“Dehydrated, lightly concussed, minor injuries, but mobile. Comms were down due to environmental interference. We sheltered in a lava tube system below the eastern ridge and surfaced at dawn local. Civ vessel made visual contact—patched us through.” The lie came smoothly. It was already well-worn. Juice had drilled it into them as if he were teaching them their freaking prayers.
TOC didn’t question it, and they all breathed a sigh of relief. “Understood. Extraction inbound. ETA two-zero mikes. You are to remain on site for the recovery team and proceed directly to forward medical once onboard. Stand by for dust-off.”
“Roger that,” Viper replied, voice steady. “We’ll light the smoke.” He ended the transmission and turned to Juice. “Pop the flare.”
Juice pulled a cylinder from his vest, thumbed the cap off, and cracked the igniter. A plume of orange-red smoke burst skyward, rising fast into the brightening sky, thick and unmistakable. Against the black of the lava field, it looked like blood in water.
Viper did a slow 360, checking terrain, lines of sight, and any movement across the rocky expanse. The island was silent but not peaceful. It was the silence of aftermath—of things broken and buried.
“Final check,” he called. “Zero?”
“Perimeter’s clean,” Zero said. “No signs of thermal or movement outside our team.”
“Kaze?”
“Clear at three o’clock, Sir.”
“Reaper?”
“Formation ready. We’ll be visible before they’re in view. I’ll ID them by tail markings before we move.”
“Trace?”
Trace nodded, his eyes shaded under the brim of a borrowed cap. “Clear at six.”
“Juice?”
“Radio’s clean. Encrypted. Flare’s visible on the sat feed now. They’ll come in hot but quiet.”
Viper gave one sharp nod and turned his gaze skyward as the wind tugged at the edges of his shirt, carrying the scent of ash and seawater. The sound of rotors would be next—the unmistakable thunder of a Navy Seahawk on approach.
Beside him, Ward stepped close, just enough that their shoulders brushed. “We’re really doing this,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” Viper said, eyes scanning the horizon. “We’re walking back into the world.”
After this moment, they had to pretend they were two separate parties who’d helped each other out in the aftermath of a natural disaster. It was going to kill him not to be able to touch Ward until they were clear of the base and back at the den.
When did I become so touchy-feely?
The Seahawk thundered overhead moments later, cresting what remained of the treeline with twin rotors chopping the humid air to shreds. It circled once, confirming their position, thendropped low and hovered. Dust and soot whipped around them in a violent halo as the crew chief motioned them forward.
Viper led the way, shoulders square and spine straight. He climbed the ramp with Juice at his back and scanned the interior of the bird before taking a seat along the port wall. Ward and Trace followed, then Kaze and Reaper, with Zero bringing up the rear. The door slammed shut behind them with the solid thunk of finality.
The flight crew didn’t ask questions. The inside of the bird was loud and tight. His team strapped in without a word, hands moving on autopilot, muscle memory overlaid with exhaustion. Trace, sitting next to Ward, made sure he was secured safely in his seat.
The crew chief tossed them each a bottle of water. His hard eyes scanned them with silent calculation, counting limbs, checking for blood, and trying to puzzle out how seven men had walked out of a volcanic blast radius when it looked like a scene from an end-of-the-world movie.
Viper cracked the bottle open and took a long pull. He caught Ward’s eye across the aisle and gave him the barest nod. Ward returned it with a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Hang on, baby. You’ll be home soon.
He pushed reassurance down their mate link, and when Ward’s shoulders relaxed, so did his. They put their cards on the table. Now they were just waiting for the powers that be to show their hand and decide their fate.
Outside the windows, the scorched island shrank beneath them, its smoking fissures and blackened trees faded into the distance. The Seahawk banked east, hugging the coastline before cuttinglow over the ocean. Below, the waves were silver-blue and deceptively calm. The helicopter stayed under radar ceiling, flying nap-of-the-earth with precision.
Kaze muttered something under his breath and adjusted the sling on his borrowed rifle. Juice had his eyes closed, but Viper knew him well enough to know he most likely wasn’t asleep. If his 2IC ran true to nature, Juice’s brain was busy calculating and recalculating their odds of getting away with their plan. Trace sat like stone, unmoving, while Reaper alternated between watching the sea and the crew. Only Zero kept scanning faces, hyperalert, like he expected the Navy to change its mind mid-flight and dump them into the drink.
Viper leaned back and let the vibration of the deck rattle through him. They were headed toward a secure base—most likely a black site with no insignia, just coordinates handed down through buried channels. He already knew it wouldn’t be a warm welcome. There’d be doctors in hazmat suits, clipboard-carrying intelligence officers, and a small army of men trained to make ghosts talk.
