“I am,” German exclaimed, jabbing his fingers to his chest. His shirt was unfastened, clearly, as George could smell the unwashed bramble of the Russian’s chest hair with every exaggerated move he made. “I am saying I am! So it is so!”

“You’re not Mongolian,” George zipped up his jacket and reached for his harness set on the bench beside them, hoping to end the exchange.

“Why not?” German scuttled through the others dressing in the barracks' mudroom to stay in view. “Mama and Papa lived there. I–” he rammed his fingers into his chest hair again, “–was born in Mongolia–so why not?”

“Your dad was stationed there. And–” George cursed himself for indulging this bit, but a piece of him enjoyed riling the big man up. He looked German up and down–his eyes, bone structure, and complexion made him anything but the Eastern rough rider he claimed to be. The man was a White Russian mixed in an airport bar.

“What? What about me is not Mongolian?” German leaned over him, expectantly. His eyes were wide and twitching.

“Maybe–you should ask John why you don’t look Mongolian,” George met his glare with a finely pressed smile. He pushed his fingers into German’s shoulder and set the man back on his heels. “I think you’ll find they’re the same reasons why he’s not an Afghan.”

John perked up from tying his boots, a quizzical expression on his face. George dismissed him with a wave. German then set his knuckles on his hips and spun towards John, a great breath in his chest ready to burst into the next level of this obscene rant–when a voice chirped from the front of the room.

“Ex-excuse me.”

The out-of-place voice–a woman’s–emanated from the doorway, snuffing the room’s energy in an instant. Heads whipped around in the direction of the source, hands mid-zip and feet half-booted. George, no less curious than the rest, canted to peer around German’s shoulder.

Whitaker hovered on the threshold, one foot in and one out, her eyes zigzagging over the forms of men in various states of dress. Her fingers were splayed taut against either side of the doorframe as she froze under the sudden weight of their stares, a spider that had found itself in quite the wrong web. A pink foam roller curled under her fringe–slightly askew–and a peek of a silk nightshirt under her misbuttoned jacket suggested that she had risen early with the sole purpose of invading George’s morning rhythm.

He could feel German’s peripherals stretching in his direction.

Shut up.

Whitaker’s eyes finally settled on George–with some relief, it seemed. She straightened up.

“Captain, a word…?” She trailed off, obviously hoping that nothing more would need to be said, that he would allow himself to be summoned so easily. Like a dog.

All around, cheeks puffed with the effort to contain the razzing that George was sure to receive later. He could hear the inevitable drollery now: ‘Shoulda seen it–The cap’n got pushed around by Daisy Cutter today.’ He racked his jaw from side to side and decidedly held his tongue, knowing that any remotely brazen response he gave would also be ballooned into utter yarn come lunchtime.

He returned his rig to his locker and palmed the door shut, his hand flexing and curling into a fist as it fell to his side. With nothing more than a glance, he shot a silent order at German as he stepped toward the doorway.

The Russian lifted his whiskered chin in acknowledgement. “Last I check,” he grunted, turning to tower over the sea of gawkers, “none of you zhopa named ‘Captain. Girl not here for you.”

A buzz filled the mudroom once more as George descended on Whitaker. Without wasting momentum, he took hold of her arm and pushed her out ahead of him, removing her from his precious pecking order with the same vigilance one would employ to remove a mouse from a cupboard.

“I’ve been trying to find you–” Whitaker’s voice wavered in the crisp morning air as she stumbled over the gravel. George swung her around the corner of the small building, away from the prying eyes of scattered soldiers loitering around the barracks.

“What are you doing here?” He hissed, checking around the corner once more for good measure. No one seemed to have taken note of them. He whipped his burning glare back to Whitaker. “Never approach me like this.”

She wrenched her arm from his grasp and readjusted her jacket, doing a double-take upon realizing the extent of her poor job of buttoning it. “I needed to ask you something,” she huffed with unwarranted indignation. She repeated her earlier sentiment. “You’re impossible to get a hold of–”

“Because anything you need to say to me should be going through Lochte. This isn’t how we do things here.”

“I know, but I just–This time I felt it was best to ask you first…” Whitaker’s fingers instinctively collared her throat as she turned her eyes down to the dusty gray rocks under her feet. The tongues of her white Chucks were bunched and strangled mercilessly between the laces. She had been in a hurry.

George forced air through his nostrils. I’m not entertaining this. I’m not–

“What is it?” His voice spoke before he gave it permission to.

Her head snapped up, eyes alight with renewed vigor. “Okay–okay, hold on…” Whatever elevator pitch she must have rehearsed on the way over seemed to die on her tongue as she fumbled to retrieve something from her jeans’ rear pocket.

His patience waning, George ran his tongue over his molars and cast his gaze out toward the recreation yard, watching the shapes of soldiers moving about amongst the exercise equipment. The buildings beyond were painted in muted lavender light, holding tight to the last fleeting moments of cool hues before blazing daylight began its march over the horizon.

Gonna be a long day, isn’t it.

“Okay,” Whitaker said again, recapturing his attention as she produced two photographs and extended them toward him. “I need you to show these to your contact today. Ask him if he knows anything about them.”

George snatched the photos and quickly scanned them. They were copies of the ones he had retrieved from Nikolaev’s home–the ones he had given to Pascal. Then her words caught up to him.

“How do you know about our contact? Who told you where–”

“I keep my ear to the ground,” she murmured, dismissing his valid concern with a flick of her hand before jabbing a finger down onto the photo’s glossy surface. “I need to know where this was excavated, and if there’s more–John could only tell me so much…”

He held them back out to her, not as eager to move on from the blatant breach of information. “Bring this up with Lochte, not me–”

“I know that you were the one to give these to him–You’re the only other person who has seen this stuff in person. You know it’s important.” Her tone grew frantic. “The black glass is somehow at the center of all this–I-I just don’t know what to tell him–”

“Quiet,” George interjected solidly, his focus suddenly twinged by a pressing thought. He turned and paced a step away as he clamped his thumb and forefinger over his lips, a thousand interactions and conversations playing out in his mind.

The fact that he had never imparted any explanation to Pascal, either, was a mistake on his part. Maybe not a mistake, just an oversight. He had been distracted by more pressing matters in recent weeks–it was a poor excuse, but the unavoidable truth. By turning the photos over without further explanation, he had shown Pascal that there was a card he was still holding tightly to his chest–not good.

George hated to admit it, but Whitaker had made the right call. They both knew he was the only one who could lay the cards out as they needed to be.

He paced a step back, passing a sideways glance over her. Her hands were wringing tatters into the cuffs of her sleeves, the ends of plucked threads prickling from the hems. She stared back at him expectantly–pathetically–as she awaited his answer. He almost pitied her. Whitaker had destined herself to forever be a trigger pulled by someone else’s finger, and it was only now that she was starting to realize it.

Dumb kid.

“I’ll handle Lochte. Just this once. Don’t cut him out of the line of communication like this again,” George warned as he relented, tucking the photos into his breast pocket. “Get used to being an open book.”

Whitaker’s chest fell as she released a breath, her shoulders dropping in relief. “Thank y–”

“And I don’t want to see you in my barracks again either.”

She nodded quickly.

George snapped his chin in the direction of the Command building. “Go.”

She started off, then froze. George set his hands on his sides, sensing the eavesdropping eyes. Instinct pulled him around to see John by the corner, fish-eyed. German was shuffling out of the mudroom to get to him, his face scrunched and his jaw protruded.

“Get him inside,” George ordered. “And find him a new vest–that’s too small.”

“Sir,” said German. He set his hands on the boy’s shoulders and made to spin him back indoors, but the boy was transfixed, keeping his head cocked at Whitaker.

George’s lip curled down at the corners. Like a bag of cats around here. He set for the door, but paused to snap a look back at Whitaker that startled her to life. The girl spun into a brisk walk and scurried off, looking only once over her shoulder. When she’d vanished from view, George realigned himself with his insubordinate floating in the doorway. The boy’s vacant stare made him seem as though he could follow Whitaker through the barracks’ walls.

“What did we just talk about?” George snapped, hinging his head into John’s view. The boy blinked, breaking free of the witch’s spell that must have held him. “Keeping put? Your eyes only on who? Me. Don’t get starry-eyed for every piece of tail you see.”

John’s lips fidgeted with the start of some naive excuse George cut short. He grabbed the boy by the collar and dragged him inside. German backed into the corner, rigid, a look of shame weighing on his jowls. That’s all it takes with this one–one second and he’s slipping between your fingers. German could have read George’s thoughts by the way the Russian receded. The man was supposed to have an eagle’s eye on the boy.

“Do not let him out of your sight,” George pressed.

“Sir.”

“And you–”

He set John in place, weighing judgment on his attire. “Misaligned buttons. Loose belt,” George plucked a finger through the open loop formed on the front of his button-up, ripping it from his waistline. “First time in a shirt? Fix this.”

George then turned to German, “We don’t have time to fit him for a new vest. Have him borrow Birdie’s–I know Rycroft doesn’t need it, but let’s not make room for accidents. The boy needs to blend in.”

“Captain,” German nodded. The Russian set a wide hand on the nape of John’s neck and pushed him into the bunkroom. “Bird, I need your clothes–is day off for you, yeah?” Birdie made some cockney-laced objection, which sputtered German into a tirade of incoherent, performative profanities, mixing their accents into an ear-grinding clamor.

Already, a headache. George checked his watch. Not even seven o'clock, and I have a headache. A hand appeared under his nose, the golden end of a cigarette dancing between its fingers.

“Sundance,” a tired look angled up from Murphy’s eyes. She tittered the paper stick in offering to him.

Too early for vices.

“Sure this is the right move?” she said, peering over his shoulder. Her face was tightly pressed, nostrils flared, and the hollow of her cheeks clenched in her triangular jaw. A familiar expression, one of the few she was capable of. By the look of it, they’d both need a fix of ibuprofen by the day’s end. Should really keep some on hand at this point. But her cigarette still dangled out in front of him, its warm scent offering a way of ease.

“Yep,” George took the cigarette, if only to remove its temptation.

“Captain,” Murphy readjusted her footing. “I–”

“It’s fine. Thanks for the smoke break,” he tucked the cigarette away. “Need everyone’s trust on this. Lochte’s directive.”

“Understood. Won’t hear a peep from me.”

“Good. Have the boys out in five.”

She nodded with her chin, her face turning to stone as she merged back into the bunkroom to collect their squad.

George pinched his brow, dragging his feet in a slow circle through the room of green panels and mud-streaked tile. Lockers and sand piled in the corners blurred, his vision turning to the memory of last night’s briefing.

The seven Americans had been identified in the false-flag event he and Shahzar had discovered. Four more bodies appeared over the following days. All were primed to frame the United States in acts of terror against the populace.

The background checks revealed only so much. Not one appeared on any watch list or had ties to the USSR or the Middle East. The only peculiarities were that two held Master’s degrees in nuclear engineering, and one owned and operated a private security company in Berlin six years ago. The latter George latched onto.

A chill raked George’s shoulders as he recalled the bloodied face he’d met eyes with that night with Shahzar. A pouring of images flooded out from that corpse–memories of SNOW.

He couldn’t place it then, but he knew the name ‘Thomas White’ when he’d gone through the man’s passport. Thomas had been there–in SNOW’s engineering facility in Cologne, Germany. It was just a passing glance, but he’d seen him. Thomas was part of another security team boarding a plane for Kazakhstan the same day George and his team were bound for Tanzania.

But a passing glance at a man’s name tag two years back wasn’t enough to implicate SNOW in these attacks. It did, however, paint a picture of the kind of people they were dealing with.

Lochte agreed that whoever was trying to remove Javelin from the board was doing so outside the authority of any official military. For any local insurgency, too, this was far too meticulous. A third party was at play. But how could it be SNOW? They played the peaceful oligarch with Eastern politicians a world away. With the CPM cover-up in Tanzania, they had zero evidence to work with.

Whoever marked Javelin for death wanted to embarrass the United States and keep them out of Afghanistan. Why would SNOW care about the USA’s involvement in this country of crossroads thousands of miles away?

He had no answer, only a feeling.

Like SNOW, these people showed what happens to those who fell from their grace. No doubt the American corpses had once belonged to this shadow group–now discarded. This tasted too much like Tanzania.

He and Lochte’s talk of shadows had then turned to John.

Enough time had passed since George staged the boy’s death to make the world believe he was truly dead. The exposure of Saether as a mole was another small victory, one they hadn’t anticipated, but to Lochte, both of these had slowed their progress.

Saether’s shadow might have aligned with their mysterious adversaries–a long shot, but their only thread to work with in this theory. The man had vanished, though, far below their radar. If he was still active, Lochte felt it was time to stir up some attention.

John wasn’t part of today’s assignment because George wanted him to be. The boy was bait, a piece in this game to lure out their adversaries and expose them before this plot against Javelin cost them their careers and their lives. But John could not know–George’s men couldn’t know. The less who did the better, because likely, Javelin had a mole of its own.

Someone who claimed to be their ally had, after all, exposed the locations of their supply stores to the enemy–likely one of their contacts. Shahzar sat at the top of that list.

The nomad saved their asses in helping track the first attackers, and discover the subsequent acts of would-be sabotage, but as always, Shahzar was getting too lucky for the house to not take notice. Each of these events happened near his tribe’s borders. Probably a coincidence, but it wasn’t looking good for George’s favorite horse-riding magician.

A meeting had already been established with Shahzar to deliver a partial payment for his assistance in this ongoing operation. Javelin still paid their dues, even to apostates who aimed their guns at the Communists at least half the time. Only now there was an added bonus–John. George would watch for any sign of intrigue in the nomad’s green eyes, and note how the word of the boy’s survival might spread–beginning the hunt.

George set his teeth, popping his knuckles. He put his weight against the front door to the barracks and pushed back out into the morning light. The dawn was giving way to bands of yellow over the skyline now. He rubbed out the last bit of morning haze from his eyes, his gloved fingers then searching for the cigarette in his pocket.

Nah, better not.

The door flung open with a cry of its hinges. Boots thudded onto the gravel, carrying a grating chatter into the alley. His pointman, Reeves, had been rambling over a contract he’d accepted to test a prosthetic port designed for rifle stabilization. He gestured with wild waves of his arms as he spoke, his silver, hooked hand splitting sunbeams into their eyes.

Everyone was sick of this maestro’s symphony, but John was mortally captivated by the forty-odd-year-old ex-marine’s dismemberment. He followed like a curious puppy, but with a bit of a limp of caution.

Typical look of a green boy. George recalled varying masks of intrigue and horror that new kids had during his own stint in Vietnam. Added, when you can walk off a blown hole in your chest, it must be pretty shocking to see what real loss looked like.

Reeves blathered on, his black, greasy fringe wagging with excitement, “–new rail system in the works too–gonna be able to handle all kinds of–”

“Rifles, SMGs, women–agh, we know,” German rolled his head back over his shoulders, shifting the strap of his pack. “Can use two hands instead of one on lonely night.”

“This thing works out, ‘ere’ll be all sorts in store for me–grip control–ta’ drive a car with–keep my good hand on the gear shift–”

“And fondle penis while driving–”

“Christ, German,” Murphy stepped ahead, shoving Reeves’ plastic forearm out of her path. She kept a distance from those two–most of the unit really, apart from a select few. Reeves could count that list on his little clamping hand. But George tried to shake up his squads–get begrudged members accompanied with one another; burn out the quiet contempt.

George set a pace at the head of the four squadmates. They’d head for the armory to check out their gear, then mount up at the motor pool.

“One hand on the wheel, one on’a icy beer–or chick’s ass,” Reeves rasped happily. He wheezed a dry laugh, leaning to pour it down Murphy’s neck. German snagged him by his harness to keep him in line.

“Can it,” George snapped. He didn’t mind banter, but too much self-imposed ego bred recklessness and discontent. Reeves could save it for his day off–if the man ever took a minute of leave. Most soldiers here didn’t. Javelin was an escape–more than literal for some, George included. This military compound was one of the last places in the world that made sense to these types.

The barracks were stirring with the gathering and dispersal of soldiers. Roasting coffee and tobacco smoke floated throughout the garrison–a pleasurable piece to the atmosphere. George snatched an abandoned tin mug trailing heat from an oil drum and took a swig. Steam dewed on his moustache.

Dark roast. Not much of a kicker, but a bitter welcome. He passed the mug to Murphy, who took one sip before handing it down the line. When it made its way to John, the boy made a muffled sound of surprise.

“Ah, don’t spit it out!”

George’s nose cringed upwards.

“Kid’s never had coffee, Captain. All they’s got is honey'n tea in those hills!” Reeves cracked. “Dammit, Captain, you got any napkins? ‘Croft’s got coffee all on Birdie’s flak.”

“Egh–sorry–it’s–”

“Give here, dushman–” German scowled. The mug rang out onto the gravel, tossed from John’s hands.

“Bird’ll be pissed,” Murphy sighed.

Quartermaster Dunn waited at the caged counter of the armory, palms planted wide to either end. He had a screwed way of setting his mouth when lost in thought, and eyes that saw straight through you. The only way to tell if he’d seen you was if he blew out the biggest sigh a man could make. A little off-putting, but George thought it part of his rustic charm. Dunny was like a family man with no family but those who swept in and out, collecting their gear for duty. Must get lonely.

“Dunny,” George announced, and set a hand on the counter. He tapped his fingers meaninglessly on an invisible service bell.

“Davy,” the Quartermaster said in acknowledgement after exhaling for about eight seconds–George counted.

“Got my list?”

“Mhm,” Dunny finally dropped his gaze to look at George. “Be a moment.”

As the Quartermaster slipped into the aisles of shelves behind his elevated station, George turned to his men.

This would go fine. German’s little slip-up earlier was a good reminder to keep a hold on John. Reeves’ big personality would overshadow the boy and keep him quiet. And Murphy–she balanced the absurdity of the other three–kept up some decorum.

George would do the talking. The rest just needed to move crates.

“Ya’ carrying your assigned standards today,” Dunny appeared at the counter again and began setting out weapons and ammunition. “M16A2s, 1911 sidearms–got all your scuffs and marks you’re used to–”

“Got my stabilizer?” Reeves yapped. He wiped his thin-lipped mouth and shuffled to the front of the counter. His metal hand clamped nervously. “Some Rozo shit name or somethin’?”

“Yeah, got her fitted with it already. They got a report for you ta’ fill when you get back–don’t forget.”

Reeves snatched the weapon, “Yeah, yeah. Got it, Dunn–thanks. Hey there, Pearl.” He flipped the rifle over in his hands like a kid on Christmas. Metal clicked with metal as the man connected his prosthetic to the underside of the rifle’s handguard. “Shit, girl, you look good!”

“Jeep’s loaded with the packages, Captain,” Dunn turned to George.

“Thanks, Dunny.”

“Mhm, see you at twenty-two-hundred.”

They slung their weapons and loaded their harnesses and packs with supplies–except John, who was empty-handed apart from the radio on his back. It was still a big responsibility, but the only one George felt comfortable enough to pass off to him to help uphold the lie that he had some role to play.

When they arrived at the motorpool and loaded their gear into the remaining space of their jeep, Reeves made a rigid face, “‘Croft, you’re driving–take the seat.”

The boy’s eyes nearly popped from his head as they darted through the squad to find George, a wordless question in his eye.

“He’s screwing with you,” George said offhandedly and pointed to the back seat. John slunk under the ex-marine’s throat-clicking laugh and clambered into the seat. German followed, tilting the car’s suspension as he settled in by the boy.

“You even know how to drive, kid?” Reeves said, hopping up on the back wheel of the roofless car. “Or d’ya’ll ride mules everywhere?” The jeep rocked again as the man hopped into his seat on John’s other side.

“Yes.” John was curt. His eyes locked forward, his shoulders squished between the two men.

“Oh, color me surprised–you can do something!”

“Murph,” George pointed to the driver’s seat. She nodded, settling in at the wheel as George unfolded his map. “Primary route will be along the second pass. We’ll park and conceal the jeep at our initial rally point, then head on foot. Should intercept shepherds along the route–Shahzar’s eyes. He’ll know we’re coming.”

They knew what was expected of them. Murphy set the jeep on its course, rumbling off into the crest of the rising sun, kicking dust and breathing octane. Wind roared with their engine, growing louder as they entered the mountain pass. Minaret-like boulders sprouted along the dirt road, casting cool shadows down on them. The mountain’s fingers, as they were jokingly referred to, made their crude gestures as a final warning before they crossed the line of Pakistan and into the enemy’s cradle.

When they reached their rally point, Murphy inched the jeep into a hold between a crack in the mountain’s slope. They dismounted. German and Reeves moved to take either end of two stacked crates strapped together from the back of the jeep. George gave another to John–should keep him well occupied. Murphy would protect their rear while George took point.

“Mask up,” George gestured to Murphy. Concealing her gender was easy enough. The balaclava covered her hair and face almost completely, and her flak jacket flattened her chest. She clipped her helmet over the mask and fell to the rear–just another soldier.

The squad struggled up a winding game path that looped onto a level bank on the Afghan-facing mountainside. White dots mixed with sage along the distant ridges; the shepherds’ flock. German and Reeves were already huffing as George turned them toward the grazing animals.

Stoic, wind-swept nomads stood as pillars among the herd, eyeing their ascension towards them. Their white clothing billowed against their bodies like blankets caught on thin trees. They did not move or speak as George maneuvered through their throng of black-faced karakul.

“Don’t touch ‘em,” hissed Reeves. He aimed his remark at John, who was already keeping a respectable distance. The boy shot over a look of annoyance and readjusted the lengthy crate in his arms. “Usually got stuff tied under ‘em–explosives and who knows it. Given’ ‘em to the Mujas.”

“Not these ones,” George said. Then he cupped his hands and called out, “Kunzite!” Shahzar’s code word.

The nomads turned their heads wordlessly to one another. A breeze continued to whistle.

“Captain,” John spoke up. “I can speak Pashto–”

George walked towards one of the shepherds. Gaunt valleys fell below the man’s cheeks, sprouting into a twisting beard much like the sagebrush clinging to the rock at their feet. His dark-lined eyes yielded to George, then the man turned and gestured to a high plateau several hundred yards above.

Atop the precipice stood a figure cloaked in magenta. The vibrant shroud whipped and waved down on them, its wearer’s face bowing to their approach. George lingered as the colorful nomad stepped back and out of view. Around them, the shepherds moved in unison, and their slow river of sheep flowed down the hillside.

“Come on,” George leaned into the rocky incline, continuing their march through the sheep and up to Shahzar.

They all panted for breath when they rounded the corner of the top of the plateau. John, however, did not pause for breath like the rest. He moved towards the lilac nomad waiting by the cliff’s edge.

“Rycroft!” George said warningly. The boy froze in place, turning to see the rest of them halted and kneeling. George pointed sharply to the earth where he crouched, quickly bringing John back to them. “Stick together. When I stop, stop.”

“Hm,” John’s eyes darted below the squad’s glares. He fell to one knee, mimicking the others. Not a drop of sweat, George noticed. The boy looked unaffected by the endeavor of their climb.

George pressed his lips into a line and rose to his feet, eyeing John’s easy composure. Everyone stood then, taking a moment to adjust straps and lift their cargo. George and Murphy slung their rifles, but the woman remained behind, head lowered to watch their path. They stopped a distance away from Shahzar, who remained leaning over the edge of the plateau.

“Shahzar,” George called. The nomad didn’t seem to hear, or was someplace far away in his mind. A thud sounded from behind.

“Assalam alaykom,” John’s voice called out. The boy appeared in George’s peripherals, his crate no longer in his hands. Instead, he was bowing with his hand on his chest.

“Rycroft.”

“Waalaykum assalam,” Ahmed Shazar turned. His voice was warm. He gestured as John had, taking in the boy’s appearance as he neared the squad.

You’re pushing it, George fumed. John was risking George’s whole arrangement–but this familiarity could play out in their favor. Lochte would allow this, George told himself.

“You bring gifts today,” Shahzar smiled. He did not look at George when he spoke, but at the boy instead. His face was a dark moon wrapped in a living painting of pink skies and red poppies bending in the wind–such as his cloak was embroidered. Each of the nomad’s clasped fingers was decorated with silver rings, and his turban and wrists dangled with lapis beads.

“One Stinger anti-air launcher–two crates of ammunition," George waved his hands over the cargo his men set before him. “A gesture of gratitude–”

“This gift–” Shahzar moved swiftly, his hand reaching. John was snatched by the arm, and his face was cupped in the nomad’s fingers. The boy’s eyes widened as Shahzar pressed his thumb into his mouth and pulled his cheek aside like one might examine a horse. The nomad’s green eyes glinted with the reflection of John’s canines.

George’s men moved–their rifles half-readied and waiting for George’s reaction. In the flash of a moment, it felt like everything would catch fire. George advanced, a hand raised to his men to hold firm. He eyed the terrain above for tribal snipers that were certainly watching.

“Shahzar,” George exclaimed. He kept himself from moving too quickly.

“You cannot see it, can you?” Shazahr said aloud. It was unclear who he spoke to. “It has been centuries.”

George weighed the scene. “This…is John.” He stepped closer, a hand out low in front of him while the other slid out of view to his holster, his thumb priming to unfasten his sidearm.

“John,” Shahzar smiled. The nomad’s gaze seemed to trail behind the boy–holding there for a time. “Is it so? It began in these hills? From where does this one come?” He angled his hooked nose inches from the boy.

“Andaw Sawba–Sarbani,” John spoke, spitting the man’s thumb from his mouth. The boy narrowed his gaze, but did not retreat as George thought he might–he was drawn in.

“Ah,” Shahzar’s face became sullen. “I know this place.”

“You do?” asked John.

“Sadly, cruelty has turned the land black. It will never recover.”

John’s face darkened, “Russians. They–”

“It is a cycle, and yours has begun. Trust it,” Shahzar took John’s hand as he spoke. John’s lips seemed to curl, and his face paled.

“I need to ask you something,” George pushed in. He should have ordered his men to stay behind. He didn’t want them as witnesses to this. But here we are.

“Ask of it, and it will be given,” Shazahr said. His brow piqued as he studied John’s face. “I feel I am sworn to this…in this moment.”

“Right,” George caught the look in Reeves’ eye. “Near Andam Sarbani, there was a digsite–couple decades ago. The people were mining a black crystal. Looks something like–”

“This,” Shahzar released John’s hand and reached into his collar. He produced an intricate silver necklace tied with a leather band. At its center was a slick, black gem. In the light, it bled a ray of oranges and reds into Shahzar’s hand.

George’s body tensed. A flash of red filled his eyes. Blood. Bone. Towering hellfire–a toothy face and a crown of horns to pierce the stars. The base of his skull hummed.

“You see it, don’t you? As you have before. It is a cursed stone.”

“Cursed?” Reeves blurted. The man hobbled back a step. German straightened, as though recoiling from a bad smell.

“Yes–that’s it,” George forced himself to lower his shoulders. Heat was spreading beneath his shirt, his neck tilted to release it from his vest’s collar.

“It is the green in your eyes, Captain George,” Shahzar held out the necklace, his mouth spreading wide. “Both you and I possess this. A holy color–to see the heavens between the earth’s shades. But you have yet to open yours…”

“Where did you get this?” George said, ignoring the strange sentiment. He wanted to look closer, but caution made every step feel like wading through water. “The digsite–”

“Gone.”

“Are there others?”

“None I can tell you of–”

“You said you could help.” George halted, sensing how hard he was beginning to push in front of the men. John stared. “Where can I find more?”

“There is a place,” Shahzar returned the necklace beneath his collar. His fingers curled in a dance as he spoke, “Below these steps of rock is a city–Janat Gul Darzada, where you will find a man–a jeweler. Batoor Jagdal. His hands work this dark gem–not for trade, but tradition. He will have what you seek.”

“Thank you,” said George. It was enough–more than enough, but now he wanted more than anything to leave. He felt the questions brimming behind his men’s eyes–the attention he was drawing.

Dammit, Whitaker.

“Seek me in two days,” said Shahzar. “I will guide you to him.”

George nodded. He turned to his men and looped his finger through the air in an upward circle. Reeves and German acknowledged and quickly made their way to Murphy. John lingered, as did a funny inkling on the back of George’s neck. Instinct made him face the nomad again.

“Hunters provoke you. Russians, but not allies of the occupiers,” Shahzar said in a level tone. “One of brass, one of silk–who wielded the blade that slit throats. Their soldiers call out the name of the hunt–Yeger. I thought you should know this.”

George exchanged a glance with John, a perplexed look on the boy’s face. The magician’s words ran through his mind once more and became clear–Javelin’s hidden enemy had a name. Yeger. George nodded. “Thank you, Shahzar.”

“You owe me for this,” Shahzar said with a satisfied grin. “Bring this gift again.” He indicated to John with a silver-ringed knuckle, making the boy sway on his feet with timid enthusiasm. “I will speak with him.”

“I’ll bring him shopping,” George said as he turned to leave. “We’re in the market for some jewelry.”