his blanket.
Jackson shook his head.
Sarah finally opened her eyes.
“Why is everyone awake?”
“Science,” Wade answered.
Rook groaned.
“This team is never going to be normal.”
Cobra put the calculator back in his bag.
“Normal is overrated.”
Wade’s smile softened.
“Maybe.”
The cargo aircraft continued through the night.
Around them, survivors slept.
Families stayed close.
Shadow Division guarded the evidence that would expose Project Nightfall.
And for a little while, no one was fighting.
No one was dying.
No one was running.
They were simply going home.
Cobra decided that was worth celebrating.
Even without explosives.
Probably.