“Ideally, yes. The test kit will react to microscopic amounts. They could identify a lot of things, but hopefully when we get to Naples, we won’t be chasing hydrocarbons around the city.”
“And if someone gets too close?”
“RSX decontamination pads.” I nodded to Percival, who switched to the next image. “Reactive Skin Neutralizer, based on the military RSDL lotion. But these are specifically formulated to neutralize Greek Fire on contact if exposure does occur.”
Most people were appalled when I presented these details, but this team was soaking up every piece of intel.
Will leaned back in his seat, folding his arms. “What happens if someoneisexposed?”
“Pain,” I said, before my throat closed over. I forced a slow swallow. What the fuck was wrong with me? I’d talked about this a hundred times before. I’dresearchedthe damn chemical for years. Why was my heart skipping around like it had forgotten how to beat a steady rhythm?
Percival continued for me. “With the liquid form, you have seconds. Pain is immediate—burning that starts on the surface but quickly penetrates deeper. Within thirty seconds, visible redness appears. Blistering begins within minutes.”
“Without immediate decontamination, it follows lymphatic vessels beneath the skin.” Phantom ants began crawling along my side, and I adjusted my left arm to clear the sensation. “It moves like something alive, following tissue planes.”
“That’s why we developed a specialized hazmat system,” Percival interjected smoothly, drawing attention back to the screen. “We have suits with a custom coating that chars under heat, buying precious seconds; a topcoat that repels liquid splashes; and disposable cuffs and collars that can be removed if contaminated.”
Malcolm studied me with newfound understanding. “And the powder form?”
“Not a danger, unless it’s ignited.” I forced myself back to the present. “But then? It burns hot enough to melt through light armor.”
Chapter 4
Rav
Afghanistan,2019
Brooklyn McAllister unpacked her equipment on a rickety table in the corner of our briefing room. Her fingers danced over calibration dials without looking. She moved with a rhythm that spoke of countless repetitions. It was the scientific equivalent of field-stripping my rifle. I could do it blindfolded—and clearly she could do the same with her sensors and detectors.
Most men would have fixated on her long black hair, her bright green eyes, or the way her CADPAT couldn’t camouflage her hourglass shape.
But me? It was those hands. They knew things mine didn’t.
One day into my mission at Forward Operating Base Masum Ghar, and I was already breaking my first rule: never get curious about the civilians.
“Something interesting, soldier?” Her voice startled me. She’d noticed me watching from my position by the door.
Most people didn’t notice me unless I wanted them to.
“Just wondering if it all works outside a lab,” I said, covering my momentary lapse.
Instead of the defensive response I expected, she smiled—a brief, knowing curve of her lips that suggested she’d heard that particular doubt before.
“I used these tools in Syria last year,” she said, returning to her work without waiting for my reply. “They’re more reliable than most of the people I’ve let use them.”
There was something refreshing about her lack of need to prove herself. Most scientists who were dropped into military operations spent half their time justifying their presence and the other half complaining about conditions. Dr. McAllister seemed to occupy the space more naturally.
The room gradually filled with the rest of the team. Eight SEALs and one British SAS operator, all of us assigned to shepherd a handful of scientists through hostile territory while they hunted for invisible killers. Chemical weapons detection wasn’t JTF2’s usual mandate, but international operations made for strange bedfellows.
I remained by the wall. Percival, a SEAL I’d worked with before, caught my eye and lifted his chin in my direction. The rest of the team moved with the contained energy of men accustomed to waiting—for orders, for action, for something to happen.
Only Dr. McAllister remained otherwise occupied, lost in her preparations as though the crowded room of elite operators had faded into background noise.
“All right, listen up,” Cohn, the SEAL team leader, called out. “Mission briefing in five. Dr. McAllister, are you ready with your part?”
She looked up, those green eyes sharp with focus. “Ready.”
What hadn’t her file told me? The standard biography had been thorough enough—twenty-five years old, recruited directly from university to the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, deployed to Syria straight after, where shefinished her PhD in molecular toxicology. But it hadn’t captured her quiet competence, or the way she carried herself like someone ten years her senior.
