He hesitated. “You’ve fought like hell this year. Dad sent me a video of your test flight. You looked… strong, Shan. You looked like the videos of Mom.”
Her eyes burned. “Thanks, Sammy.”
“Don’t get mushy; I’m in a company area,” he muttered, but his voice was warmer. “I’m proud of you. And you better call me from Africa. Or I’ll show up in uniform and embarrass you.”
“That tracks,” she said.
They talked a few minutes longer about nothing heavy, everything real, and when she hung up, her shoulders felt a little lighter.
SHANNON’S SUITE
She returned to her suite after thanking and saying goodbye to her physical therapists, Kim and Luis, and Mack the PA. Her duffel sat open on the bed like a promise she couldn’t outrun. It was her duffel. The one that still smelled faintly like jet fuel and eucalyptus detergent from Novosel. Her dad shipped it the minute he knew she was cleared. Of course he did.
She moved through her room with the same precision she used in the cockpit. All her emotion was held tight behind her ribs. She folded her two flight suits. Smoothed the creases into her boots. Checked her Nomex gloves for wear. Set her mother’s scarf beside them, warm with memory.
Next came the flight bag. Headset, spare batteries, tablet charger. The solar charger Hunt dropped off with a smoothie and a look that said, I’m trying to do what Dante would because he’s not here to do it.
She pulled her knee board from the desk drawer and slid it into place. One flight logbook. Then another—her father’s first,her mother’s second—the leather worn, the call signs faded. She ran her thumb over her mother’s handwriting.
Flashlights, red and blue, with extra batteries, a med kit—because Mack Browning damn near shoved it into her hands. The survival knife Ford gave her at graduation—becauseChase takes care of their own.Then she reached for the care package.
She’d found it waiting on her bed the morning after Dante shipped out. A box with his handwriting on the label. Inside, Randy sunglasses, snacks, and other odds and ends.
Tucked beneath all of it, the note he left.
Shan,
If you’re reading this, I’m already wheels-up. Listen to me: You’ve earned every second of this return to the sky. You don’t owe anyone perfection. Just fly the way you were born to.
I won’t pretend I’m not wishing I could be there when you lift off. But I need you to know something before you go:
You don’t walk into that desert alone. Not ever. Not as long as I’m breathing.
When it gets loud out there, when the sand kicks up and the world narrows to the sound of your rotors, touch your left wrist. That’s where I’ll be.
Come home safe, Falcon. I’ll be right behind you. I love you.
Dante
She folded the note carefully and slid it inside the side pocket of her duffel, close to her body, close to her pulse. Then she picked up the rosary Luis had pressed into her palm when she hugged him goodbye. “Para protección,” he’d whispered. She packed that too.
The final piece was Dante’s dog tag. Heavy, solid, and warm from her hand. She traced the edges with her thumb, the metal imprinting against her skin like a vow. She tucked it into the sleeve pocket of her flight suit. It was the place closest to her heart when she flew.
Her hip flared with a stubborn ache. Her chest pulled tight, remembering the crash, the smoke, the scream in the rotors. But she breathed through it. Because, ten days from now, she wouldn’t just be healed. She’d be operational. And somewhere out there, in the same red desert, with danger closing in on all sides, Dante was already in the dark.
THIRTY-NINE
NORTHERN NIGER – ABANDONED AGRICULTURAL CO-OP
The “market” wasn’t a market at all. It was a half-collapsed agricultural co-op from the 1970s—rusted irrigation pipes jutting from the sand like broken ribs, the shattered roof panels rattling in the hot crosswind. A dry well sat in the center, now used as a drop point for flash drives, cash bundles, and the occasional severed hand.
Everything about it screamedno witnesses and no second chances.
Ford—Lex Harper—walked across the dust-blown courtyard with the slow, languid confidence of a man who’d spent his life buying the sins of others. His linen jacket fluttered just enough in the breeze to show he wasn’t carrying overt weapons.
Dante—Rafe Moretti—walked one step behind him, just close enough to kill anyone who needed killing. His hand hovered near the inner hem of his jacket, not as a threat, as a promise. His eyes scanned rooftops, angles, corners.
Two men appeared from behind a cracked water tank. Local muscle. Kalashnikovs. Cheap sunglasses and enough swagger to hide how nervous they were.
