Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

August 27, 0100.

Night—or early morning, take your pick—had closed down on Kabul Airport when he staggered out of the hospital. Instead of stars, the sky was murky with an orange glow from the many lights of the tarmac, the city, and the spots mounted on the airport walls. The night wasn’t silent; there was always the constant background chug of generators, thump of helos, and grumble of C17s. But there was something off, and it took John a few moments to figure out what: no crowd noise. There were, he knew, Afghans massed behind the civilian terminal awaiting their final security checks, the tens of thousands of would-be refugees who had returned after the carnage at Abbey Gate to wait along or in the canal.

The night wasn’t quiet: vehicles sputtered, men called to one another from the civilian side, helos continued to thump and hum. But the sounds seemed muted. Even the noise from the refugees had settled to a barely audible hum broken by the occasional far-off wail or shriek. Someone finding the body of a loved one—or, maybe, the pieces.

He found Roni cross-legged on the ground and leaning against an outside wall, letting the hospital hold her up. “Happy August 27 th . To celebrate, I brought you Menu 10,” he said, dropping to a sit beside her. “No Charms. I checked.”

She only grunted. Her breath steamed in the chill, the cold being about the only blessing of being in a desert, even if that desert was over a mile and a quarter above sea level. “Don’t you remember? They stopped including Charms on account of them being bad luck.”

Given today, maybe someone had slipped a couple packets into the airport anyway . But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t believe in luck or bad mojo. Candy was just candy. Ripping open his own MRE, he fished out a small bag, squinted at the label then raised an eyebrow. “Do berry Skittles count?”

“As the moral equivalent?” Closing her eyes, Roni let her head rest against the hard shell of the hospital. Rocket-proof, some claimed, though no one had tested that. “Probably.”

“Mmm.” He chewed a candy, relaxed a little as the flood of something sweet and tart spread over his tongue. Blueberry, he thought, or a decent approximation. He elbowed her. “Eat something. You need the calories.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She didn’t open her eyes. “How many?”

“Emergency surgeries in the OR?” Popping another Skittle, he did a mental tally. “Seven. The last three were kids.” She didn’t ask how many had made it, which was a good thing because he didn’t want to cry in front of her. Although his eyes burned and, when he cleared his throat, he tasted strawberry and salt. “Two of the kids are on the way to Germany.” Which was a good sign, though he didn’t want to say so and maybe jinx it.

Come to think of it, maybe he did believe in luck and bad mojo.

They were silent for a time. Eventually, she opened her MRE, found a packet of tortilla chips, and began to munch. That, he took as a sign of…well, as a sign of life, he guessed, and cleared his throat. “So, when are you going to tell me what the hell Driver’s up to and why in God’s name you were out there to begin with?”

Her face was a pale oval in the dim light, though he could see her eyes. They shimmered, and, as he watched, something sparkled and slipped down her right cheek.

“Roni.” Cupping her cheek with a hand, he thumbed away the tear. “Sweetheart, tell me what’s going on. Why have you been seeing Driver?”

She pulled in a shuddering breath. “Not for the reasons you think.”

“I’m not thinking anything now.” He was too tired for that, as emotionally wrung out as a tatty old washcloth. “I want to understand how you almost got yourself killed today...well, yesterday,” he amended. “Why you were off station? What is Driver up to? It’s got something to do with that woman, doesn’t it?”

“Shahida?” She nodded. “Yeah, it’s about her.”

“She’s an asset they’re supposed to get out of the country?”

“Yes,” she said, “and no.”

“Meaning?”

“Come on.” She pushed to a stand. “You need to hear this from the horse’s mouth.”

“You realize how weird that expression is.” But he followed—to his everlasting regret.