Freeing Lark (Condor’s Overwatch #3)

Chapter 1

Eight Years Ago

“Do you believe in karma, LT?” Bullet, the newest member of the team, asked.

Cormac “Hoot” Shibley paused, the gears turning in his mind as he considered Bullet’s question.

The team room was quieter than usual. Although sounds were still present, the SEALs maintained a demeanor of subdued quietness, a notable departure from their off-duty boisterous nature.

The weighty hush settled over the men, conveying a shared, grim understanding that their remaining time might be limited to the next twenty-four hours.

Weapons lay field-stripped across scarred wooden tables.

Suppressors, magazines, optics, batteries, demolition charges.

The familiar smell of CLP gun oil mixed with sweat, dust, and the ever-present diesel exhaust drifted through the cracked plywood walls of the outpost. Outside, somewhere beyond the Hesco military barriers, a helicopter’s rotors whirred faintly as it idled on the flight line.

Hoot sat backward in a metal chair, cleaning the bolt carrier group of his rifle with practiced hands. He didn’t have to look to know where everyone was in the room.

Voodoo lounged against a wall, sharpening a knife he probably didn’t need to sharpen.

Dell leaned over a map with Atlas. Ma inventoried medical supplies for the third time.

Bullet, the team’s newest addition and youngest operator by nearly a decade, was checking batteries as though they personally offended him.

The kid still counted equipment. The veterans counted exits.

Six heads didn’t exactly turn, but everyone heard Bullet’s question. Ma snorted. “That’s the dumbest question you’ve asked today.”

Bullet shrugged without looking up. “Just wondering.”

Voodoo barked out a laugh. “Karma?” He shook his head. “That’s some California crystal-healing nonsense.”

“Says the guy who carries around a lucky charm,” Atlas murmured under his breath.

“It originated in India,” Dell corrected without looking up from the map. The man had a brain like a computer and could remember pieces of useless information like that.

“Whatever.” Voodoo waved them both off. “Still nonsense.”

Bullet frowned. “You don’t think people get what they deserve?”

“No.”

“What goes around comes around?”

“Nope.”

“So all the bad people just...” Bullet gestured vaguely. “...walk away?”

Voodoo slid the blade along the whetstone with a metallic whisper. “If karma existed, half the dictators in history would’ve been struck by lightning.”

Atlas chuckled. “He’s got a point.”

Dell stood up from his hunched position over the map, extending his back. The sharp snap of stiff joints cracked above the steady drone of the room’s air system. “I’ve met enough politicians to know karma’s got terrible aim.”

A ripple of laughter worked around the room. Even Hoot smiled.

Bullet looked disappointed. “What about you, Hoot?”

Five pairs of eyes shifted toward him.

Great. He hated philosophical discussions before missions.

He rolled the bolt carrier over in his hands, studying carbon baked into the metal.

Did he believe in karma? He wasn’t sure.

With the amount of shit he’d seen and done in his years as a SEAL, the awareness that the inescapable law of karma seeing retribution always lay dormant in the deepest recesses of his mind.

However, years of practiced compartmentalization meant he rarely dwelled on it.

Until moments like this. “I think...” he said slowly, “...life keeps score.”

Ma groaned dramatically. “Oh, here we go.”

Hoot ignored him. “I’ve seen men do terrible things.” No one joked now. “I’ve watched people murder children.” Silence. “I’ve watched villages burn. And I’ve watched good men die trying to stop bad ones.”

His voice stayed even. Years of practice made it sound detached. Inside...

Inside wasn’t detached. Inside lived faces.

Names. Eyes that never closed. He’d spent nearly two decades chasing monsters across continents.

Afghanistan. Iraq. Somalia. The Philippines.

Places most Americans couldn’t find on a map.

He’d stacked bodies higher than he’d ever admit aloud.

He’d pulled triggers in darkness. Made plans that led to deaths.

Called in airstrikes. Directed missiles. Watched buildings disappear.

Some deserved it. Some lived in the gray areas that only existed after midnight through a thermal optic. He’d learned early that unwavering certainty was a luxury.

Bullet waited. “So... karma?”

Hoot exhaled. “I don't know.” That earned everyone’s attention. “I’ve seen evil men live long enough to become grandfathers.” He set the part he’d just cleaned onto a rag. “And I’ve seen innocent kids die before they learned multiplication.”

Voodoo nodded once. “No argument there.”

“So if karma exists...” Hoot continued, “...she works on a timeline I don’t understand.”

Dell grunted. “Fair.”

Bullet wasn’t finished. “But what about us?”

The room became still again. “What about us?” he repeated. “We’ve killed people.” No one answered. Bullet swallowed. “I know they were bad guys… mostly. I know it was war… sorta. But…” He looked around the room. “…doesn’t that catch up eventually?”

The question hung there longer than anyone liked. Dell broke it with a scoff. “No.”

Bullet looked at him. “No?”

“No.” Dell began folding the map. “We’re not executioners.”

“We literally execute people.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t.”

Dell leaned forward. “We’re weapons.” Hoot looked up for the first time since the conversation began. “When command points us somewhere...” Dell mimed squeezing a trigger. “...we do our job.”

“You don’t ever think about it afterward?”

“No.”

“You ever lose sleep?”

“No.”

Voodoo laughed. “He’s either lying or a psychopath.”

“I’m not lying.”

Ma zipped his medical bag. “I’ve patched up enough civilians to know life’s unfair. Doesn’t mean there’s some cosmic accountant balancing spreadsheets.”

Atlas nodded. “I believe consequences exist.”

“Meaning?”

“If you’re cruel, eventually people stop trusting you. If you’re selfish, people leave. If you’re reckless, eventually you get someone killed.” He shrugged. “That’s not karma. That’s math.”

Atlas liked that answer. “So you’re saying stupidity compounds with interest.”

“Exactly.”

The room chuckled again. Hoot listened without joining in. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere. To a mud-walled compound outside Kandahar. To a man who’d reached for something beneath a blanket. To Hoot firing before he confirmed what it was.

It had been an AK. He knew that now.

He’d also seen the family afterward. The wife. The little girl. The grandmother. He still remembered the little girl’s scream. Not because they’d done anything wrong. Because her father wasn’t coming home.

It had been a justified kill. Rules of engagement. The threat confirmed. Mission accomplished. Everything had been legal, necessary, and correct.

So why had he remembered her face for eight years?

Maybe karma wasn’t lightning from the sky. Maybe it was memory. Maybe it lived inside you, waiting until two in the morning when sleep abandoned ship.

Bullet interrupted his thoughts. “So you don’t worry?”

Hoot looked at the kid. “Every man should worry.”

“About karma?”

“No.” He slid the rifle back together with a decisive click. “About becoming comfortable.” The words surprised even him. “The day killing doesn’t bother you...” He locked the bolt to the rear. “...is the day you shouldn’t be carrying a rifle anymore.”

Nobody had a joke for that. Not even Voodoo. Outside, the distant thump of helicopter rotors grew louder.

The door opened, and Flynn “Flint” Condor, their CO, appeared, his commanding presence immediately demanding their attention and snapping them to their feet. Four men filed in behind their commander. The men were introduced as belonging to Praetorian Strategic Group.

Everyone had heard of PSG. They were everywhere these days. Embassy security. Corporate protection. Disaster response. Training foreign military units. Their commercials made them look like a cross between a humanitarian organization and a group of modern-day knights.

“PSG will be supporting the operation,” Flint stated.

The first was a man in his early forties with close-cropped dark hair and the kind of calm expression Hoot recognized immediately. Not because he looked dangerous. Because he didn’t. The dangerous ones rarely did.

“Grant Calloway,” the man said by way of introduction while shaking Flint’s hand before looking over the SEAL team. Not like a contractor sizing up soldiers. Like someone evaluating a problem. “This is my team.”

The three behind him moved forward. A former military medic, judging by the gear he’d brought. A communications specialist. And a woman carrying herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent years in places where mistakes got people killed.

Hoot’s eyes narrowed. These weren’t corporate security guards. These people had been in the field.

“Thought PSG was a security company,” Voodoo whispered beside him.

Hoot didn’t look away from Calloway. “So did I.”

Hoot had learned a long time ago that the most dangerous missions rarely started with explosions. They started in rooms like this, with men in clean uniforms pointing at maps and using words like manageable risk and controlled environment.

Nobody who had ever kicked down a door believed those words.

The projector clicked, and the image on the screen changed from a satellite view of the compound to a photo of a man in his late fifties.

“Dr. Elias Voss,” Flint said. “Former military biochemist and weapons-development specialist. His work focused on advanced incapacitating agents and targeted biological compounds. Intelligence believes he’s been selling classified research to hostile actors for the past eighteen months.”

Hoot frowned. “Incapacitating agents?”

“That’s the sanitized version,” Flint said. “Some of the compounds he was researching weren’t designed to put people to sleep.”