She powered down and clicked off her comms. She sat in the silence for a heartbeat.
The canopy hissed, and she climbed down.
Major Greer stood waiting. “That was military-grade. You’re clear.”
Shannon’s chest rose. Her lungs filled for what she thought was the first time since the accident.
Dante met her at the edge of the tarmac. She stepped into him, arms around his chest. “I flew,” she whispered.
“I saw.” His lips caressed her hair.
Her father came a moment later. He didn’t interrupt, just rested a hand on her shoulder.
She had her wings back.
CHASE SECURITY DC SCIF
The ops room was sealed, monitors glowing with grainy drone feeds and intercept logs from the Sahel. Layers of red overlayscrawled across northern Mali and the Talba corridor like a spreading infection.
Ian Chase stood at the head of the table, suit jacket off, tie loosened. Martin Bailey sat to his right, arms folded. Zach Wentworth leaned over a keyboard, flipping between sat images and financial intercepts. Ford Cox stood at the far end, weight on one leg, eyes locked on the main screen.
“Our sources confirm suitcase nukes—plural,” Ian said flatly. “Not chatter. Movement. The Pentagon wants us to shadow and report. They won’t authorize direct action.”
Zach’s mouth tightened. “They want plausible deniability if it all goes sideways.”
Martin nodded. “They’ll let us run right up to the line, then claim they never saw it coming.”
Ford’s arms stayed crossed, but his voice had an edge. “We need to do what we always do. We go where they won’t. Someone has to get in close enough to see the product.”
Ian looked at him. “It has to be you, Ford.”
Ford didn’t argue, just exhaled slowly. “You’re asking me to walk into a black-market buy for nuclear hardware, sit across from people who shoot first and launder the bodies later, and smile like I do this every Thursday.”
“You do,” Zach said dryly. “Just usually with smaller explosions.”
A corner of Ford’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed hard on the map. “She’s cleared now,” he said quietly. “My goddaughter is flying again. She’s finding her footing. If I vanish into an op like this, and it goes bad, what does that do to her?”
Ian didn’t soften. “If those devices move, there won’t be anywhere safe for her to land. Or for anyone. This isn’t about stepping away from her. It’s about cutting the head off something that will end up at our door eventually if we don’t.”
Ford’s jaw flexed.
Zach tapped a command, pulling up a series of documents—shell companies, offshore accounts, and trade logs. “We’ve been building your legend. Shell corps in Dubai, Cyprus, and South Africa. Clean enough to look legitimate, dirty enough to pass as arms-adjacent.”
Martin stood, walking to the table. “If Ford’s going in, the fable has to be airtight. They’ll vet him hard before they show him anything with a core other than an apple.”
Zach slid a thin dossier across the table.
Ford flipped it open. “Aleksander ‘Lex’ Harper,” he read. “American ex-defense contractor, walked from a government R&D post fifteen years ago, now a private acquisition specialist. Middle East contracts. No flag, no ideology, just profit.”
“That’s your motivation,” Ian said. “Money first, survival second. No politics, no cause, just numbers. It keeps your story simple and believable.”
Ford scanned the accounts, the forged deals, the backstopped IDs. The work was meticulous; it always was.
He closed the file halfway. “Harper walks in alone, they’re suspicious.”
“He doesn’t walk in alone,” Ian said. “He brings muscle. Someone who can read a room and doesn’t rattle easily.” His lips pressed into a tight white line.
Zach looked up. “You have someone in mind.”
