A convoy. Fuel trucks. Munitions under camo netting, parked outside a ghost village—a known extremist pipeline crossing into Burkina Faso.
Friend’s voice was dry. “Looks like Krueger wasn’t bluffing.”
Paulsen didn’t look up. “No. But he didn’t tell us everything either.” He turned toward the back wall where the comms rig was pulsing quietly with an encrypted link. “We need to brief Ford and Ian. Now.”
Crown asked, “What about Dante?”
Paulsen glanced at the screen. “Still with Shannon. He’ll be read in when it matters.”
His tone didn’t carry judgment. It carried a burden. Everyone in the room knew what Dante had walked away from and what he might still have to walk into.
THIRTY-THREE
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION – DOD SUPERVISED FACILITY – 2342 HOURS
This wasn’t officially a cell. They’d moved him again. It had carpet, a desk, and a bed that didn’t bolt to the floor. The walls weren’t gray cinderblock but off-white composite, designed to feel like a suite in an unbranded hotel. But Krueger knew a cage when he was in one. And he knew exactly where the cracks were forming.
He sat at the desk now, elbows braced on a stack of clean legal pads, each one covered in tight block print: notes, diagrams, and recall logs from Mali, Niger, and Fort Novosel. He was writing down everything they wanted… and none of what they didn’t ask for. Not yet.
A quiet, different tap sounded at the reinforced door. It wasn’t his handler. He didn’t turn.
Seconds passed, and then the slot slid open. “You wanted a proof-of-life code,” the voice said. “Recite yours.”
Krueger leaned back, grin creeping in. “Warhorse-Echo-Seven-Two.”
Pause.
“Confirmed. You’re active. Eyes on.”
Krueger licked his lips. “So you got my message.”
“We got your handler’s clearance key when he logged into the wrong network node,” the voice said. “Sloppy.”
Krueger smirked. “You’re welcome.”
“You’ll stay in position. For now.”
“For now?” he scoffed. “You want what’s in my head, you need to loosen the leash.”
“That’s above me.”
“No,” Krueger said coldly. “It’s not. You answer to the same people I do.”
The voice replied dryly, “We’ll contact you when Phase Two is live. Keep playing the obedient asset.”
The slot snapped shut, and the hum of the room returned. Krueger turned back to the notepad and tapped his pen once. He crossed out an entire page and began a new one. At the top, in tight, sharp lettering, he wrote, PHASE TWO—STRIKE / DISRUPT / VANISH.
Smaller, below it, he wrote, THE WOLF KEEPS RUNNING.
Smiling, he crumpled the paper, walked to the toilet and flushed it down.
RECOVERY CENTER – DAY 74 POST-CRASH – 0817 HOURS
The war room didn’t look like one. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in sharp Louisiana morning sun. The table was real oak. The chairs were ergonomic. But the glass screen across the back wall flickered with Krueger’s movement logs, and no one in the room mistook this for peace.
Ian Chase stood at the edge of the table, one hand gripping a mug of untouched coffee. Across from him, Mike Johnson scrolled through the digital overlay of surveillance routes and extracted communications.
“Tell me we’re not really letting them send him,” Mike said tightly, eyes on the cluster of red pins.
