Wasting opportunity, time, or breath made for a kink in the neck, which he now had. The afternoon had burned painfully away as he and Troy were forced to wait in the motorpool on standby, the key begging to be turned in their A2 Jeep’s ignition.

Nothing could be done. Their contact set the rules. If they arrived at the meeting early, he risked exposure to Soviet spies, and too late–why not–George was considered compromised, scaring off the contact and squandering days of planning. Naturally, their contact didn’t follow any of the rules forced on him and his unit.

Javelin offered this level of privilege to a select few. They were the types of men born with a rare gift for picking up exactly what the CIA wanted with an almost clairvoyant consistency. God must have dusted this man twice while sprinkling this gene over the world. The bastard always had something far too good to barter with.

Trouble was, the whole process was a bitch just for a chance to see him.

A location and time were communicated via dead-drop or by one of the nomadic shepherds they happened upon on patrol. Radio contact was forbidden by their elusive friend, making meetings difficult to coordinate.

This time, however, they were given no details–only a cryptic note insisting they meet and that further instructions would be given sometime today. The message would be tagged with the code phrase: yellow-sapphire. This was a new tool for their friend to brandish, giving the good folks in intel an uneasy weariness spanning the past few days.

George treated the situation like any other–stay put and breathe easy until orders were given. No point shedding his skin in anticipation. He only wished his nicotine buzz hadn’t fizzled out so long before what would most likely turn into a two-hour drive into Afghanistan. Hell, maybe he was a little antsy, having smoked Birdie’s cigar down to a nub in just twenty minutes.

Should’a saved it for the ride.

Despite the abnormal conditions, it wasn’t his first meeting with the elusive Ahmed Shahzar, and certainly would not be the last. As George neared his first year of employment with Javelin, he counted twenty-three messages secured from Shahzar. Eleven of which he successfully followed through, nearly double what the previous captain accomplished before he retired.

George had aimed to meet the Afghan’s challenge, no matter how hair-pulling Shahzar made it.

Ahmed Shahzar was cut from a particularly esoteric cloth. A Pashtun nomad, he belonged to a supposedly nameless tribe of horse riders, rumored mystics, and artifact hoarders. While most Afghans proclaimed their relation to whatever glorified tribe or ancient conqueror they could, Shahzar put a wall of secrecy between his people and the rest of the world. His shroud of mystery was matched only by his peremptory spirit. The nomad bent all to his will–especially hard cash and new weapons, which Javelin was readily equipped to supply.

As grating as he was to George’s want of due diligence, there was a color to the man’s character. Afghanistan’s wild heritage dripped from his garish clothing of reds and blues, charms of teal and silver twinkling from the ends of every thread he wore. To look at Shahzar was to see the final flicker of magic from an old world–a fragment of an untamed soul now in the shadow of a crushing, red, bureaucratic boot. The nomad had to be appreciated.

But picking between an evening of needless haggling and shuffling through the general waft of weirdness here at HQ had been a tough call this morning. Javelin was becoming weird. Any excuse for some extensive field work would come as a relief. Besides, one more accomplished operation would look good on his wall before he completely saddled his new responsibility to the boy–the stray. He could see the kid now, glowering on a cot in the shadows–a list of names growing in his head to rival Nixon’s. George felt with a horrid certainty that his carefully built reputation was about to be shattered. And the kid would be the catalyst.

A sharp crackle of chatter ripped George from his static thoughts. He and Troy had been busying themselves numb with checking and rechecking their gear stowed in the Jeep when the radio came to life. Irritation turned to relief as the message confirmed what they’d been waiting for–a location and time to meet Shahzar. They would need to leave immediately.

The buzzing voice on the other line mentioned the message had been received via radio, raising one of Troy’s fuzzy, blond brows. Apparently, in urgency, someone managed to use the radio stored in a supply cache shared with the Mujahideen. Not super uncommon, but not assuring.

Shahzar’s code phrase had been given, too–yellow-sapphire, but not without some difficulty in communication. Whoever spoke in Shahzar’s place evidently did not know whether to say the phrase in Pashto or English–a language not well spoken by the messenger.

George shrugged. That’s why Troy was here.

Every now and then, one tribe of rebels or another would get wise and try to ambush his men in retaliation for a deal ‘mistakenly’ made with a rival sect. It was embarrassing, because Javelin–and by extension the CIA–was in the business of supplying all of the Mujahideen, making for bizarre, awkward spits of gunfire that eventually turned to handshaking. So, ignoring Ahmed Shahzar’s no-plus-one rule, George always kept a well-aimed rifleman on his back in case he found himself at the wrong party.

Night had fallen by the time they left, which made their drive through unlit, rocky paths in Afghanistan–timed between Soviet patrols–a little shaky. Troy drove, which was a mistake. The rifleman hadn’t made the loop through the pass in a few weeks, and it showed. Watching his hands shake the wheel slick with sweat filled George with visions of those same hands jumbling a potentially life-saving shot that would sooner hit George in the ass than save him. But, offering to drive would only flatten the man’s trembling confidence.

They came to a stop a few miles from the rendezvous point. To avoid detection, they would walk the remaining distance in the dark.

Hopping out of the passenger seat, George paused to stretch his legs and shake out the tension in his shoulders. He retrieved a backpack from the Jeep packed with a brand new portable SINCGARS radio and encrypter unit, overnight supplies, and a band of emergency flares–just in case. Their Jeep was also equipped with its own radio and was loaded with additional supplies: food, water, a few extra gallons of gasoline, and ammunition.

They each dressed in Javelin’s night operative gear, an exclusive set for George’s unit. Black coveralls, matching lightweight flak jackets with protective collars and shoulder-pads, harnesses strapped with two rows of pouches for holding magazines and tools, smoke grenades, a first-aid bag, and their own sets of AN/PVS-5 night vision goggles, which looked like green shoe boxes with protruding binocular lenses. They also wore black balaclava masks and thin leather gloves to conceal their skin. Black cloth-covered helmets were also issued, which George buckled to the back of his pack.

George shifted the duffle bags containing the backup supplies aside, searching for his rifle. It was a semi-automatic PathCore-84, a prototype developed by some backyard manufacturer Javelin was contracted to field test. Hesitating, George unzipped the rifle case, stowed the weapon, and reluctantly slung it over his shoulder.

Brundswidth-Innovations. George rolled his eyes. The rifle was as bad as the name of the manufacturer–but hell–Javelin took a percentage for every op they ran with someone’s passion project. The semi-automatic rifle was designed to improve a soldier’s target hit ratio, but attempted to mimic the look of the standard M16, betting on easier user acquisition if it looked and felt like what soldiers were already using–only better! Nothing like foreign parts shoved into the same body. They did try to add an attachment mounting system for flashlights and optics, but every time the rifle fired, the mounting bolts came loose.

God willing, George wouldn’t find the need to use it. He’d sooner rely on the knife on his boot or the handgun strapped to his thigh.

Troy carried a standard M16A2 rifle, modified with a deployable bipod and thermal scope–which was overbearing in size. Troy looked like an amateur astronomer with that telescope bolted to the top of his rifle. It mustn't have been lost on Troy, either, as he met George’s scrutiny with a thin-lipped, impotent expression.

George shook his head. Shahzar better be here.

Before beginning the trek, they marked the Jeep’s position and relayed the location over the radio to HQ, giving them a place to start should they both be killed or go missing.

The night was clear. Moon and starlight rained into the valley, alleviating the need for thermal goggles. George took point, maintaining a distance of several hundred feet ahead of Troy, leaving repeating hills of sand and windswept stone fins between them.

An expanse of nothingness lay to either side of them. Hills rose on into the darkness like ocean waves, breaking against the mountains to their backs. Street lights of a distant town acted as a lighthouse ahead, guiding him to the rendezvous point. Soon, the blankets of sand would transform into lush fields of grass and crops, divided by thin rows of trees.

The approaching town was a significant checkpoint between several of the major cities. A critical Javelin safehouse was maintained here, its floorboards and closets lined with hidden weapons and explosives. The shabby bunker sat right under the noses of the Red Army, who frequented the village. Armored columns of BTR personnel carriers strolled through as common traffic during the day. To preserve its secrecy and prevent unwanted chaos, a select few knew of the safehouse’s location.

Shahzar’s choice to meet so near this particular location spelled trouble. Every prior meeting was done in the middle of the wilderness, requiring George to follow landmarks like a treasure hunter in order to find him.

The knot in George’s neck twinged. Every step brought him closer to realizing how naked he was to the night’s possibilities.

His feet worked up the side of a dune, his pack’s weight shifting awkwardly as he arrived at its crest. The town was half a mile away. George turned around, slipping a folded mirror out from one of his pouches and tilting it to catch the moonlight. He signaled back to Troy, letting him know to slow his approach and find an overwatch position.

He tugged off his mask, packing it into a larger pouch above his hip. He then checked the magazine in his rifle and thumbed the safety off. The weapon was held close to his chest.

A rocky outcrop rose between the town and where he stood, acting as a natural wall filled with shadow. Rows of squat, round trees ran along the ledge of boulders and sagebrush to further obscure the town’s yellow light. According to Shahzar’s instructions, he would meet him beneath the tallest of the trees.

George paused. The ridgeline was dark, nearly black in areas, but too near the lampposts beyond to make any use of his thermals. He thought of using his signal mirror to try for a response from Shahzar, but if an ambush was waiting for him, a clever attacker would signal back and allow him to approach. Conversely, they might just shoot back–making the dune under his feet the only defensible position until he made it to the treeline ahead.

George squeezed his forefinger with his thumb until the knuckle made a pleasing pop. Come on, George urged himself.

He tucked the mirror away and readied his rifle before creeping down the dune. His eyes were wide, straining to see through the grain of the approaching darkness. Shadows played on the surfaces of old stone beneath the tree’s slender branches. Faces in the deepest shadows appeared in front of one another, tricking him with their dark eyes and toothless smiles.

George exhaled steadily, slowing his heart rate.

The town was silent. No voices, music, or rumbling engines–nothing. The absence of sound was all that roared in his ears.

His eye locked on a tree standing above the rest, its roots clambering into the crack of an exposed layering of rock. A fan of sagebrush and heavy stones circled below the lone sentinel. That must be it.

George could sense Troy lose sight of him as he pushed between the vegetation, laying his feet heel to toe as he cautiously entered the circle. He rested the stock of his rifle flat on his shoulder, keeping the weapon close as he scanned over the scene. Nothing moved, and not a sound could be heard other than his own steady breathing.

The gravel beneath his boots groaned softly as he turned and knelt into a crouched position, his back against the exposed wall of rock, the branches of the lone tree casting him in shadow. He waited, listening, his bottom lip nibbling at the ends of his moustache.

A minute passed.

He took a chance. “Yellow-sapphire,” George said with a rasped whisper.

“Salam alaikum,” a deep voice said from above.

George’s heart leapt against his ribs. He spun, twisting spits of pebbles under his boot, bringing his rifle up in the direction of the voice. He thumbed the flashlight on the side of his rifle, igniting the space above in harsh light.

A wide smile greeted him from the darkness, its bearer hidden beneath a heavy cloak. Emerald eyes reflected in the light of George’s flashlight.

Ahmed Shahzar.

The nomad drifted off the ledge, landing silently beside George, his rich blue shroud billowing like a ghostly tail. A vibrant yellow trim fluttered at the cloak’s ends, catching the eye and leading over the cloth’s field of spiraling lapis vines and dotted white stars.

“Good lord,” George sputtered, catching himself from jumping out of his boots. He lowered his rifle and stood, killing the flashlight’s glare with a strangled squeeze. Adrenaline continued to flare in his chest as he walked off the surprise in a small circle.

“Yes, he is good,” Shahzar chuckled. His laugh was easy, too warm for the situation–but predictable.

George put a hand on the back of his neck, massaging the knot that seemed to be growing by the minute. The Milky Way above seemed to partake in the same heedless desertion of gravity Shahzar had embodied. Careless blue and purple pricks of light tiptoed without worry while George grit his teeth and sweated through his gloves.

George swallowed and forced the rush to subside. His heart calmed.

“Let’s not do that next time,” George said. He kept his voice low in case anyone might hear. “I could have shot you.”

“Ah, you could have,” Shahzar said absently. The nomad gave a sweeping glance over the darkness and lifted a rifle from beneath his cloak. The wooden-framed weapon belonged in a museum, its half-century-old frame wrapped in linen and bands of mud-read beads. Oblong, silver charms twinkled from hooks pierced through the linen, ringing softly as Shahzar moved it through the air.

George found it odd that Shahzar preferred the terribly outdated gun. A few months ago, he had gone to painful lengths to deliver two crates of black-market Kalashnikov rifles to Shahzar as part of a trade for the location of a high-value KGB officer operating in Kandahar. The weapons were newer than what the Red Army was issuing its own soldiers. If the man was selling them for a higher price, George would just pay him out of pocket next time.

“What do you want?” George pressed. Whatever the nomad had to say, he wanted it said quickly so he could get home for a proper smoke. His patience for playtime was running thin this week.

“Come,” the nomad said. Shahzar spun into the dark, trailing through the trees towards the town. George noted a new pair of Soviet Moskva sneakers as he trotted ahead. Shahzar had a collector’s eye.

George gave a final look over his shoulder before pursuing the nomad, hoping Troy could see him. He would be entirely out of the rifleman’s line of sight now.

“Hey–hey!” George hissed. Shahzar was hurrying off down the center of a street-lit alley bathed in warm light. “Keep against the wall–out of sight.”

“There are no eyes to see us,” Shahzar called without turning. His voice echoed recklessly, bouncing between mud-caked buildings. His cloak washed around him as he moved, revealing shapeless maroon Perahan Tunban pants worn about his legs. The nomad bounded like a dancer underwater, prancing softly over the gravel path, his head turning like a swan’s to the dark windows observing his performance.

The path weaved into the main road, a wide stretch of dirt that cut the town in two. They set themselves against a mudbrick wall in a place below a tall shadow of a darkened building. Together, they peered out to check the road for distant headlights. Moths danced beneath the orange and yellow lampposts, and a stray hound hobbled along a ditch across their way, but nothing else could be seen beyond more shadowed dwellings and shops.

There should be more movement at this time of night.

Shahzar slipped wordlessly from the wall, dashing over the road to another alley. George was quick to follow, ducking low with his hand on the carrying handle of his rifle, clutching it like a briefcase. He skidded to his knees behind a sagebrush and waited for Shahzar’s next move, scanning the way they’d come with the barrel of his rifle.

“Three days I followed,” Shazhar said. His voice became solemn. “It is a terrible, strange thing, this.” He turned to George, his face devoid of its prior cheerfulness. A dark, triangular beard weighed down on his grief.

Something tugged at George’s instinct. He set his chin back to his shoulder, wishing that he had signaled to Troy before leaping after the nomad. He should not be this deep alone.

Shahzar’s eyes flashed, and he was off again before George could speak a word. George scrambled after him around a corner into a tight, winding corridor between homes with blue-painted doors. Bolts of cloth hung overhead, blocking the moon in a pattern of blackness as they ran. The town was deathly silent.

Where are the people?

George slowed behind Shahzar. He steadied himself and paused to listen. A soft wind blew, and crickets chirped somewhere far away. Beside him, an empty window caught his curiosity. He aimed his rifle’s flashlight into the rectangular hole in the wall, tracing the interior with his light.

Pillows and rugs circled the floor. At the center was a tea set placed on a poppy embroidered blanket, undrunk tea reflecting from ceramic cups. George angled the light to peek further back in the dwelling. A door was left ajar at the end of the home, leading out into the night air.

“Captain,” Shahzar beckoned.

The nomad waited outside at the top of a curving staircase made of crumbling stone. The path seemed to open up beyond where he stood, a single, uncovered light bulb flickering somewhere high above.

George stepped away from the building, keeping his rifle close. His gloved hands wrung over the grip and handguard. Keeping close to the wall, the clothes on his back grazed against the rough stone as he stepped up to Shahzar. Dark alleys and windows held his attention as they appeared over the steps, but George could not ignore the uncanny sorrow shining in the nomad’s eyes.

What the hell are we doing out here?

Shahzar stepped aside, letting George step into the courtyard. George lowered his rifle.

The courtyard beheaded an adjoining road, encasing its neck in a square of stacked buildings around a boxed yard. Doors and garages were left open with overhanging striped pavilions to form a small market. Makeshift stalls were cluttered with goods, unattended. The singular, flickering light bulb sputtered fatally over the scene.

Bodies were piled in front of the market stalls, placed on top of one another. Feet, small and large, pointed crookedly towards him from lined rows. Bullet holes riddled the mud brick surrounding the courtyard. It was a mass execution.

George glanced behind him down the road, then approached carefully. The dirt was darkened red, still wet–a scarlet glisten catching the light. Hundreds of bullet casings littered the ground, brass stars winking a mirrored hell of the sky above. His eyes trailed over the streams of blood and brass to the organized killing. He estimated upwards of fifty dead–Afghan women, children, and men.

“Russians?” George said. He turned to Shahzar. Mass killings were unfortunately common; rural populations suspected of aiding the Mujahideen often found themselves at the end of Russian rifles or rocket fire. Some Soviet commanders found it easier to rid themselves of future instability or threats to their convoys before collusion was confirmed. It was tragic, but nothing George or anyone at Javelin could prevent–not if they wanted to remain undetected.

Shazhar answered him simply. “No.”

Frowning, George treaded deeper over the red earth. Several corpses lay sprawled in the center of the killing, separated from the rest. Their arms and legs coiled around themselves, seemingly undisturbed from the moment they died. A spoiled, sweet scent filled his nose. His abdomen clenched, keeping a curling feeling from rising in his stomach.

George slung his rifle over his shoulder and moved beside one of the sprawled corpses. The body was male, and though facedown, looked to be caucasian. The odd one out. But it was his clothing that caught his eye.

He looked to be wearing military fatigues.

The fabric was desert-toned, but of a different cut from the uniform of Red Army soldiers. The sleeves were rolled above the elbow, the flak-jacket a matching khaki and smaller, unlike the green turtle shell armor of the Soviets, and the trousers were tucked into boots with laces–Spetsnaz? KGB? This a new kit? George knelt beside the body, placing a hand on its shoulder.

“This one died kissing the earth,” Shahzar said. The nomad was suddenly beside him, pointing to the body’s head with the muzzle of his rifle. “His sin burdens him in death.”

George turned the body over. A white face with glazed eyes rolled towards him, looking at George with a slack-jawed vacancy. The beginning of a moustache grew above his lip, the fine hairs globbed with blood and dirt that caked over half of his face. George followed the grime-encrusted gore down the corpse towards numerous black-red splotches over its clothing and body armor. The armored jacket had been unfastened to expose the body’s chest.

He’d been stabbed–repeatedly.

“Honor killing? Retaliation?” George said, more so to himself. He shook his head. It was all too recent. This man died soon after the villagers were executed. And a stabbing? It would take a small mob to restrain a man like that to remove his armor. There were likely far more soldiers involved in organizing an event like this, too. If villagers or rebels did this, there would be chaos in the streets–mutilated bodies carried on pikes–mourners tending to the dead.

“When did this happen? You contacted us hours ago,” said George.

“We observed from afar,” Shahzar spoke slowly. “When their intent was revealed, we sought out one to use your radio, but it would be too late. This… this happened soon after–”

“You didn’t try to stop them?”

“It was not ours to stop.”

“The soldiers. Who attacked–”

A snaring pain clenched the back of George’s neck. He lifted a hand to massage the knot growling below his head. But then he stopped, his breath held in his nose. Below his hand, a spot of color was revealed. Sewn to the body’s sleeve was a patch, oval in design and colored orange and blue–a spear running down the middle. A banner waved over the emblem, reading in bolded text the same name stitched on George’s sleeve.

Javelin.

George stood. He pushed past Shahzar, moving to the next body. He flipped it over and searched its uniform. The same patch was sewn to its sleeve, speckled in dried, browning blood. He moved to the next–the same, another patch, the man dressed like the others–also stabbed to death, his body armor spread open. Four more bodies–all in Javelin-issued fatigues. All dead–stabbed.

“What the fuck is this?” George said. He marched past Shahzar back to the first body, stopping to rummage through its pockets.

“Marauders–wolves adorned in sheep’s fleece,” Shahzar said. His jeweled eyes glinted from the shadow of his hood.

“No shit,” George grumbled under his breath. He flung everything out of the corpse’s harness and pack. Medical supplies, survival tools–each a standard issue item straight from Javelin’s supply. His gaze lifted, spotting a rifle beside the body–a US Army-issued M16A2.

“These men, they did not dress as the invaders,” Shahzar said. “They wore men’s clothes. My brother saw them near Kabul. They plundered from your safehouses–took weapons–”

“That doesn’t explain the uniforms,” George cut in. No mark of Javelin was ever stored in caches. Someone gave them these.

George stood, holding an American passport.

“We’re being framed,” George said. Identification conveniently planted on the bodies dressed in Javelin uniforms, armed with Javelin-issued weapons–weapons used to kill scores of innocents; his head whirled.

George checked his watch. Time was spinning away. At any moment, a Soviet convoy could pass through, discovering a botched American setup to pin war crimes on the Red Army. It would plunge the United States straight into diplomatic conflict. This was worse than supplying rebels–it was proof of operating in enemy territory. It was unproclaimed war. How many more killings like his would happen tonight? How many tomorrow? They needed to shut everything down–starting tonight.

Beads of sweat dotted his brow. His mind went to every cache in the area–then the country. Every possibility ran through his mind: what weapons could be in circulation, explosives used for sabotage–terrorism–how much carnage might unfold in the coming days. He inhaled stiffly through his nose, a mental list forming in his head.

It didn’t explain the stabbings–the circumstances.

“There had to be more soldiers than this.”

“There were.”

“Dressed like this? Tell me, what exactly did you see–?”

George flipped open the passport, searching for identification to match to the body.

“This. This is–”

George’s chest stiffened, his breath locked behind his tongue. He stepped back. His head became lighter, his vision spinning.

The faces of the dead soldiers turned to look at him. Their blank expressions strained to see. They became the faces of his squad–Castillo, Porter, Morris, Jones, Mitchell, Lang, Butler–the men he commanded under SNOW–the men he left to die.

The air darkened. He felt his eyes tunnel, his head drifting, but their pale faces remained gleaming. Black liquid ran from their noses. Relentlessly, they stared with eyes that bore into him. His ears roared with the rush of blood.

George took another step back. Muffled words rumbled in a low voice nearby, but he could not understand them. The single light above was drawn down into the blood flowing from the bodies of his squad, igniting with a red glow that then seeped into the air.

The red aurora floated up–up, up, up to him.

The Being stood high above–a tower of muscle and bone. Its coiled black horns and firelit eyes suffocated all the stars in the night. Pearlescent teeth opened slowly, drawing in the light. The redness of the air grew too bright, and his head screamed in agony. George shut his eyes, clenching his fists to his temples.

“You have been seen,” Shahzar’s voice boomed in his ear.

Suddenly, George was back, his ears ringing. The weight of a hand on his shoulder slipped away. The world dimmed, and his vision returned, and feet crunched over pebbles and dirt. He sensed Shahzar’s presence drift from him.

“Wait,” George called. His voice did not feel like his own. Vertigo melted the world around him as he spun to look for Shahzar. George found himself unable to move from where he stood. His head still sloshed with a passing sickness and the haunting memory of Tanzania.

He put a hand to his mouth, tasting vomit. Straining to swallow, he squeezed his eyes shut until the nausea faded. When his eyes opened, he was alone–standing in a garden of corpses.

The wind blew gently. Crickets played coyly on their legs. The single bulb of light sputtered awake, once more filling the courtyard with a dull, yellow gloom. The faces of the dead transformed back to those of gaping strangers with bloodshot eyes.

George took a moment to gather himself. The vigor gradually returned to his legs and sense of balance. He gripped the back of his neck hard, forcing out the rest of the pain that must have triggered the migraine.

That’s all it was–a migraine.

But his heart raced, and the images of his brothers thumbed the backs of his eyes with a dull pain. It was like they were trying to escape, to be free with a truth only they believed. George shook out the feeling. There was no truth to what he saw. They were gone. They died in the incident and were simply not here anymore. A hard swallow and a deep breath rid him of the remains of their spirits–and the burning memory of the Being.

George sighed, blinking up at the stars. Why now? It had been almost a year since the incident. He kept the hallucinations out of mind, leaning headfirst into the only real truth–survival. What he thought he saw was irrelevant. The facts were all that mattered–his men were dead, and he was betrayed by SNOW–by Kaneshiro.

Come back to reality–whatever excuse. I won’t be made a loose end again.

“Come back,” George muttered. His thumb trailed over each knuckle in his hand, popping them in order. He flexed his fingers, straining the joints. A faint tingle at the base of his skull slowly subsided.

He knelt down, removing his pack with the radio and setting it before him. The radio had two handles on its face, making it easy to slide out from the pack and connect a wired headset he pulled from another bag beside it. Activating the device, he cleared his throat and mind.

“Sundance to Castle One. Over,” George said evenly. Special call signs were only afforded to his unit and the top members of command, giving them another level of elitist prestige that often went to some of the heads in his unit.

“Go ahead, Sundance, over,” a droning voice replied.

“Castle One, initiate protocol: Dark Mirror. Immediate. I say again, initiate protocol: Dark Mirror. Immediate. Over.”

Static burned in his ear. Passing seconds thumped to the beat of his heart as he waited for a response. He had just ordered an emergency deployment of his unit to cover up a high-risk security breach of Javelin’s direct involvement in Afghanistan. It was the worst-case scenario.

“Acknowledged, Sundance. Over.”

“Deploy Falcon One and Falcon Two to my location: safehouse Blue Trident. Sierra. Bravo. Tango,” George added. They would need to retrieve the soldiers’ bodies with enough space to gather whatever evidence they could and extract their team in one go. Two Sikorsky helicopters would each deliver a squad from his unit to assist. “Relay to King Two: seven dead in Javelin uniforms. High civilian casualty event. Over.”

“Acknowledged, Sundance. Deployment of Falcon One and Falcon Two is underway.”

George furrowed his brow. There was something else. He slipped the passport out from his pocket and thumbed it open. Something more had triggered the memories of SNOW–the sudden episode he had experienced. There must be a reason why–

He traced his gloved thumb over the text below the photo portrait of its owner: a triangular-faced man with dark stubble and hair that curled just over the edge of his hairline. Memories were attached to that face.

Pale fluorescent hallways, East Berlin streets, Kaneshiro’s security detail–he forced the memories to become clear, but a cloud of haze kept the feeling of déjà vu out of his grasp.

“Castle One. Run ID check on the following,” George read out the owner’s name, passport ID number, and other details of importance. Before he could jump to any conclusion, he had to know if this passport was real–that the dead man beside him did, in fact, carry the name and face so familiar to him.

Thomas White. Another hum of déjà vu slipped right through his fingers as he read the name again.

“Acknowledged, Sundance. Over.”

George disconnected the transmission. He packed the headset and radio away, then stood to swing the pack over his arms. The helicopters would arrive in under an hour. He had to find Troy and brief him.

He spat, an acidic taste lingering on his tongue. If what he suspected was true, it meant someone else was deep in bed with the Russians–and they were working against them. Tanzania, Caela-Plant Mischa, and the incident… it was all too big to just disappear and leave George walking away unscathed. He suspected something had been lurking in his shadow since he fled Tanzania, but what he feared was a bullet to the back of the head, not a game of espionage against his former employer.

What purpose did any of that have? Why Javelin? Why me?

He gathered another mouthful of bitter saliva and spat again as he marched down the stone steps away from the courtyard. Whatever real truth there was to that night in Africa, George was certain he had been picked to play as a piece in a much larger game. What we needed to know now was whether he was still part of that game, and who else was playing.