Page 4 of Ash Storm

Ash

"Reynolds,” Dark said, standing up. “We weren’t expecting you until next month.”

Ash looked up from the corner of the room, where he’d been playing a game of solo chess. His teammates seemed to have come to terms with this hobby of his, though they still insisted on playing with him every so often. He humored them, because it was always interesting to watch somebody else play and because he knew they were doing it for him, though in truth Ash didn’t mind playing on his own.

He knew when people looked at him—a career soldier who’d enlisted right after high school and made his name as an expert in close quarter combat—chess was the furthest thing from their mind

But those first days in prison, when he’d thought he might go mad, chess was the one thing that had kept him sane. He’d had nobody to play with, and no board either, so he’d perfected a method of playing solo chess in his mind.

These days he had a good chess set, probably his most valued possession, but he didn’t need one. That was maybe the most important lesson he’d learned in the last few years—how dangerous it was to need anything. How quickly and easily everything could be taken away.

He stared at the chess set in front of him for an instant longer. There were only a few pieces left on the board—the two kings, protected by two bishops and two pawns. It was a dull-looking position, heading towards a dead-equal bishop ending, and for a moment he was almost surprised to find himself there. But something in the back of his mind nagged at him.

There’s a move here you’re not seeing yet.

Sighing, Ash stood up and went to stand next to his team leader, nodding a greeting to Reynolds. Although the man was dressed in plain clothes, Ash recognized a senior officer when he saw one, and he’d bet his left nut that Reynolds was up there with the most senior he’d ever met.

Ash kept his poker face firmly in place, but inside wondered what the hell had happened to the man since his last visit.

Just a month earlier, Reynolds had flown in from Washington, D.C. to congratulate them on completing their first mission. He and Thorne had then spent a day locked in a room together before Reynolds had gone back to D.C. In his mid-fifties, but still strong and fit, he’d looked like a man who understood himself and the world he lived in.

The Reynolds standing in front of them now, however, was an altogether different man. He looked like he’d aged ten years, but there was also a lost, confused look in his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time they met.

Thorne walked in, his expression grim.

“Dark. Ash. I’ve asked Pascale to round up the rest of the team.”

Dark and Ash exchanged a quick look. They’d been waiting for new orders for six weeks. The time had been good for Ash, who’d needed to give his shoulder time to heal after taking a bullet during their last mission, but even he was itching to get going.

“What’s going on, Thorne?” Dark asked.

“We can speak in the conference room,” Thorne said, leaving the room without waiting to see if anyone was following.

“How’s your shoulder, Ash?” Reynolds asked on the way to the conference room.

Ash’s respect for the man rose another notch. Even though he clearly had something serious going on in his own life, he remembered Ash’s injury.

Ash rotated it easily. He’d been lucky. Bullets to the shoulder could be a bitch, but this one had healed well.

“Much better, thank you, Reynolds.” The man’s name felt strange on his tongue without the rank he was sure belonged in front of it.

Within minutes, Rogue, Griffin and Slate all filed into the room. Thorne waited until they were all there before saying a word. Even before he began speaking, Ash felt the change in the air, that combination of excitement and trepidation that preceded a mission.

It was one of the things he’d missed the most when he was in prison.

“Please sit, gentlemen,” Thorne said. Then, without further preamble, moved right down to business. He pressed something on his tablet and a picture appeared on the screen in front of them—a dark-haired man with a short salt-and-pepper beard, dressed in an elegant navy suit.

“We have a new target.”

The picture changed. It was the same man, but now wearing a finely tailored traditional Middle Eastern jubba, his hands clasped at his front and his eyes staring beyond the camera, as if in deep contemplation.

“Who is he?” Rogue asked.

Thorne looked at Reynolds before replying. “His name’s Ahmet Afsan. He’s a Turkish tycoon. Although he studied in Oxford and has British nationality as well, over the last years he’s been spending more and more time in Turkey. Through his multiple holdings, he invests in health, energy, real estate and metal production. He’s also one of the country’s great philanthropists, particularly when it comes to learning. Libraries, schools, universities … you name them, he’s built them or improved them. He likes to name them after his late mother.”

He paused for a moment, as if giving them a chance to ask questions.

Nobody said anything.