Martin Bailey didn’t bother with politeness. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly, expression sharp.
Mike Johnson sat forward, calm hiding something far uglier beneath. “You lost him. He killed three more men, and you lost him.” He slammed his hand down. “And you didn’t bother to tell us. If we hadn’t called?—"
The deputy director stiffened. “Krueger was a DoD-managed asset. We were assisting?—”
“You’re covering for them,” Martin’s voice like cut glass. “And now Krueger’s running weapons routes in the Sahel thatintersect with Air Force corridors. That’s not ‘assisting.’ That’s incompetence.”
One of the division chiefs bristled. “Krueger knows our playbook. He’s unpredictable. These things happen.”
Mike’s jaw flexed. “My daughter is flying in that battlespace. My people are operating there. And your ‘unpredictable asset’ just linked up with a network moving nuclear material.”
The deputy director spread his hands. “We’re aware of the severity?—”
“No,” Martin leaned in, “you’re aware you’ve lost control. We’re the ones who still have to clean up the mess.”
“You don’t have authority to run unilateral operations against Krueger,” the deputy director snapped.
“Authority?” Mike stood, slow and steady, the room shifting around his presence. “If Krueger crosses Chase Security again, he won’t need supervision. He’ll need a coffin.”
Silence punched the room flat.
Martin rose beside him, gathering the thin folder of intel under his arm. “Gentlemen,” he turned toward the door, “when this blows open—and it will—write whatever report you want. We’ll be the ones containing him.”
They didn’t wait for permission to leave. The door shut behind them with a final, echoing click.
CHASE OPERATIONS CENTER DC – WAR ROOM
The wall-length display glowed with the live feed from Falcon Three-One. Three trucks crawled across the Sahel, tiny darkshapes against miles of gold. Ian stood at the center of the room, hands braced on the metal table, jaw set like granite.
Martin’s voice cut through the war room. “Those trucks match both the radiation profile and the convoy pattern from Ford’s intel. The spikes indicate there are at least two devices.”
Mike’s eyes locked on the screen. “And Krueger’s running the route.” His voice was flat with controlled fury. “These are the corridors he stole.”
An analyst at the rear called out, “Bravo Team reports they’re four klicks out from the northeast ridge. Crescent One is in flight. Ford and Dante are two klicks out.”
Zach Wentworth’s encrypted feed crackled through the speaker, tense and clipped. “Four klicks is too far. If those trucks reach the dunes, Falcon Three-One loses line-of-sight and possibly the nukes. It’s up to Dante and Ford.”
Ian didn’t look away from the screen. “They know the risk, but they’ll move when the window is real.”
Martin nodded. “And that window opens when they lay eyes on those trucks and hopefully Krueger.”
The room fell silent.
On the screen above them, Shannon banked the Black Hawk, chasing the convoy as it veered toward a stretch of desert that intelligence analysts knew too well. A smuggling route. One mapped years ago by Ford Cox.
IN FLIGHT
The convoy pushed southeast, three trucks throwing dust intothe shimmering heat. Shannon held Falcon Three-One in a tight orbit, eyes fixed on their thermal signatures as they slid in and out of broken terrain.
Her console chimed again. Radiation spike, then another—stronger.
“Falcon Three-One, Eagle Actual,” comms snapped. “Hold visual. Ground units are moving.”
“Copy.” Shannon banked lower.
Beside her, Touré tapped the IR overlay. “We’ve got movement behind the trucks.”
Shannon flicked a glance at the screen. Heat signatures. Multiple. Closing fast. Not locals. Not wildlife. And definitely not friendly-looking.
