Reading Time: 106 Minutes

Title: Loose Ends
Author: ImaliFegen89
Fandom: Strike Back (TV series)
Genre: Angst, Action Adventure, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, Suspense, Thriller
Relationship(s): Gen
Content Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Hate Crimes, Hate Speech, Torture, Violence-Graphic. Canon-typical Religious Radicalism/Terrorism, Canon-typical violence, Explicit swearing, Minor character deaths, Canonical suicide attempt of a minor character, Kidnapping/blackmail situations, Hostage situations, War crimes (hostage deaths, on-screen/public execution attempts, prisoner interrogations) Discussions-bio weapons
Author Note: This story revolves around the last episode of Strike Back season 1 and the first episode of season 2, Project Dawn. What happened to John Porter bugged me like a thorn stuck in my craw, so I had to fix it. This is my take on how things would have gone if he had someone to play the part of his knight in shining armor. The goal of this story is to avert his canonical death, and introduce a different first meeting to the other two main characters, Damien Scott and Michael Stonebridge. The story will develop into a series, with the two of them taking over the reins while Porter retires.The goal of this story is to avert his canonical death, and introduce a different first meeting to the other two main characters, Damien Scott and Michael Stonebridge. The story will develop into a series, with the two of them taking over the reins while Porter retires.
Alpha: Aethir
Word Count: 52563
Summary: Having finally put his demons to rest, John Porter didn’t expect to survive the aftermath of his last mission. It certainly wasn’t a cause for celebration when he did, since his short-lived reprieve frizzled out with his capture by the CIA.
Artist: WestWind

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Part One – September 2010

Chapter 1

Zahir Sharq’s Compound
Chaman
Pakistan

13:15 Hours/Local (09:15 Hours/London)

On the bright side, he was sitting inside.

The room, if the ramshackle hut with fractured brick walls, corrugated sheet roof and a dried-mud floor covered with an old, worn carpet could be generously baptised as such, was relatively cooler. And, it was an immense improvement from being tied to a cross outside, baking in the unforgiving desert sun.

John Porter, currently, was not a man with many options for surviving, let alone luxuriating.

On the not-so-bright side, his hands were still restrained, tied behind his back with zip ties this time. Three terrorists were actively pointing AK-47s at his head, and Zahir Sharq, the conniving bastard, was in the mood to play games.

Gerald Baxter was a hyperventilating, fidgeting mess, seated on an identical rickety chair in front of him. The crazy arsehole had voluntarily planted himself there without even waiting to be told.

That was the thing with handling mentally unstable geniuses. You never knew what went on inside their fucked up minds. Those skewed, faulty circuits in their brains didn’t follow logic to make rational decisions. At least, not the kind of logic a relatively sane individual could discern.

That didn’t necessarily mean that John was a stable, rational and logical individual. But, amidst the company of men he was currently sharing the hot and dry desert air with, he gave himself fairly decent odds.

Sharq leaned against the edge of the wooden table; his tie straight, his tailored shirt and trousers free of wrinkles and sweat-stains, and his dress shoes somehow shining without a speck of dust. In his right hand, there was an antique revolver. Five cartridges were still inside the same box the gun came in. In his left hand, held delicately between his thumb and forefinger, was the remaining cartridge.

Sharq seemed to have a thing for theatrics.

John had to admit, the man even had the talent to pull it off without making himself look like a complete moron.

“ISAF Command and Control in the Helmand Province,” he spoke softly with a cultured accent, “Do you know where it is?”

“I forget,” John shrugged, and jerked his head at the phone which was next to Sharq’s arse, “You mind if I call a friend?”

“Don’t, Tommy.” Baxter squeaked.

Tommy Wallace. Arms trader extraordinaire with access to the LTD code encryption software of the next generation Brimstone laser-guided missiles; the bait a tad too tasty for a hacker or a warlord to resist.

Well. The cover had gotten him this far. Now, he just had to figure out a way to get Baxter out in one piece.

The chair was steel, so was its backrest. John hoped the sharp edge where he was rubbing the plastic restraints against wasn’t rusted. He had a feeling he would be donating a few slices of skin around his wrists along with blood for the cause.

He needed to keep their attention on what he was saying, so that they wouldn’t notice what he was doing. His plan so far was to get himself free of those damned zip ties. Overpowering the armed guards, killing Sharq, grabbing Baxter and dodging about a hundred more armed insurgents in a mad bid to get the hell out were issues for the future, hopefully-mobile John Porter to solve.

Sharq stood, spinning the cylinder with the single round dramatically before letting it snap back inside the barrel. He walked over to where Baxter was seated, his gaze locked onto John the entire time, and casually handed the revolver over to the hacker.

“Where is it?”

Baxter took the gun, slipping his index finger inside the trigger guard, and to John’s utter surprise, placed the muzzle firmly at his own temple.

That changed the odds. John had been prepared to play Russian Roulette with his own life. Baxter would probably just keep pulling the trigger until the damned thing fired.

The hacker scrunched up his face, jammed the gun against his skull until it looked like he was trying to impale himself with it, and bared his teeth in a snarl. “Tell him or I’ll pull the trigger.”

Fucking Christ.

“No chance,” John shook his head, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of sanity in the madman’s eyes, “You can’t be serious, Gerry. Come on.”

In answer, Baxter pulled the trigger.

John felt his own heart stop for a split second as it clicked.

Seven. Fucking. Years. Baxter had seven fucking years worth of demons. Didn’t that just strike a fucking chord!

He had to wade through that many years of psychological trauma to find the man underneath the madness, and John hardly had enough time to try. He decided to give it a go anyway.

“Computer genius. Software Einstein–”

“Josuf has a belief system, as do I, as do my men,” Sharq cut him off neatly, instantly realising what John was trying to do. “Which is why we will win this war. Whereas your people, you only care about your children, Soaps, and soccer…”

His words were soft, his eyes bright and his tone layered with a strength of belief that didn’t ooze overzealous fervour. It was fucking effective. John had to give him that. With each and every measured word out of Sharq, John was losing Baxter to the persona he had embraced to deal with his guilt-driven madness: Josuf.

“And so it goes on… the killing, the friendly fire,” Sharq went on while the gun in Baxter’s grip never wavered, “Until one day, we will win the hearts and minds of your people. They will rouse themselves and they will cry, ‘Bring our troops back home.’ Peace…with honour.”

Yeah, well. Not if I put a bullet in your stupid fucking face first.

Because, unlike Baxter, John still had enough sense left to see through the bullshit. Sharq was a businessman, and war was his trade. He made deals, dictated the terms and piled up bodies to make profits.

The pretty words were just another weapon in his arsenal and nothing more.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” John said, sneering, “But go fuck yourself.”

The fact that he was expecting it, didn’t make the rifle butt to his jaw hurt any less. Pain exploded in his face, and a grunt escaped him as his head snapped back with the force of the hit. He had to blink rapidly to chase away the black spots dancing in his vision.

Baxter, unfortunately, believed those lies. Screaming, he pulled the trigger, only to have the gun click again.

John gritted his teeth, and heaved in a relieved breath. The crazy fucker’s luck held. Barely. But it held.

Sharq smiled. “ISAF Command and Control… please.”

“Like I said–”

Before John could go on, however, he saw the look in Baxter’s eyes change. His entire body clenched in on itself and his finger tightened infinitesimally around the trigger.

“Wait!” he yelled before the hacker could kill himself. Thinking quickly, he decided to up the stakes of the game. He needed more time to get through Baxter’s thick skull. “Wait. Double the odds, another round. Go on, a second bullet.”

“What?!” Baxter squeaked, wide-eyed, terrified.

A tiny crack through the armoured madness.

Fucking finally.

“Come on, Gerry, let’s really see how much you mean to your Messiah,” John taunted, firmly ignoring the way Baxter twitched at the name. He hated it. Good. That was why John kept using it. “How many students have you taught, eh? Why is he risking your life? Think about it.”

Sharq took the gun from Baxter’s shaky hand, and added another cartridge to the chamber. The slight smirk he wore while doing it said he was calling John’s bluff.

“I–” Baxter stuttered, his panicked gaze darting between John and Sharq, “what?”

“You’re obsolete, you prick.” John spat.

Sharq handed the revolver back to Baxter, and when he tried to put it against his head again, Sharq caught his wrist, “No, no, no, Josuf. Not you,” he said, watching John over Baxter’s shoulder, “Him. You are not obsolete.”

“If you pull that trigger, Gerry, I’m not like those sleeping people in your daughter’s picture,” John said, keeping his gaze squarely on Baxter, not the barrel now facing his direction. That drawing from his toddler, even years later, still held meaning to the hacker, and it was the only life line John could think of that would lead him to a preserved, sane part of the man. “I’d be dead, do you understand? It’s not just a few keystrokes on a computer now.”

Baxter was getting shakier by the second, the look in his eyes wild and unsure. It was much better than blind faith at any rate, although the storm brewing in his mind seemed to be transferring into the gun in his grip, making it waver dangerously between John’s forehead and chest. John probably had seconds to tip the balance in his favour.

“Sharq’s using you,” he continued, pouring as much sincerity to his words as he could, “Time to come home. Gerry… Gerald Baxter.”

It was the name that did it. John saw the exact moment the past warring with the false present won out in Baxter’s mind. His gaze cleared just before he squeezed his eyes shut.

“You bastard!” Baxter yelled the same moment John felt the zip ties around his wrists finally break open.

He was already throwing himself over to the nearest gunman when he heard the revolver click empty again. His own hands full with a rifle he was doing his damndest to rip out of the terrorist’s grip, John didn’t even know where Baxter had pointed it.

Soon, the room erupted in chaos. A burst of gunfire singed the air above his head along with a few strands of his hair when John finally managed to grab the weapon, and drop its previous owner with a rifle-butt strike to his throat.

Crouching low, he turned around, only to see Baxter standing straight up like an idiot, trying to shoot Sharq who had dived behind his upended table.

“Move!” John screamed, and tackled Baxter from the side, taking them both down when another insurgent released a wild, uncontrolled barrage. Laying flat on his back on the floor against a squirming Baxter, John managed to take out the two remaining guards.

There were sounds of panicked yelling, thudding footsteps and more gunfire as the rest of the compound was alerted to trouble. Sharq was also screaming, either in Urdu or Arabic, possibly calling for someone to get rid of John and Baxter for good.

John had no intention of letting that happen. Grabbing Baxter by the collar, he hauled themselves off the floor, staying low to the ground to cover the only entrance to the room.

“Josuf–’ Sharq snapped from behind his paltry cover, and the long barrel of an AK-47 poked out to aim at the hacker’s torso.

John threw himself on Baxter and rolled them over when the volley erupted, kicking up dust and torn pieces of carpet in the air. John returned fire in a low, flat arc from left to right, dropping the two insurgents that came running in and adding a neat line of holes to the table-top that was facing him.

John got back to his feet quickly, dragging a dazed Baxter up with him. Apart from a few scratches and a healthy dose of terror from all the bullets that had been flying around way too close, Baxter seemed otherwise unaffected.

“Stay close to me,” John snapped, “We’re getting out.”

He had already advanced halfway down the similarly built, rundown corridor and dropped three more insurgents when he realised that the hacker hadn’t followed. Cursing, he took two steps back, and ducked for cover behind a half-eviscerated stone pillar to take care of another terrorist.

“Gerry,” he called out, not bothering to look. “Get your arse outta there.”

“Sharq… he’s dead,” Baxter declared in a shaky voice, “You killed him! Why would you do that?”

Fucking Christ.

“Because he was trying to kill us, you moron!” John shouted, shooting at two more terrorists. Right now, the narrow corridor was a choke point that gave him a chance to thin the herds. But, it wasn’t a position he could maintain for too long. He had to get the hell out before Sharq’s men organised themselves and surrounded him and Baxter.

Crawling a few steps further, John grabbed another rifle and two magazines off the nearest dead body.

“No, no, no… you don’t understand–”

“I understand that we need to get the fuck out, right now,” John cut Baxter off before his hysteria could boil over. “Whatever you have to say about that arsehole, it can wait until we’ve gotten the hell out. Now move.”

It could have been the urgency in his tone, or the sounds of gunfire and the risk they were in finally getting through to him, because Baxter listened. Moments later, they managed to make it out through hails of bullets to an open jeep parked nearby. The hacker even kept the hordes from gaining on them by throwing grenades around with creepily accurate aim that took down closer to twenty insurgents, while John made quick work on hotwiring the engine to get it running.

The last two grenades thrown behind them as they drove out of the compound took care of the sentry post, collapsing the overhead bridge and temporarily blocking the exit. John knew it could only be a matter of minutes until they piled into their trucks and gave chase via alternative routes. He intended to use the precious little advantage they gained to put as much distance as possible between them.

St. Joseph’s General Hospital
Cavendish Square
London

Meanwhile

Layla Thompson stared at the name on the plaque: Corporal Steve Andrews.

The door was closed, and the privacy curtains were drawn, blocking her view of the soldier. The muted sounds of urgency emanating from the room told Layla that whatever was going on in there wasn’t good.

She wondered if the timing of this frantic activity after absolutely nothing for over seven years held any significance.

She didn’t know what brought her here when she should have been in the command centre, monitoring communications and satellite telemetry, keeping an eye out in case their wayward asset decided to make contact.

She had visited Andrews a few times, not as frequently as Porter, but maybe once every two or three months. With Keith Finn and Mike Reilly KIA, Andrews was the final link, the silent witness Porter had pinned all his fragile hopes on for a chance to clear his name.

No. That wasn’t right. Not entirely.

Porter didn’t visit him every day that he could manage with plans to interrogate and force the Corporal to testify on his behalf the moment he woke up. Layla didn’t think so. Guilt and grief were also driving factors. She had a feeling that he did it because Andrews was his friend, and Porter wanted to see him wake up and be alright.

It had taken her a long while to give a damn, to look past the official story and pay attention to all the little details. Such as Porter’s relentless drive to get the job done, at times with almost no regard to his own life and safety, the way he hardly seemed to trust anyone in command to have his back and provide support, and the tension between him and the Major that was palpable at times.

Considering his physical and psychological evaluations, Layla had never thought that Porter would turn out to be a damned good operative the way he did. Over and over. It had taken her way too long to get to know the man underneath, and listen to his side of the story.

And what a story had that been.

Layla had gone through the entire investigation report until the words were seared into her brain. But no amount of reading and analysing it to hell and back answered her questions, or explained the disparities that seemed to grow from being insignificant to prominent each time she re-read the statements.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t silence the doubts growing in her mind. That was why she finally made the decision to tackle the problem head on.

She found him in his temporary quarters, packing his kit to deploy to Afghanistan. His mission: locate and extract Gerald Baxter.

“Come in, Danni–” Porter’s grin wilted when he realised she wasn’t his lover. His spine went straight, and his expression shuttered.“Well, this is a surprise. Is it going to be a pleasant one or–

“Bratton extraction,” Layla said, deciding not to beat around the bush, “2003.”

“I guess that’s a no, then.” Porter sighed, and took a step back in a wordless invitation for Layla to enter.

“I’ve seen the reports, I’ve studied the case,” she said, choosing to sit on the chair by the small dining table. Porter went back to shoving articles of clothing inside the duffel he had on his bed. “I have questions. Two men are dead, and one is brain damaged. They can’t answer my questions, but you can.”

“Layla,”Porter sighed, his back to her, “leave it be.”

“SAS team of four, you were the mission lead,” Layla continued insistently. She hadn’t come all this way just to give up. “Collinson, a Captain then, joined in to operate signals, provide translations and intel. The extraction was successful. You were wounded. Collinson brought Andrews back.”

Porter zipped the duffel close and dropped it on the floor before sitting down on the edge of the bed, finally facing her. Instead of anger she had expected to find there, all she saw in his features were traces of despair and resignation. “What are you getting at?

“According to your statements, the location was compromised,” she recited by memory, “you were surrounded by Colonel Al Naziri’s forces. There were only four of you against upwards of thirty elites.”

“We’ve been there for less than five minutes when they showed up.” He admitted quietly, “They knew we were coming.”

“You sent him down. Didn’t you?” she got straight to the point, watching the way his eyes widened in surprise, “Collinson. You couldn’t go. You had Bratton with you and your dominant arm took the hit.”

“Jesus.”

Layla ignored his wince, and the soft, heartfelt curse that followed. “What the hell happened in that stairwell, John?”

“I don’t know!” Porter rubbed a hand across his forehead as if trying to stave off a headache.

“Was it As’ad, John?” Layla lowered her voice, pinning him with an uncompromising gaze, “Or was it Collinson?”

“I can’t prove it,” with his head buried in his hands, Porter’s muffled words sounded broken. Instead of satisfaction at having her suspicions proven, all Layla felt was sickening guilt, and dread. “All I had was that kid’s word, and Dartmouth’s translation. Collinson denied As’ad’s extraction. He’s probably dead by now.”

As’ad…Scar-face. The child with the suicide vest Porter made the decision to save instead of killing. The decision he paid for with his career, dignity and family for seven damn long years.

Ironically, As’ad, the child who was responsible for his downfall, was the same reason that allowed Porter back into the fold.

If he had been able to testify, his credibility strengthened by Kate Darmouth, the journalist Porter successfully extracted, Collinson wouldn’t have stood a chance.

As things stood, Porter’s only chance at salvation depended on Steve Andrews, his only remaining team member, who hadn’t woken up from his coma for the past seven years.

Layla didn’t even want to contemplate how Porter carried that massive burden for all those years by himself. How he had the courage and self-control to look the man who ruined his life in the eye and follow his orders. How he risked his life again and again for the slim hope that he might one day be able to prove his innocence once and for all.

All she knew was that it must have been a hellish existence.

“Tell me,” she said, willing him to take a chance on her… to trust her. It was about time he had someone in his corner. “Tell me everything…”

“Who are you?”

The question was quiet, clipped, and Layla turned around with a stifled gasp. The soldier standing at about six-metre’s distance was tall, and relatively young, probably in his late twenties, or early thirties. He was still in his BDUs, minus the combat gear, and a kit bag was on the floor next to his feet. He had traces of exhaustion marring his features, and a heavy tan darkening his skin. It was the same look Layla had seen on countless soldiers returning home from overseas deployment.

Layla’s practised gaze failed to find any insignia or patches denoting his service branch or his rank. Something in his posture, the way he held himself made her think that he was probably attached to the Special Forces.

He tilted his head to the side, and scanned Layla from head to toe with a gaze full of distrust.

“Excuse me?” Layla said, returning his searching gaze with a confused one.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

They were in a narrow corridor and there were only three other occupied rooms in the wing. The way Layla was standing right infront of Andrews’ closed door made it plenty clear why she was there.

The way he phrased the question, and the sharp tone underlying his words conveyed that he wasn’t at all happy about her presence. That made Layla curious. What gave this soldier the right to appear so proprietary over the comatose SAS Corporal?

“I’m visiting Corporal Andrews,” Layla said pleasantly, hiding her intrigue under a thin smile. “I work with a friend of his.”

“Lieutenant Thompson, I presume?” the soldier raised an inquiring eyebrow, the tight set to his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “MI6.”

Layla let her smile widen, unwilling to let him see her apprehension. How would this stranger know that? Was her newfound knowledge of her superior the reason for her sudden bout of paranoia? “Now I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Stonebridge,” he said, conveniently forgoing sharing his own rank, or the first name, “Steve’s my brother.”

Layla let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. That explained it. She remembered the details from Andrews’ service jacket. Michael Stonebridge was listed as a family member, his half brother to be exact. It also said that Stonebridge was a Royal Marine Commando. But that information was seven years out of date.

In her periphery, the door to Andrews’ room opened and closed. A crestfallen Dr Patel’s tired gaze darted between the two of them before settling on the soldier.

“Doc–”

“Michael, I’m so sorry,” she said softly, her voice full of sympathy, “we did our best, but he didn’t make it.”

Shit. Layla closed her eyes, and let out a weary sigh. Andrews was dead, and so was Porter’s last hope.

“What happened?” Stonebridge’s question was just as quiet.

“Cardiac arrhythmia.”

“How?”

“It is possible that the bullet lodged in his brain moved, blocking an artery,” Dr Patel speculated, “we wouldn’t know the exact reason unless we carry out a post-mortem examination.”

Michael accepted that with a nod, and jerked his head at the room, “May I see him?”

“Of course.” She said, opening the door to let him enter. Through the opening, Layla saw two more nurses disconnecting the monitors and removing the IV lines off of Andrews’ unresponsive body.

“Lieutenant Thompson.”

“This is the first time I’ve met him.” Layla said.

“He’s Corporal Andrews’ emergency contact and medical power of attorney.” The doctor explained. “He’s family.”

“I had no idea.”

“He visits when he can. His timing today was both fortunate and unfortunate.”

More unfortunate for Layla. A medical power of attorney gave Stonebridge more say in the matters pertaining to Andrews. That complicated things.

“The post mortem,” Layla said, deciding to give it a shot nevertheless, “I’d like it carried out this afternoon.”

“Of course,” said the doctor, “as soon as you speak to Sergeant Stonebridge and get his permission, it’ll be done.”

Layla stayed outside while the doctor went back inside to join Stonebridge. It seemed she would have a fight in her hands. Stonebridge didn’t seem like the type she could coerce into cooperating. She hoped at least she could make him see reason.

Maiwand
Afghanistan

17:04 Hours/Local (13:34 Hours/London)

Baxter proved himself useful for once, and did a passable job of navigating them through a maze of winding roads, hidden shortcuts and barely-travelled footpaths to keep them out of sight of their pursuers. It took closer to two hours of non-stop diving on the rough terrain, the stolen ride valiantly championing on over hardly-paved gravel with minimal complaints, to finally cross the invisible border over to Afghanistan.

John drove for two more hours just to be sure, although Baxter was convinced that Sharq’s forces wouldn’t dare cross over to the Afghan tribal lands without permission. Not when Shaq had only recently kicked up a hornet’s nest by killing one of the Taliban Lieutenants.

Not when Sharq himself was now among the dead.

The jeep climbed a steep hill and crested over the edge, and John brought the vehicle to a gentle stop when he saw a three way intersection at about two-hundred metre’s distance.

Baxter squirmed in his seat, staring out the dusty windshield, “Why are we stopping here?”

John rubbed a hand roughly across his forehead. The adrenaline was rapidly fading, leaving him feeling shaky and exhausted. He needed a minute to clear his head and think.

Besides, what Baxter had said earlier was starting to nag at him.

“Because we need to talk.”

“Oh, yeah. We should talk,” Baxter nodded hurriedly, “Before we end up dead.”

“We are not–Gerry, we came this far, didn’t we?” John asked tiredly. They were hardly safe, but they had bought some time. The border-crossing made their hunters cautious. “All we need to do now is find a phone and call it in. Then I can take you in–”

“Whoa! Wait! What?” Baxter threw up his arms agitatedly, his previous madness returning with alacrity, “Take me in? Fuck you! You’re taking me nowhere!”

John was getting too fucking tired to deal with this. “Gerry–”

“We need to get the hell out,” Baxter snapped, looking around frantically as if they were already surrounded by insurgents only he could see, “We need to disappear. We can’t go back. Not after what happened.”

“Care to elaborate on that, Gerry?” John glowered, “Because from where I was standing, that arsehole had it coming.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Baxter shook his head, waving his hands in the air, “This area, the Afghan/Pakistan border, the Taliban and hundreds other little insurgent outfits rebelling for power… Sharq was the one warlord they all had in common. The guy they either feared, tolerated or did business with–”

John stared, the hacker’s point finally starting to sink in. He had only been focused on getting Baxter out. He hadn’t had time to parse out the long-term repercussions of his actions.

“Killing him created a power vacuum like no other,” Baxter went on, unaware that John had already realised where he was going, “How long do you think we have until the news spreads, huh? International rules and laws don’t govern these people, tribal laws and warlords do. What do you think happens when one of them goes up in flames? Powder keg, say hello to fucking spark.”

John cursed quietly.

“We need to go to ground.”

“Gerry, no,” he sighed, “I can’t– we can’t do that.”

Baxter’s mood changed yet again. All the anxiety faded as his frightened expression hardened. Out of nowhere, the bastard pulled the revolver Sharq had given him, and aimed it at John’s head. “Then you leave me no choice. These wheels are mine. Get out now.”

“You’ve got a bucket of a jeep, two bullets, and a chronic case of bipolar daftness,” John said evenly. He ignored the trembling gun barrel inches away from his face in favour of holding Baxter’s wide-eyed gaze with a hardened one of his own, “How far do you think you’re going to get? The Americans want you dead, the Taliban want you dead, Sharq’s dogs want you dead. I’m your least worst option.”

“But I–”

John didn’t give him the chance to finish. Baxter never even saw John’s fist connecting with the underside of his jaw in a lightning-quick punch. John had the gun in his hand by the time Baxter shook the pain out of his face, and blinked at him in confusion.

“Behave yourself,” John snapped, checking the gun. “This isn’t a fucking toy.”

It had one bullet. Baxter had somehow managed to shoot once. John was convinced it was dumb luck that had kept the idiot from shooting himself in the foot.

“Fuck you.” Baxter muttered sullenly, not protesting further when John decided to keep the weapon. “If I go back, all I have is a prison waiting for me.”

“Not necessarily,” John said, “The CIA knew you had PTSD when they sent you there. I can persuade my lot to do a deal.”

“Your lot?” Baxter huffed, “Which lot is that exactly?”

Baxter already knew John was a special Operative. No point in beating around the bush. “British Military Intelligence.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it. You just need something to offer them,” John insisted, trying to find the sane Baxter who’d gone missing again, “Come on, mate. Think. What have you got to bargain with? This is the end of the line.”

Baxter stayed quiet, his knee bouncing against the gearbox as he actually gave it some thought.

“Sharq made a deal with the Americans,” he dropped the bomb with a barely-audible whisper, “They agreed to exchange you and me for arms and intelligence.”

John wanted to throttle the fucker for sitting on that nuclear intel for this long. Had he known from the beginning? Or had he learned that only after delivering John to Sharq?

“You mean the CIA’s been working with Sharq all this time?” he repeated through gritted teeth, wanting to make sure.

“Yeah.” Baxter let out a despondent sigh, “Now you see why you and I could be on their shit list too?”

Fucking fantastic! The Americans still had forces operating in the region. How long did they have before the Company also wanted a piece of their arses?

“Do you have any proof? Of this deal?” John demanded, wondering if this was another delusion Baxter had cooked up.

His fragile hope dashed when the hacker pulled out a USB out of his jacket pocket. “I have a recording of their video call. I’m not an idiot.”

“Could have fooled me.” John muttered, snatching it out of his hand before leaning forward to start the jeep again “Now, if we could just find a bloody phone–”

“Here.”

John had to consciously hold himself back from punching the fucker in the face again. Taking the offered phone without a word, John dialled the number he had memorised, hoping the flickering two-bars of signal was enough to connect the call.

Section 20 – Headquarters
Whitehall
London – UK

13:43 Hours/Local

“Incoming call, secure line four,” One of her techs snapped from his station, prompting Layla to grab her headset. “Patching it through.”

“Porter?”

“Got it in one.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Next to her, Collinson barked into his own headset.

“I’ve got Baxter, I’m bringing him in.” Porter said,“Baxter is CIA.”

“Ex-CIA.” Baxter’s indignant squeak came through the line.

Layla saw Collinson go rigid at the confirmation of their suspicions. MI5 and MI6 had been categorically denying that they had anything to do with the hacker’s disappearance. Sergeant Danni Prendiville had already tracked Baxter’s family to the United States, given entry to the country via an express citizenship programme. Now, they had the word straight from the source.

Frank Arlington had been playing them all along.

The deaths of those Marines was their own damn fault.

“He’s coming in voluntarily. He wants to do a deal.”

“OK, put him on.”

“There are two things I need. Three things. No, four things,” Baxter went on hurriedly, sounding a lot like the mentally unstable, retired asset he was, “I need immunity from prosecution, unconditional protection for me and my family, financial security and a nice big house in Morningside with a garden and a granny flat for my wife’s ma–”

“That’s five things.” Porter’s voice came over the line after what sounded like a small scuffle. Layla figured Porter had snatched the phone out of Baxter’s grip before he could ramble even more. “Baxter was being run by a bloke called Zahir Sharq. The same guy who was playing the translator to the Afghan Governor I met when I got here. Turns out he’s a Pakistani warlord who seems to have his paws in too many fucking pies. He was doing a deal with the Americans. Baxter has proof of the CIA offering Sharq arms and intel in exchange for the two of us.”

Zahir Sharq. Layla stared at the results of the search she ran on their database. They had absolutely nothing on the man or his organisation.

“Tell Baxter we’ll protect him and negotiate,” Collinson decided, exchanging a hard glance with Layla, “Where are you?”

“Somewhere around Maiwand, I think,” Porter replied, “About a hundred clicks east of Helmand.”

“Oh good, you’ve already crossed the border,” Collinson said, relieved, “We couldn’t have made an armed incursion into Taliban-controlled Pakistan.”

“Yeah well, Sharq’s dead. We’ve overstayed our welcome on that side.”

Laya managed not to curse on the open line. If the Americans had been backing the warlord, and keeping it under tight wraps, the Information Sharing Treaty be damned, his death would certainly put a target on Porter’s back, one much bigger than the one he already had.

“Give me a point of exfil, Sergeant.” Collinson snapped the command, his gaze darting over the map of the region they had on the main screen.

Prendiville, occupied on a different call, transferred a set of coordinates to the screen within seconds. Layla knew she was in contact with the overseas command of their troops, already arranging a team for the extraction.

“Your pickup is five clicks north of junction B11, tomorrow,” Collinson relayed the details to Porter, “On the Lashkar Gah Quetta highway, that’s your Primary RV.”

“Got it.”

“And Porter, your window is 1400 to 1600 hours, local,” Collinson went on, a hint of caution in his tone, “Get there and hunker down. Stay out of sight. The Americans will kill you if they catch you. Watch your backs.”

“Yeah. Figured that part myself.”

Collinson walked out of the command centre after that, and Layla transferred the call into a private line before Porter hung up, “John, are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

She hated having to break the awful news like this in an impersonal call, while he was neck deep in trouble, but she had no other choice. Porter had to know that someone had his back, and that she gave a damn. “John, Steve Andrews passed away a few hours ago.” she said softly, “He’s dead. I was there when it happened.”

Absolute silence greeted the news. She only knew he was still on the line because she could hear the sound of his controlled breathing.

“I’m going after the bullet. Do you understand? I’m chasing the bullet. I’m going to prove who killed Steve.”

“Layla–”

“Just get your arses back here in one piece,” Layla insisted, “We’ll deal with this once and for all when you’re here. It’s about time.”

“Alright.” Porter sighed. “Thanks.”

Maiwand
Afghanistan

Steve Andrews was dead.

Layla’s words reverberted inside his skull, refusing to make sense.

Seven years. After seven fucking years of holding on, Andrews was now gone.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

Instead of the gravel roads winding through the desert, all John could see was the image of a man wasting away in a hospital bed. The large white bandage wrapped around his forehead had become more and more prominent as the time passed, as the thick shock of his blond hair had thinned until there was nothing but a bald skull covered with mottled, scarred skin. The flesh in his entire torso had gradually sunk towards the jutting bones, leaving more of a skeleton in the place where a soldier had been.

Where his best mate had been.

The doctors, specialists and consultants…After the initial couple of years, they had all said the same thing; that it was only a matter of time, and they had all been waiting for Steve to die.

But the man had held on in spite of all their grim predictions. With every passing day he kept breathing, Steve had added a fraction of light to the hope John carried with him for the past seven years.

Now, he was gone. John didn’t know what to do with the insidious black hole he could feel gnawing at him from somewhere deep in his chest.

I’m going after the bullet. Laya had said.

John already knew what the ballistics would show. There was a vast difference between the ammunition from an AK-47 and a Heckler & Koch UMP after all.

But what was the point without Andrews there to back it up with a statement? Fuck it. What was the point of any of it?

The shame, guilt, grief and anger… After seven goddamn years, they were part of him now. Like old friends. Or enemies. Those were burdens he was used to carrying.

What was the point when his best mate wasn’t in this world anymore to share the long-awaited vindication? The relief of those resolved burdens? To wake up, make a stupid joke and say that he was going to be alright?

“Hey fella,” Baxter’s call fluctuated through the strange buzz in his ears, “You alright?”

John blinked, and turned to see the hacker staring at him with a confused expression. A gust of hot wind reminded John that they were still in the enemy territory, and now was not the time to lose his mind over things that were out of his control.

He had a job to do. Grieving would have to wait.

“Yeah, let’s go.” John pushed the words out of a dry, tight throat, and started the jeep. They had a long way to go to reach the rendezvous point.

 

 

Chapter 2

Section 20 – Headquarters
Whitehall
London – UK

16:30 Hours/Local

Layla was just about to brief Collinson on Porter’s progress and the position of the extraction team when the US liaison, Frank Arlington, strode in as if he owned the place.

“Good afternoon, Hugh,” he flashed an arrogant grin at the Major, not bothering to spare a glance at Layla.

“Frank. Is this a social call?” Collinson asked levelly, “Or are you here to do a deal?”

Layla knew that Collinson had been negotiating with Arlington offsite, trying to broker a deal where they could get Porter and Baxter back safely without the US forces butting in. But he hadn’t shared the details with her. Or anyone else for that matter.

“We’re taking Porter and Baxter into US custody,” Arlington declared as if it was the most regular course of action. “Your instructions are to give us their rendezvous point.”

“Sorry, Frank. I can’t do that.”

“We’re on the same side, Hugh,” Arlington continued, supremely unbothered in a way that made Layla extremely uncomfortable. Judging by the way Collinson bristled, she was fairly certain the Major felt the same.

“No. I don’t think we are.”

“You were right,” Arlington smiled, his gaze hard and uncompromising, “We’re talking to Zahir Sharq. Yeah, we’re using Porter and Baxter as bargaining chips. Why? Because the Administration believes that Sharq will one day emerge as the most influential insurgent leader in the entire region. The Administration believes that Sharq will one day pull the strings in Kabul. The Administration believes Sharq is a man they can do business with. Because the Administration believes that a relationship with Sharq is the road map to a credible withdrawal from the war.”

Layla stared, rooted to the spot. Collinson had at some point made it known that they had more than enough evidence to prove that they carried no responsibility towards the unfortunate deaths of the US Marines. And that they had even more evidence on the breach of the Information Sharing Treaty.

If the US contingent was prepared to accept their dealings with Sharq so blatantly, then they lost the leverage of the evidence. Porter and Baxter became dangerous liabilities that the US could under no circumstances permit to exist.

Shit.

“And what the Administration believes today, is British government policy tomorrow. So you remember this to yourself, Hugh, you do not fuck with the big boys!”

The tense silence hung thick in the air after Arlington’s cutting remarks. Collinson held his US counterpart’s gaze, and Layla could practically see wheels turning in his mind. The moment he made his decision, Layla thought she finally caught a glimpse of the coward who had decided to ruin a man’s life and career to save his own worthless hide.

“Junction B11,” Collinson muttered, carefully avoiding Layla’s gaze, “Lashkar Gah Quetta highway.”

He didn’t share the fact that Sharq was dead. He didn’t have the guts to witness the inevitable meltdown Arlington would have suffered after learning their precious, long-term investment had crashed and burned. He didn’t have a sliver of courage to speak up to protect his own goddamn people.

No. All Major Hugh Collinson saw was an opportunity to wipe out the last thorn in his side. The last man who knew the massive lie his entire career was built upon.

Layla felt sick to be breathing the same air with the man.

“When?” Arlington asked with a triumphant smile.

“1400 hours.”

Ollie’s Brew
Cavendish Square
London

16:10 Hours

The cafe was only a five-minute walk from the St. Joseph’s hospital. The place was quiet, mostly empty due to the lunch crowd already having petered out to tackle the rest of their day. Michael took a seat outside, commandeering the entire table at the furthest corner on the pavement. The line of sycamores towering over the entire block of shops offered plenty of shade from the unusually bright afternoon sun.

It was still vastly different. Much more bearable than the burning hot desert sun that had shone over Nad Ali district mercilessly from dawn to dusk throughout. The breeze was crisp and soft, blessedly free of abrasive dust and sand.

It wasn’t just the weather that was different, it was everything. This was home, he was home, but the conditioning his mind and body had gone through for the last eight months was having a hard time fading to the background. He had to consciously remind himself that he didn’t have to constantly scan the people milling about for weapons or suspicious behaviours. Or tag the hardly-there traffic for a vehicle that wasn’t quite staying on its own lane, or parked somewhere it didn’t belong.

It was nothing new – this period of readjustment after returning from deployment. He had a routine. He would endure the fourteen-hour flight, disembark, and get to St. Joseph’s straight from wherever the logistics would drop him in London. He would sit with Steve for hours, sometimes talking about work, as much as he could, at least. Sometimes he wouldn’t talk at all, just content to be near Steve, even though his brother was absent underneath his open, frozen gaze and his slowly deteriorating body.

He would also speak to the doctors, listen to them about Steve’s progress, or rather, the lack thereof. They had more than once presented him the option of disconnecting Steve from life support. Michael had always declined, deciding to give his brother a chance at fighting for his life.

Then only he would take his leave, find yet another temporary place to live, and struggle with a sub par pretence of being an ordinary civilian until the day he had to return to duty.

Now, the familiar, dare he say, comforting, cycle was broken. After seven years of hanging on, Steve – his only remaining family – was gone.

It hadn’t sunk in just yet, the loss, the pain…the grief. He felt exhausted, unmoored, and his mind refused to settle from where it was stuck in a limbo between warzone and home. There was a numb ache in his chest that had nothing to do with an injury. A hollow, listlessness was slowly growing around it every time he breathed.

Michael took a sip of coffee that was in front of him, a part of him appreciating the rich taste compared to the watered-down swill he had been chugging for the past few months. It was also a relief, a rare luxury even, the knowledge that he could take his time to enjoy the fresh croissant that sat delicately on the plate next to it.

The file that was inside his duffel offered a distraction, as did the words of the Intelligence branch Lieutenant that were still fresh in his mind. Only he didn’t know if that was the kind of distraction he needed at that moment.

“I looked you up.” The Lieutenant greeted Michael when he finally walked out of Steve’s room, having said goodbye to his brother for the final time.

He was badly in need of a minute to himself, to pull himself together, to break something, to scream, to wail… to do something other than dealing with a persistent, probably dangerous pain in the arse from Whitehall.

“Did you, now,” Michael muttered thinly, checking his wristwatch. He had only been inside for forty minutes.“That was fast.”

Thompson flashed an unrepentant smile. “Sergeant Michael Stonebridge. You enlisted as a Royal Marine Commando ten years back, almost to date. Got promoted to Corporal two years later. Spent the next two and a half years training in extreme weather and underwater navigation before joining the Special Boat Services. Promoted again, to Sergeant in 2005. Fluent in Arabic, Russian and French. One of the best, fast-tracked careers in the SBS’s history. A service jacket full of ratings, commendations, and medals, with a truly impressive list of combat skills.”

Well. She had proved to be as thorough as she was fast, and seemed to know exactly how to use those skills of persuasion. Probably had contacts in the correct places too, Michael thought. The SBS administration wasn’t famous for caving into sharing service records that easily, or that quickly.

It made him even more wary of her intentions.

“Are you trying to make me blush?” He asked, taking care to keep his voice bland, and his expression blank.

Thompson held his gaze for a few long seconds before closing her eyes with a sigh. For the first time, Michael noticed how worn-out she seemed, stressed out, and almost resigned. “I need your help, to fix something that went wrong seven long years back.”

The spark of curiosity died with her words.

“Your timing couldn’t be any worse, Lieutenant–” Michael didn’t bother tempering the sharpness in his tone.

Not when he had just lost the last remaining family member, the brother whose existence he wouldn’t have even known if Steve hadn’t given a damn. Steve had found him when he was only twelve, at a time nothing had made sense. Michael had just been a scared, lost and aimless orphan with nothing but sneering contempt and an impotent hatred towards the world at large. Steve, barely an adult himself, had changed that. Had given him back a fraction of what he had lost; the sense of belonging, an understanding of what it was like to have someone who cared…a family.

“In case you didn’t notice, Steve just died.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Thompson murmured, looking up at him with genuine sympathy in her bleary gaze, “But the man who wrongly carried the accusations, indignities and disgrace for all of it is not. He’s still alive.”

Michael had to hold himself back from snarling. How dare she bring that fucker up at a time like this! How dare she imply that it wasn’t that bastard’s fault that Steve laid in a bed for seven years hanging by the barest thread.

Michael had wanted to kill him the first time he found Porter sitting on the edge of his brother’s bed, talking, touching him as if he had the right. What stopped him was the utter defeat Michael had seen in his face, the resignation and the zero compunction Porter had shown in defending himself.

Michael had stopped himself out of respect for his brother, and the fact that he would have regretted putting down a man who had already taken himself there all on his own.

It wouldn’t have been worth it.

That didn’t mean he ever forgave the bastard for what he did, however.

“John fucking Porter was responsible for that,” he snapped through gritted teeth, his finger pointing at the closed door behind which his brother’s body lay cooling. Rotting.

“He wasn’t.” Thompson’s voice was quiet, but no less insistent. She looked as if she fully believed in what she was saying. “I can prove it.”

“I highly doubt it.” Michael scoffed. If that was the case, Porter would have already done that.

“Just give me half an hour of your time,” Thompson, unwilling to back down, pleaded, “I’ll explain everything, please.”

Now, he had a copy of the internal investigation, the statements of both Porter and at-the-time Captain Collinson, the only other soldier who survived the same mission. Thompson was convinced that there were disparities, things that didn’t add up, and that Porter had gone along with Collinson’s version of the incident out of self-doubt and guilt. Then there was the boy – As’ad; codename, Scarface – and his supposed confession, relayed through the renowned journalist, Kate Darthmouth, who was recently rescued from the Iraqi splinter group, the Sword of Islam.

It was a lot, and Michael had no idea whether to believe her or not. Anger and blame worth of seven fucking years. Although time had somewhat healed, soothed and dulled all the hurts, grudges and emotions to a point, they couldn’t just be dissolved with a few sharp words and hopeful convictions. But, he had to admit, Thompson had done a goddamn admirable job of getting through to his head, and planted more than a few seeds of suspicion. She had left the file in his care – breaking a number of regulations no doubt, since it was a classified report – and urged him to see for himself.

With a long, weary sigh, Michael pulled the damned thing out of his kit bag, deciding that there was nothing wrong with having a look. If she was indeed on to something, he would be able to confirm it when the results of the post mortem ended up in his hand in a few hours.

That would determine if he owed Porter a long overdue apology or not.

Section 20 – Headquarters
Whitehall
London – UK

18:54 hours

Collinson hung up the phone and looked up at her with a look of confused irritation when she entered his office without bothering to knock first.

“Layla–”

“Corporal Steve Andrews,” she said, and took immense satisfaction in the way the colour visibly drained from his face. “Remember him?”

“I–yes.” Collinson stuttered, his gaze darting towards the folder she had in her hand, “what happened?”

“He died this morning.”

Collinson stared at her, wide-eyed, and swallowed. “Shit.”

She couldn’t tell if the hollow sound of his curse was genuine grief or relief. “Too many things weren’t adding up. I dug out the internal SAS inquiry into the Kenneth Bratton extraction,” she said, daring him to contradict her, “Porter is innocent. Isn’t he?”

“Layla–”

Collinson looked as if she had slugged him. She had no trouble discerning a real hint of fear in his eyes that time. Good. Lies had a way of floating to the surface at the darndest times. It was about time Collinson took accountability for the lives he shamelessly ruined to build a goddamned career.

“What the hell did you think you were playing at, giving–”

“The Americans are playing a bigger game,” Collinson cut her off, trying to sound indignant, “If they need to debrief–”

“Debrief them!? You think I’m a fool?” Layla snarled. Chain of command be damned. “They’re going to kill them and you know it. You want Porter dead, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Collinson had the audacity to huff and shake his head, “Why would I want Porter dead?”

Still playing the odds. Still convinced you can lie and intimidate your way through a bunch of bullshit. Not anymore, sir. No fucking way. This has gone on long enough. It stops today.

“To save your own skin in a last desperate attempt to bury the truth about what happened in Basra back in 2003,” Layla spat contemptuously, “Because Porter’s always been the loose end, hasn’t he? Never went away and died the way you’d been hoping for. Andrews was hardly an obstacle. Could have died anytime. Even if he did survive, what were the chances he’d have woken up with his memories intact? He’s got a bullet in his head, after all. right?”

“What are you implying, Lieutenant?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, I received a copy of his post mortem.” Layla went on, ignoring the rage Collinson was wielding to cover his mounting panic. She slid the file across the desk towards him. He could keep it. She had more. “The ballistics report on the bullet removed from his brain came from a Heckler and Koch UMP, not an AK-47 as you claimed As’ad picked up off a dead body.”

“It was the boy!” Collinson’s lips moved automatically, the lie he’d stuck to all those years ago once again slipping out so easily, albeit a little hysterically, “It was him. He killed them!”

“Steve Andrews, Mike Reilly, Keith Finn,” Layla murmured, relentless at the face of Collinson’s crumbling facade, “Scarface didn’t kill them, Major Collinson, you did. You were responsible. Not Porter.”

“That’s not right. Layla, you have to believe me. That’s not what happened.”

“Save it.” Layla said curtly, silencing him, “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What then?”

“I can’t reach Porter. But you can.” She said, making certain he could see and hear how serious she was with what she was about to say. “You can get there before the US extraction team intercepts him, and get him out of the fucking trap you set for him. Otherwise, sir… I take this upstairs.”

The Next Day

En Route to Helmand
Afghanistan

12:02 Hours/Local (08:32 Hours/London)

Life was a fucking joke sometimes, and John knew Something was having a great fucking laugh at his fucking expence.

He and Baxter were on foot, trudging along the unforgiving rough terrain like two morons because they lost their jeep to a bunch of gun-toting women. Bunch of gun-toting women who made them fucking text a vote to a another woman competing in their version of American-fucking-Idol.

He still had a hard time believing that nonsense actually happened. It was the high noon, and he could very well have hallucinated the entire thing due to lack of food, stress and dehydration.

Baxter had witnessed the whole thing, laughing at John like a maniac the entire time. But, with his own paranoia, PTSD and unpredictable mood swings, the hacker was hardly a credible witness.

“All of ‘em secrets, Tommy, they make your head cave in,” Baxter said, skipping over a protruding rock. “You need to open up a bit…Talk about your issues.”

Your therapist told you that? “And end up like you?” John sneered. “Fucking Tonto of Pakistan.”

He was tired, and they had more than a few kilometres to cover to get to the exfil point. They would have already reached the destination had they still had their transport. Baxter’s continued yapping was starting to grate on his fraying nerves.

“You get some bad news then, Tommy?” Baxter asked, letting John’s palpable ire slide right off his shoulders.

“Huh?”

“Your phone call yesterday.”

“How did you know it was bad news?” John sighed.

“Come on. You can’t kid a kidder, Tommy.” Baxter snorted, and changed the subject, “Got family? Wife? Kids?”

I had a family, before I ruined it all. Now my wife isn’t even alive anymore. “Yeah, I’ve got a daughter,” John said. Maybe there still was a chance at making things right with her, given time. “She’s seventeen.”

“See much of her?”

“How old is your daughter?” John asked, turning the question around. He wasn’t really in the mood to share.

“She’ll be nine now,” Baxter sniffed, his head craned back to squint at the cloudless sky as he skipped along the gravel path a few feet behind John, “Don’t see much of her. Or at all, but you know how it’s been for me.”

Yeah. All messed up in the head. Can’t really blame ya.

As distracted as he was, John noticed the weird lump on the ground almost too late. It was the years of training that made him freeze, and throw an arm out to stop Baxter from stumbling forward.

“What was that for?”

John ignored Baxter’s complaint, and snapping a curt order to stay the fuck back, he knelt down carefully to examine the artificial protrusion among the gravel.

“Tommy?”

“AT mines.” John said, cursing internally.

They had wandered into a fucking mine field. It was pure luck that those were anti-tank mines, not anti-personnel mines. Yet, he knew he couldn’t trust those not to blow them both apart if either of them set a foot wrong. Decades-old pressure plates and sensors were not something John was prepared to risk his or Baxter’s lives on.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“Okay, it’s okay, Gerry,” he said calmly, trying to placate the panic he could hear rising in the other man. That would only make things worse. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You stay put, let me take the lead, and then follow in my footsteps. Exactly in my footsteps. Got it?”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, brother,” Baxter replied shakily, hugging himself.

Yeah. It’s never fun when the tables are turned, is it? John didn’t say it. Baxter had been hacking into RAF missiles, and redirecting them to kill US soldiers. But, he was also not mentally one hundred percent all there. It was complicated.

Instead, John kept his entire focus on the ground before them, and took slow, exaggerated steps forward, making sure Baxter was doing as he was told.

“Fuck. My mate Steve, he died.” It slipped out of John three steps later, surprising him enough that he almost stumbled in his next step.

“What?”

“That was the bad news.” John sighed.

There was no point trying to take it back now. Might as well let it out. There was a chance they could both get blown up in a minute anyway. The minefield seemed to be spread over a good kilometre.

“I’m sorry.” Baxter sounded genuinely sympathetic.

“People think that I killed him. My fellow soldiers, my superiors…his brother,” John murmured a few more steps later. It was getting easier to talk about for some reason. “All of them.”

“Did you?”

“No. But, maybe I could have stopped it,” John shrugged, signalling Baxter to stop as he knelt down again. The mounds on the ground seemed to be scattered haphazardly, a little more of them to their right than to their left. “It could have been different.”

“What do you mean?”

Making up his mind to go left, John stood up, and took a few more steps. Nothing clicked, or moved ominously under his feet. So far so good. “I… I didn’t do what I was trained to do.”

Behind him, Baxter snorted. “I thought you lot were all supposed to be stone cold killing machines.”

So did I. “It’s not that simple.”

A sudden, panicky yell from Baxter had John whirling around, dropping into a crouch. The hacker flailed, windmilling his arms to stay on his feet and caught himself by taking a step back sideways.

He ended up right on top of a mine they had just cleared.

“Don’t move,” John barked, “Stay there, don’t move.”

“Oh, God,” Baxter whimpered. “Oh God, I’m going to die. Jesus, I’m dead, Tommy! Dead.”

“Don’t move your foot.” John said, taking a careful step closer. The heel of Baxter’s shoe was on the edge of the mine. The fact that it hadn’t exploded said that the pressure sensor hadn’t triggered.

“Stay still, damn it!” John snapped, checking the mine visually. Nothing stood out that would trigger it if the hacker took his foot off. “Now, carefully…very carefully–”

“I can’t do it.” Baxter wailed.

“Gerry, look at me,” John commanded. When he did, John made sure to put as much certainty into his own gaze and words, “Move your foot. Slowly.”

“But–”

“You aren’t heavy enough to trigger it,” John explained patiently, willing his words to get through to the terrified hacker, “Trust me. Otherwise you’d be dead already. Now, move your foot.”

Baxter said nothing. He just stood there, shaking like a leaf, frozen in terror.

“Think about everything that you’ve got to live for,” John said, trying a different track, desperately looking for something to distract Baxter from his mindless fear, “Think about your wife, your daughter. Think about what kind of a dad you’re going to be when you go home. Because you have to go home.”

Baxter swallowed, and closed his eyes, “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”

“At least, you’ve got a place to call home. To go to. What have I got? I’ve got fucking nothing…”

John didn’t know where that came from. But it was as if a dam was broken. The words were out, and more were bursting past his tightening throat. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop them.

“Listen to me. Look at me, and listen. My little girl can’t even look me in the eye. Because she thinks that I killed three of my mates. But I didn’t do it. And I have to prove that I didn’t do it. You see, I thought that one day my mate Steve was going to wake up. That he would tell them…but he didn’t fucking wake up–”

John broke off with a sob, looking away. He blinked, trying to get rid of the tears that should have dried out years ago. His chest hurt, as if a fist was squeezing his heart, and he couldn’t seem to drag in enough air to fill his shrivelling lungs.

“Okay. Alright. Don’t give up on me, Tommy. Alright?” Baxter’s words sounded far away. But those were enough to drag him out of the turmoil he was lost in. John blinked again, and looked up to see Baxter staring at him with something akin to understanding shining in his eyes. “Pray for me. Don’t be like me, Tommy. Don’t let your past destroy you. It’s not worth it.”

John held his gaze, marvelling at the strange turn the conversation had taken. It seemed to have helped Baxter just as much as it had helped him.

John nodded, took a deep breath and saw Baxter mimic his move. “Move.”

Baxter nodded back, and with a high-pitched scream, threw himself over to John. Cursing, John managed to catch him before the idiot could topple them both to the ground. Baxter held onto him like a new-born koala, hugging the life out of him.

“You made it, Gerry,” John smiled despite his irritation, and patted him on the back before drawing away from the impromptu embrace.

“Thanks, Tommy,” Baxter murmured gravely, suddenly looking a lot more sane than ever.

“It’s John,” John said, sticking out his hand. It was about time. “John Porter.”

Baxter shook his hand with a solemn nod, before breaking out a mischievous grin. “Well, this is a fine bromance, Isn’t it?”

John laughed, and was about to retort with a snappy remark when a lone gunshot echoed against the hills around them.

Years of training and reflexes took over before he could even realise what was happening. Baxter followed his lead a lot less gracefully, his body crumpling on the ground in a heap. It was only then John saw the neat hole in the centre of his forehead, leaking a stream of blood to darken the dry sands of the Afghan desert.

Chapter 3

9 Kilometres South of the Primary Exfil Point
Lashkar Gah/Quettah Highway
Helmund
Afghanistan

12:22 Hours/Local (08:52 Hours/London)

Gerry Baxter was dead.

The genius hacker, the man who willingly worked for an insurgent leader, the man who was responsible for sending twenty-two US Marines home in coffins, the man who accidentally bombed a village full of civilians, women and children, and paid for it with the best part of his mental stability and sanity…the man who still believed that he could do something to fix his mistakes, misguided and naive as he was in his beliefs, the man who still believed in atonement and the man who had unironically understood and actually sympathised with John’s own horrible past…

That complicated, stubborn man was dead. Used and discarded in a hellhole like an expired piece of equipment, only to succumb to a bullet shot by the same people he had been deluded into thinking he was saving. For a dragged-out war he had been convinced he was doing his part to end. Because he had wanted to put a stop to all the needless deaths.

Now, here he was, just another part of a statistic. Just another pawn. Just another corpse.

First Steve. Now Gerry. It was too fucking much.

A few more shots rang out, kicking up the dust near John’s head. The multiple shots also gave him an idea where the sniper was perched. He was somewhere at John’s two o’clock, at about six-hundred metres’ distance, uphill. Grabbing the rifle from where it was hanging on his shoulder, John crawled towards the nearest rock that was big enough to provide him with some cover.

Just as he rolled behind the rock, the sniper got off another shot, spraying John with pebbles of stone as half his cover got blown to pieces. Without wasting time, John released a burst at the sniper’s general direction, forcing him to break cover and stumble. The second, more controlled shot took care of the shooter for good with a hole in the back of his head.

Jogging over to the dead body, John took the insurgent’s rifle, as well as the two extra magazines, knife and the water pouch. If there was one, there would be more. John didn’t have time to hang around. With a final glance of farewell flung towards Baxter’s body, John took off in a jog.

He had covered about two kilometres towards the pick up point when his phone rang again.

“John.” Layla’s agitated voice came over the line.

“Baxter’s dead.” John muttered, wondering why he hadn’t thought to update the command.

“What?”

“A sniper got him. I’m about seven klicks from the RV point.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” She said softly. “I have news.”

“Yeah?” John squinted ahead, bracing himself for another gut-wrenching revelation. It was shaping up to be that kind of a day.

“I’ve got the ballistics report of the bullet that killed Steve. It was from a Heckler and Koch UMP. A British soldier’s weapon… Collinson’s gun.”

John said nothing, and kept walking. He had thought that the vindication would bring a sort of satisfaction so overwhelming it would send him to his knees. All he felt was exhaustion, and a sort of numbness that had him rubbing a hand across his chest to feel if his heart was still beating.

“John–”

“Yeah,” John replied mechanically at Layla’s prodding tone. “I knew that.”

“Well, now we can prove it. And that’s the good news,” she said, and her tone changed in a way that proved John’s misgivings about the rest of his hell of day, “There’s bad news.”

“Yeah. Hit me.”

“Collinson sold you out…” she said, “He gave your RV point to Arlington.”

John let that sink in. He wanted it to feed the low, simmering anger he could finally feel pooling somewhere deep in his soul. How many more lives was the bastard going to send off to the chopping block without care?

“Arlington. The same fuckwit who was handling Sharq as an asset, that Arlington?”

He couldn’t say he was surprised. Collinson was, at the end of the day, not a soldier. He was a political creature who used his limited time in the field to further his career. A snivelling piece of trash who only ever gave a damn about covering his own arse.

“Yes. Collinson’s on his way out to you, John.”

John frowned. “Why?”

“Because I told him to get you the fuck out,” Layla said evenly, letting a hint of all that iron in her spine layer her tone, “Or I’d take the proof upstairs.”

“Fuck!” John closed his eyes, and exhaled.

He could understand her point. She had done the best she could with what she had. But sending Collinson off to this lawless hellhole after him? After everything he had learned about the man? Layla sure had a lot of faith in his self-control.

His immediate concern was to get off the highway he was sticking to, and find a less conspicuous path. Then he would need a new plan to bug out, one he had to arrange with Collinson, it seemed, since his fate was now firmly tied to that murderous bastard.

Maybe it was a good thing, to have this meeting finally out in the open where neither of them were bound by any rules or regulations other than the ones of survival. Maybe John could finally hear straight from the man his reasons for what he had done, why he had made those decisions… Why he had fucking ended up killing their own goddamned people.

It wouldn’t change a thing. John knew that. But at least, it would give him some closure.

“John…” Layla prompted again, dragging him out of his thoughts.

“I’ve gotta go, and Laya,” John said, his mind clear on what he had to do, “Thank you. For everything.”

US Special Security Operations – London Branch
Whitehall
London

10:06 Hours/Local

“Answer, damn it!” The US Special liaison to London desk, Frank Arlington, glared at the screen of his laptop, willing the call to connect. No such luck. “Fuck.”

It wasn’t like Sharq to miss an appointment. The man was, first and foremost, a businessman, and he knew the value of principles and ethics. Punctuality was one of the important ones. In their trade, trust was a rare commodity. Arrangements such as theirs were fragile, delicate in nature, and both sides had an understanding that they had to tread carefully with each other, for the line between delicate and volatile was rather thin indeed.

Something was wrong. Frank could just feel it in his gut.

“Sir,” Jillian Adams, his aide, knocked lightly on his open door.

“Yes?” Frank didn’t like the look in her eyes. She came bearing bad news.

“We just intercepted an encrypted communication–”

“From where?”

“Near Spin Buldak border town. Late Taliban Lieutenant Zaman Qalzai’s splinter cell operates out of an adjacent town from there,” Jill said, walking over to his side of the desk to hand him a USB.

Nobody missed Qalzai. He was becoming a pain in the ass with his extortion schemes. Sharq had done the right thing by putting an end to that nonsense permanently.

“You might want to listen to it, sir.”

Frank closed the web call application, and plugged in the USB. Clicking on the ‘play’ button on the forty-second audio file, he leaned back against his chair.

A burst of static blared out of the small speaker next to the screen, making him wince.

A gravelly voice snapped a word in Farsi. “Speak.” Jill translated.

After another burst of static, a younger, harried voice garbled a reply.

“Muhammed, Samir. I have news.”

“Yes?”

“‘The Snake’ is dead, brother,” Jill continued, translating the rapidfire Farsi intermingled with static in real time. “Zahir Sharq is dead.”

Frank snapped around to look up at his aide, “What?”

“Zahir Sharq is dead. That’s what Samir said, sir,” Jill said calmly, “Muhammed replied, ‘Prepare yourselves.’”

“Inshah Allah.” Samir said before the file ended. Frank didn’t need a translation on that acknowledgement.

Frank cursed. Collinson must have known, he thought furiously, and yet the bastard kept that little news to himself. Porter was proving to be a massive irritation than Frank had initially figured.

He had thought that after their recent conversation, Collinson had gotten the message. Obviously, he hadn’t. Sharq was Frank’s asset, and now he had to answer upstairs about the sudden loss of that asset.

It was a waste of an expensive, long-term investment Frank had personally spent a lot of time cultivating. What was worse was the hornet’s nest Sharq’s death had surely kicked off, instantly drowning the entire southern section of the border in unmitigated chaos.

Stabbing a finger at his intercom, Frank barked an order, “Shane, get me Collinson.”

“Sir.” his communications analyst acknowledged crisply.

“This complicates things.” Jill reflected.

“You think?” Frank snorted, shaking his head. He was so angry he felt his entire body shaking with the force of it. It took effort for him to get a hold of himself and speak quietly. “Sharq had ties to a lot of enterprises in the area, and he kept everyone in their place, either with bribes, promises or intimidation. He was the one thing that held the entire goddamned province together.”

“With his demise, the tribal lands are essentially a powder keg waiting to go off.”

“Oh trust me, it already did.”

Frank picked up the receiver of the landline when he saw the red blinking dot of an incoming call.

“Sorry, sir,” Shane said, “They’re saying Major Collinson is unavailable. They’re refusing to disclose his whereabouts, or a way to get in touch with him.”

Frank cut the call without a word. If the Brits wanted to play that game, he would indulge.

“Thank you, Jill.,” he said, excusing her, “I’ve got it from here.”

His aide left the office without another word, closing the door behind her. Frank made the next call himself.

“Hello, Frank,” the female voice at the other end purred, “missed me?”

“Change of plans.” he snapped. Normally, he enjoyed the playful back and forth with her, but he didn’t have the time or the patience right then.

“Oh?”

“The RV point is no longer a viable intercept option.”

That got her attention, and all humour vanished from her tone, “Do tell.”

“I need you to scramble an elimination team.”

“So, we’re cleaning house.”

“Yes.”

“What about Baxter?”

“Your orders regarding him haven’t changed,” Frank said, and with a few keystrokes, pulled up Major Hugh Collinson’s service record. “I’m forwarding you another bio. If spotted with the main target, neutralise him as well.”

There was a pause on the line. Frank figured she was skimming through the file he just forwarded, implications of the situation sinking in.

“This is–” she said, for the first time, a little hesitant, “Frank, are you sure this is how you want to handle this?”

“I am, Bryant,” Frank said, his tone brokering no more questions or arguments, “You have your orders. Carry them out.”

“Sir.”

23 Kilometres East of the Primary RV Point
Lashkar Gah/Quettah Highway
Helmund

17:30 Hours/Local (14:00 Hours/London)

It was an abandoned shack, with only the four walls and half of the clay-tiled roof still standing. The windows were permanently open, having lost the sheets of glass and the curtains a long time ago, possibly when the residents of the small house packed their shit and left. There were two exits, one barricaded with haphazardly nailed wooden planks, and one with a door hanging limply on its rusted hinges. Most of the brick and cement of the walls were exposed, the paint job long ago succumbed to the harsh weather.

There was no water, working plumbing or electricity, although the signs were there that the residents had enjoyed utilities at some point.

None of it mattered when it came to John’s current needs. All he needed was a place that could provide him with somewhat sturdy cover, while offering him an uninterrupted view of his surroundings. The shade from the merciless sun, however temporary, was also an added bonus.

Once he had checked the place thoroughly, making sure that no snakes, scorpions or other nasty creepy-crawlies were hiding in corners to throw him a surprise party later on, John hunkered down to wait. He had water he could ration for another day if needed. Food would only become a problem a day after that. For the moment, he had everything he needed.

If he got to walk out of there alive after everything was said and done, the future John Porter would have to deal with the rest.

His phone rang, snapping him out of a light doze. A quick check on the flashing screen revealed that the nap had lasted a little over two hours.

“John.”

Judging by the gusts of wind that accompanied the word, John assumed the Major was on a ground vehicle, a jeep or a pickup truck.

“Collinson.”

“I’m on my way to get you.”

“Baxter’s dead.” John said in reply. If Collinson had been expecting any gratitude, he was fresh out of luck. “Your fault.”

“John,” he sighed, sounding just as tired as John felt. Maybe age-old lies, guilty conscience, and skeletons in the closet were also heavy burdens. “I tried.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” John snapped, not in the mood to cater to Collinson’s hurt feelings, “I’ve spoken to Layla. We need to talk.”

“Okay.” Collinson said. Not that either of them had any choice. Layla, with all her ruthless brilliance, had made sure of that. “I’m about fifteen klicks south of the highway, off the N1 marker. Where are you?”

John told him, and cut the call, settling into wait.

***

A Land Rover pulled in before the shack, kicking up a cloud of dust. It had a .762 machine gun mounted at the back. At least, Collinson had come prepared to wade through likely hails of gunfire.

Porter watched the man in full gear climb off the Rover and do a full visual scan of the surroundings before slowly making his way towards the shack.

“Killing Zahir Sharq…the CIA’s pet warlord,” Collinson greeted him with a hard gaze in his eyes and a sneer in his lips. “Not the smartest, move, John. The Americans are after you. You’re a dead man out here.”

“You want me to thank you for playing my knight in armour?” John matched his sneer, “What the fuck do I have to lose anyway?”

“John–”

“Seven years I’ve lived with it,” John growled, cutting off whatever he was about to say, “Thinking that I was somehow responsible for killing Mike and Keith. And now Steve. Everyone blamed me. The regiment, the families…Seven years. I know about the ballistics report.”

Collinson scoffed, trying his best to cover the slipping facade of the hard-ass Major with a mocking head shake. John saw a hint of real fear behind those beady eyes nevertheless. He wasn’t prepared for the surge of pity that cut through his fury at the sight.

“For Christ’s sake, Hugh. It’s over,” he said, lowering his voice, feeling a lot tired all of a sudden, “Your lies will come out. Disgrace to the uniform. Criminal trial. Wrath of the victims’ families. The sick feeling in your stomach when you realise that your own family has lost all respect for you…”

“So what?” Collinson snarled. He reminded John of a cornered animal. “You think you can blackmail me? Is this your grand plot for revenge?”

Did he think that John was about to execute him or something? Jesus Christ! His rifle wasn’t even in his grip. He had left it leaning against the wall at his back.

“Listen to me,” John snapped, “I don’t want revenge. I just want you to admit–”

“I’m admitting to nothing.” Collinson took a step back, his teeth bared. It was a pure, instinctual reaction that betrayed his mounting panic.

“Hugh, we’ve got the bullet fragments–”

“Yeah, so? The rifle that kid picked up could have been a British weapon,” Collinson muttered, his eyes going wide as he forced himself to go along with whatever delusion his panicked brain was cooking, “Nobody went back to check if all the fucking insurgents were using AK-47s. And we’ve been there long enough by then, with the branches of our own government supplying most of the weapons and funding for the goddamned conflict, you think that couldn’t happen?”

“You’re desperate, Collinson, and you’re reaching.” John, to his utter detriment, was starting to actually feel sorry for the man.

“Do you have any witnesses, John? To back up this claim of yours? I don’t think so.”

“Hugh, this is over.”

“No, John, nothing is ever over.” Collinson shook his head, smiling without humour. “Do you really think this would stand up in a court of law? Hard evidence? Something conclusive, not circumstantial? You don’t have anything. So, all it’s going to boil down to at the end of the day is, character, isn’t it?”

“Is that how you think it’ll go down?”

“Your word against mine,” Collinson went on, ignoring John, determined to stick to his narrative, “Major Hugh Collinson, head of Section Twenty, British Military Intelligence. Decorated war hero. John Porter. Pensioned out of the regiment. Found wanting under pressure. Major Hugh Collinson, family man, a loving husband and a father. What do you have? A daughter who fucking hates your guts and dead wi–”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Collinson,” John barked. He could tolerate a lot. He could even pity the bastard who was visibly losing his shit. But his family? Dragging them into this wasn’t something he would at all permit, “Don’t you fucking dare talk about my family.”

“You’re out here pursuing a personal vendetta against me,” Collinson retorted, “You don’t get it, do you, John? It’s not what you are. It’s what you appear to be.”

Yeah. That sounded just like him, a principle as hollow as the man following it.

“You worthless prick.”

A volley of automatic rifle fire erupted somewhere outside the shack, changing the entire tone of the argument.

Collinson and John both ducked, taking cover behind the walls. Before long, another volley joined the first, from a slightly different direction. None of the bullets were making contact, but they were near.

That was the moment the real Collinson surfaced. Crouching on the floor, his handgun clutched in a two handed grip, Collinson looked around wildly, as if looking for insurgents who had somehow miraculously appeared inside the shack.

He looked nothing like a soldier, but a panicked man with a loaded weapon who had no idea what to do with it. His wide-eyed gaze desperately begged for John to do something.

He looked as if he was suddenly neck deep in an episode of triggered PTSD. It was a truly pathetic sight.

John grabbed him by the jacket, lifted him up and crowded him against the wall.

“2003. Basra,” John said, drawing Collinson’s attention back to him with his hard tone. “We’d got the hostage out and we were heading back to the roof. Talk to me, Collinson. I need to hear you fucking say it.”

If they were both going to die in a matter of minutes, John would at least have this confession to take with him to hell. As if confirming his thoughts, more gunfire rang out, sounding closer than the first barrage. The enemy had them surrounded, and the trap was closing around them with each passing second.

“The men were still pinned down on the ground floor.” Collinson wheezed, his gaze going hazy as his mind dipped into the memory, “All hell was breaking loose. I was… I was scared. And then… And then I saw the boy. He was standing holding a weapon. And I just froze. And then just as I had him in my sights…I was–I was about to take the shot and then there was a sound, movement to my left. I just…I just opened fire. I just opened…fire. Opened fire.”

He broke down in earnest then, sobbing and dry heaving in John’s grip. The sense of relief and vindication he felt were marred by the sympathy that was growing in him towards Collinson and his plight.

“And then afterwards, I had a chance to come clean and I didn’t take it,” Collinson hiccupped, flinching when more gunfire erupted, “One moment, one… decision. My whole… My whole life. Your… Your whole life. Ruined, beyond repair.”

John let him go then, and took a step back. He had what he wanted. It had never been about revenge or retribution. Hell, he didn’t even want to drag any of this to court. He just wanted the man to grow a pair and admit to his mistakes. Admit that he had been responsible. Not John.

He took a few more steps back, and grabbed his gun. The enemies were drawing closer, and he would fight to the best he could, because unlike Collinson, John was a soldier, and his training made him determined to fight for both their lives.

“I’m sorry, John.” It was a broken admission, and Collision hung his head, looking utterly defeated.

“It’s okay, “ John said, checking his gun and the magazine.

Collinson’s head snapped up at that, his eyes going wide in disbelief. It was as if he couldn’t understand why John wasn’t like him at all.

“How–”

“It’s buried, Collinson,” John said, and slowly took a peek out of one of the open windows. The Rover seemed still intact. Most of the closing insurgents seemed to be clustered where the other exit was facing. “It’s buried. Let it go.”

“I–I don’t understand.”

“And you never will.” John sighed. “But it’s okay. Let’s deal with the other immediate issue, yeah?”

Collinson nodded, and checked his own handgun. He seemed to be finally recalling how to be a soldier.

“Who came with you?”

“No-one.”

“I’m going to get to our ride–”

“I’ll cover you.” Plastered against the wall at the opposite side of the doorless frame, Collinson gave a confident nod.

John nodded back, “On my count.”

“Standing by.”

“One. Two. Three. Go!” With the yelled order, John ran out the exit, straight towards the Rover.

He managed to shoot two insurgents down before they could bring their rifles around to bear on him, and threw himself into the truck bed where the machine gun was mounted.

“John–”

Whatever Collinson screamed was cut off by the loud rat-tat-tat-tat of the machine gun as John started liberally spraying the insurgents. Some of them ran, while the others tried to return fire, but the terrain was against them, offering nothing that could withstand a .762 ammo barrage for cover. There were about twenty of them scattered around their location, and John quickly whittled their numbers down to half before another pained yell from Collinson drew his attention.

“Collinson, talk to me,” John yelled without taking his eyes off the keffiyeh-covered heads that were peering at him from the hills at about two hundred metre’s distance. They had halted their progress, and were now taking pot shots, causing bullets to kick up the dust around him, and ricochet off the body of the Rover.

“I’m hit.”

Shit. John sprayed another barrage before climbing off the Rover, and made a mad scramble back to the shack. He found Collinson on the floor, his entire left side stained dark with blood. He had caught a round through the vest, somewhere in the chest.

“How bad?” John snapped, kneeling next to him. When he tried to take the vest off to see the damage, Collinson weakly swatted him away.

“Bad,” he sighed, and dissolved into a wet cough. John grimaced at the sight of the pink blood that coated his teeth. The bullet had torn a lung. “I’m not gonna make it, John.”

Fuck that. “I’m not leaving without you.” John spat. He would carry the bastard if he had to.

“Go. Go home.” Collinson said.

“No.” I’m not like you, damn it.

“Get to the Jeep, John,” Collinson insisted, his voice low with pain, and pawed at the rifle John had slung over his shoulder. “But you need to hurry.”

“Hugh–”

“John, we both know I won’t last half an hour,” he pointed out, suddenly choosing that awful moment to sound reasonable, and like a goddamned soldier. John hated him for it. He hated the entire fucking day. Even if he had a fully-stocked medkit, which he didn’t, Collinson’s wound wasn’t something he could treat. “It’s fine. Just go. I’ll cover you.”

John held his gaze, marvelling at the relief he could see through the obvious agony that shone in Collinson’s half-lidded eyes. Maybe his demons had been just as worse as John’s. Maybe that was why he seemed to welcome the reprieve. Looking forward to it even.

Taking in a deep breath, John nodded. A burden shared, accepted and forgiven. There was no more bad blood between them. John was leaving a brother-in-arms behind, a man who wanted to do the right thing at the very end.

John would only remember him as such, and his legacy would continue on, untarnished. John had already paid the price, and he had paid enough for both of them.

“Ready?”

“Go,” Collinson flashed a grin at John as he hauled him to his feet, leaning him against the wall for support. “Go on! I got this.”

More gunfire greeted John as he ran out towards the Rover for the second time. He went for the driver’s seat that time and Collinson’s warcry echoed around him in farewell. The Major emptied the magazine of John’s rifle at the wave of insurgents who came barging in at the absence of machine gunfire.

The last thing John saw of Collinson was his bullet-ridden body falling backwards with the hordes closing in on the shack from all around.

A few seconds later, an explosion rocked the ground, treating John to the view of the old shack reduced to a cloud of fire and smoke. Collinson had managed to take down most of the insurgents with a grenade.

John closed his eyes, sending out a short prayer before opening them again to focus on the road.

His fight was hardly over. This horde was just the first of many, and there would be a team of US Special Operators on his trail before the day ended. Collinson had brought him some time, and John intended to use it to the best of his ability.

He had to make the bastard’s sacrifice worth it.

US Marine Forward Operating Base, Whiskey
Location: Classified
Afghanistan

Meanwhile

Station Chief Christy Bryant stood still in the middle of the command centre, her gaze darting over the scenario rapidly unfolding in the live feeds displayed on the monitors.

Zahir Sharq was dead. The borderlands were already dissolving into chaos. The hectic activity blooming in the satellite telemetry was telling her that much.

Her orders were clear. Therein lay the problem.

She knew Porter’s deal, just as she knew Baxter’s deal. She could understand where Arlington was coming from, and at the end of the day, his hands had to stay clean. He represented the wishes of the Administration, and it was his responsibility to keep the shitfest brewing around her from splashing in the face of the policy-makers.

To that end, he had given her the only order he could.

But she was the one in the field, and she was one who needed pawns to play the game he dictated.

And she could use pawns like Porter and Baxter, or if her luck held, Collinson.

Besides, all Arlington needed to know was that the situation got taken care of. He really didn’t need the details.

Making up her mind, Christy turned to the technician manning the communications station.

“Delta Force Team Eight,” the tech said smartly, handing Christy a headset, “Standing by for orders.”

“Delta, this is Base Whiskey.”

“Receiving you loud and clear.”

They were already airborne. She could hear the cacophony of wind and rotors in the background.

“Your targets are heading west north-west on Lashkar Gah Quetta highway,” at Christy’s nod, the tech intoned, referring to the screen to her left, “Intelligence input. Name: John Porter. Rogue British special forces. Designated, clear and present threat. Psychological profile assessment: resourceful, tenacious, possibly obsessive compulsive. Target Name: Gerald Baxter. Insurgent Sympathiser. Designated, clear and present threat. Psychological profile assessment: Volatile. Suffering from severe PTSD…”

Christy tuned her out as she relayed the profiles and threat assessments of the three targets. That was for the record. Although her entire outfit was off-the-books, communications, operations and orders still made it to the reports. If ever called to explain, address or justify her actions, the records would reflect that Christy had followed orders.

Once the tech was done with the briefing, she transferred the call to a private line, and addressed the team leader.

“Harrison.”

Her form of address caught the attention of the Special Forces Operative, and she could hear it in the way his voice sharpened. “Ma’am.”

“I don’t care how you do it,” she said, “But I want them alive. Do you understand?”

Make it look messy. Make it impossible to conclude anything other than a clear cut elimination. Make it believable.

“Understood. Location?”

That would depend on the number of prisoners. “I’ll let you know once you confirm the package.”

Part Two – January 2011

Chapter 4

Four Months Later…

Section 20 – Headquarters
Whitehall
London

08:00 Hours/Local

Intelligence Briefing

“…to the imperialist powers of the West, this is my message. You will no longer shed the blood of my brothers. You will no longer steal the lands of my forefathers. You are no longer welcome within these borders. You will no longer dictate my life or the lives of my family, those who I love and the people of my nation. This is your only warning. It is time for you to understand the meaning of true devastation. The Righteous shall be victorious. God is Great.”

The message was in the Pakistani native language, Urdu. The translation of the rough syllables appeared on the main screen as the audio file played.

Lieutenant Colonel Eleanor Grant, the head of Section 20, stood behind Julia’s station with her arms folded across her chest, glaring at the screen. Major Oliver Sinclair, the outfit’s Chief Intelligence officer and second in command, was seated next to Julia, giving her a quiet nod to continue.

It was her discovery after all.

“Sounds just like the rest of the propaganda audio recordings we’ve been intercepting for the past three months,” Colonel Grant pointed out, “What made this one stand out?”

The hostilities between Pakistan and Afghanistan were experiencing a massive increase for the past few months, and many of the occupying forces based in Afghanistan were redirected to counter-insurgency operations along the border.

Sergeant Julia Richmond, communications specialist, had transitioned from MI6 to the elite covert military intelligence and counter-terrorism unit, Section 20, only three and a half months back. During her initial briefing, she had been tasked with analysing the new encrypted propaganda broadcasts the local bases had started to intercept frequently. Her job was to find out if there was any actionable intel they could use to pinpoint the instigators.

Now, after weeks of drowning in the massive influx of raw data, she finally had something conclusive to report.

“This.” she said, and with a few strokes on her keyboard, pulled up a satellite map of the area on the main screen.

On it, the locations of the Forward Operating Bases of the British and Allied forces were highlighted with markers. Four of the bases had already been attacked, and she had the time of the attacks, the numbers of casualties and fatalities also displayed over the relevant markers.

“You found a direct correlation.” Grant stated, curious.

She had. Julia updated the map with another typed command, this time adding the airing times of the broadcast she had played earlier. “This particular message was played exactly an hour before each and every attack.”

“Either it was a signal to the insurgent groups and the civilians, or a deliberate taunt to our forces,” Sinclair said softly, glancing up at the Colonel. “They know we’re intercepting their communications. This is a call-to-arms hiding in plain sight.”

“Flooded with the rest of the similar broadcasts, they were counting on slipping it past our notice, and they did, for a while,” Grant nodded, “Good work, Richmond. Keep at it. You found one of their codes. There may be more.”

“Ma’am.”

“Anything new on Latif?”

“Nothing,” Julia admitted, doing her best to hide her frustration, “The alias or the name, ‘Imran Sarbanri’ were never mentioned in any of the messages after the initial one we caught last October.”

Unlike the comms traffic that had followed, that initial speech had been made by someone identifying themselves as ‘Latif.’ The distinctly male voice had been heavily altered to hide their identity, but the message had been clear; the destruction of the entire Western civilization was imminent, and Latif would be the driving force of that victorious campaign.

They weren’t even entirely sure if Latif was Imran Sarbanri. That analysis had come from Lieutenant Layla Thompson, Julia’s predecessor.

She had been the one to point out Imran Sarbanri’s activities as a Pakistani rebel leader, whose radical approach towards freedom fighting and persistent hatred towards the West had only been tempered and kept in check by another Pakistani warlord named, Zahir Sharq.

Sharq’s death four months prior left a dangerously unstable power vacuum, drawing the Taliban splinter groups and Pakistani insurgent clusters into border battles all over the region. It was only a matter of time until the control and leadership went to the most ruthless, intelligent strategist.

The file they had on Sarbanri, as thin as it was, had a list of attacks and skirmishes where they had conclusive evidence connecting the rebel leader to them directly. There was another list of activities just as long where he was the main suspect. Out of all the small rebel groups active in the region, Sarbanri’s outfit was the most volatile and driven.

Sharq’s compound had been air bombed shortly after his demise, making it impossible for their ground forces to collect any evidence regarding his operations, or anything pertaining to the other rebel groups he may have controlled, or had intel on.

Then again, that was an entirely different can of worms.

“Well, at least now we have an early warning system,” the Colonel said, “It’s not much but it’s something. Make sure to update the FOBs.”

“Ma’am.”

“Sinclair, anything from Bravo One?”

“Nothing since his last update–” the Major checked his watch and looked up with a grimace, “forty-two hours ago.”

The Colonel accepted that with a nod, and walked out of the command centre towards her office.

Bravo One.

Sergeant Michael Stonebridge.

Only time would tell if his lone efforts in the highly volatile region would be worth it or a colossal waste.

It was John Porter who had killed Zahir Sharq, during his escape from the warlord’s compound with another asset, Gerald Baxter. Baxter was confirmed dead, along with the Section 20’s previous commander, Major Hugh Collinson, who had gone into the field personally in a desperate bid to exfiltrate Porter.

Sergeant Porter’s complicated entanglement in the whole fiasco was kept firmly off the books, so was the part their biggest ally played with zero accountability, responsibility or even the decency to admit to their secrets and screw ups.

Sharq had been a CIA asset; an entirely undisclosed piece of intel that had only come to light after Porter’s escape. Porter had made it known that he had damning evidence connecting the warlord to the CIA directly. That had made Porter’s existence a dangerous liability.

According to Lieutenant Thompson, the US liaison to the London desk, a man named Frank Arlington, had all but admitted issuing an elimination order to wipe out Porter and all the evidence of their involvement out of existence. They already had two dead bodies to that effect.

The only reason that they knew Porter was alive and in CIA’s custody was Stonebridge.

Richmond highly admired Grant’s tenacity, her unwillingness to give up on an asset, no matter how deniable he was, and her loyalty towards the soldiers she viewed as her responsibility.

It was one of the reasons Julia personally believed her decision to accept the position in the relatively new outfit was the right one.

Julia knew that Porter was already designated KIA when the Colonel took over Section 20’s command. She could have easily accepted that, and shut down the one-man rescue operation Thompson had launched without authorisation during her mere two weeks as interim head of operations. Instead, Grant took over the op, re-christened Stonebridge as ‘Bravo-One’ and handed the reins to Sinclair when Thompson left.

It was a good thing too, since the first update had arrived three weeks after Stonbridge’s deployment to Afghanistan, that he had located Porter. Photographic evidence had followed two days later.

The CIA had Porter, and they kept transferring him from blacksite to blacksite at random, making it impossible to arrange any kind of rescue operation.

Since she couldn’t directly use the evidence they had to prove that Porter was alive, all Grant had to make her case to their superiors was the strength of her convictions and beliefs. She advocated relentlessly for a joint op with their counterparts in the region, requesting permission to launch a search and rescue operation.

The task bordered on the impossible, since Whitehall, US liaisons and the CIA were dead set on denying Porter’s entire mission, which had primarily been to extract Baxter. As far as all involved Intelligence agencies were concerned, John Porter was killed in action.

At the end of the day, it all came down to Stonebridge, who would be in trouble himself if he were discovered. All he had to go on was the intel they could supply from the 20’s command centre, the funding and weapons Thompson had provided at the beginning and whatever necessities he could acquire for himself while in the field.

It was a horrible way to conduct a mission, with hardly any support and the knowledge that no one else was coming to his rescue if or when the things went to hell. Yet, he had accepted all that and gone in anyway, and Julia supposed it said a lot about his character as a person and a soldier.

His orders remained unchanged; he was to continue shadowing Porter for as long as he could, and extract him the moment an opportunity presented itself.

In the meantime, Section 20 would conduct its current operation; dismantling ‘Project Dawn,’ the grand plan with which Latif had vowed to rain destruction upon the entire western world.

The Next Day

18 Klicks North of US Marine FOB, Whiskey
Qalat
Afghanistan

John has one hand on the wheel, keeping the Rover galloping forward over the hills and dips of the uneven terrain while the other holds the phone to his ear. There is a beep just before the call connects, a warning that the battery is low. The call gets picked up on the second ring.

“John–”

“Hugh’s dead.” He says without preamble.

The numbness that has spread over his entire mind and body feels like a blessing. It keeps him from feeling the pain and the toll the past few days have taken. It keeps his mind from drowning in the darkness hovering in the wings.

“Oh, my God!”

“I didn’t–it wasn’t me, Layla,” John says tiredly, wondering if she would even believe him. He wouldn’t, in her place. “I never wanted to kill him.”

“What happened?” There is no accusation or judgement in her soft tone. John lets out a long exhale, feeling relieved.

“The insurgents found us. Not sure if they were a Taliban splinter group or Sharq’s people.”

It’s getting darker. He doesn’t know for how long he will be able to drive without turning on the headlights. He has two options when the night falls: drive in the dark and lose his ride by driving into an unseen ditch, or drive with the lights on and become a brightly visible target.

A couple of shit choices.

“Fuck.”

His sentiments exactly. “Layla, I need you to make that file disappear,” he says quietly. “The ballistics report, the investigation…everything. Make sure they don’t see the light of the day.”

“But–”

“Everything he did, it’s in the past, where it belongs. Where it’ll stay.” John says, willing her to understand. People make mistakes. The admittance of those mistakes, and the willingness to face consequences or at least, manning up to do the right thing even in the last possible second, have to count for something. “All I wanted was to hear the bastard admit it with his own words and he did. He died a soldier’s death, Layla, let’s make sure it’s honoured.”

A beat of silence. John waits. Then he hears a rattling sigh on her end. “As you wish,” she says, and asks worriedly, “Where–what are you going to do?”

“I’m mobile,” John replies. “I’m going to do my best to make it to Iran, and find a way home from there.”

“John–”

Another terrible thought strikes him then, causing his voice to falter, “Do I even get to return home, Layla?” he asks softly. Intellectually, he knows how deep of a shithole he’s in, but the cold numbness keeps the gravity of it from sinking in fully. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or not. “Or am I a dead man walking?”

“Never,” she says fiercely, “You keep your head down, John, and get back home in one piece. We’ll take care of the rest once you’re here, one way or another. You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do, John.”

“I’m ditching this phone and going dark,” John lets her know. “If the US Special Forces are on my arse, it won’t be long until they tap into the line.”

“Got it. Be safe out there, John.”

“That’s the plan. Wish me luck.”

The phone flies in a graceful arc and disappears somewhere in the desert shrubbery to his left as the Rover continues to roll forward. He takes a winding path, and drives slowly to keep the noise to a minimum and stretch out the mileage for as long as he can.

At least, Collinson has had the forethought to bring supplies; he has enough MRIs for a few more days, a few bottles of fresh water, a medkit and a detailed map of the region. Porter’s been in worse situations with a lot less. With a bit of luck, he should be able to make it work.

Getting the hell out of Afghanistan is his priority.

The desert night has its own kind of beauty. It’s cold and quiet, almost peaceful. It hides its lethality behind empty vastness and an endless black canopy of cloudless sky dotted with stars.

It’s an inviting sight to the naive, trusting eyes, alluring, like a deceptive predator.

John knows better. He doesn’t let his guard down as he drives. The earlier short nap he’s taken allows him to drive until well into the midnight without needing to find a place to hunker down and take a break.

It is almost one in the morning when he notices how one of the stars in his windshield grows brighter.

“Shit.”

He’s in the worst patch of road. There’s absolutely nothing for miles, no convenient hills, caves or any kind of natural or man-made structures to provide cover for him to hide his ride.

The star continues to grow in size, and he can now hear the distants patter of the rotors. Soon enough, the helicopter takes shape in his sight, and there is no mistaking its resolute advance towards him.

John curses again, stuck in a moment of indecision. On the one hand, he knows he has more chance of dodging the aerial pursuit if he ditched the ride. On the other hand, he’s reluctant to lose the mobility, and the paltry cover the vehicle provides.

The decision is taken out of his hand in the next few seconds. Caught in his own warring thoughts, he almost misses the blazing twin white trails that proceed the chopper.

He only has a split second to throw himself out of the Rover with a yell, and roll away from it before the missiles impact. The world around him erupts into thunderous chaos and bright orange, the temperature suddenly hot and searing, while an inescapable darkness from within consumes John.

A repetitive clang somehow even louder than the explosion wrenched John out of his dream, waking him up with a startled gasp.

He didn’t know the date or the time, whether it was morning or night. His prison was underground, and perpetually lit up with a few fluorescent lights scattered haphazardly across the stone ceiling.

He didn’t know how long it had been since his capture. He had been knocked unconscious by the explosion of the Rover, and lost a few days before finally waking up to the nightmare he was currently living in.

At least, they had patched him up before throwing him inside the cell, and kept him fed, watered and medicated just enough to keep him from dying.

He rolled off the tiny cot with a groan, and stumbled over to the sink to splash some water in his face. The reflection that stared back at him through the rusted mirror made him grimace; shaggy, overgrown hair, sunken, red eyes, the three inch scar running down from his left temple all the way down his jaw, broken and badly set nose, and the beard that covered half his face…John hardly recognized himself.

“What’s with the racket, Todd?” he muttered, glaring at his prison guard through the mirror.

Todd was a kid, really. Couldn’t be more than twenty two at the most. He still had that patriotic fervour shining in his eyes and the twitchy deposition common in the wet-behind-ears recruits. His desert camo BDUs were absent of any identifying markers such as his rank, branch or even name. All John knew was that he was American, and that he shared the prison-guard shift with three more soldiers just like him.

John called him Todd because the combination of his crew-cut, thin forehead and the lantern jaw made him look like a Todd. Besides, the kid seemed to hate it. All the more reason for John to stick to it.

A door above them opened and closed while John used the towel on the hanger next to the sink to dry his face.

There was a narrow, diagonal staircase about ten metres from his cell door, leading towards the floor above. As he watched, the familiar long pair of shapely legs in a tight fitting jean came sashaying down the steps.

The tall blonde with the pair of sharp blue eyes was a frequent visitor, and she liked to mix up the role she played every time John was forced to endure her presence. Sometimes, she was his jailor, sometimes interrogator and at times his bubbly best friend.

John supposed she would play the grim reaper when she decided he was just a waste of time and resources.

She preferred to avoid getting her hands dirty. She had the soldiers for that. John had a feeling she was using those physical sessions to train the recruits in the fine arts of prisoner interrogation. The woman was quite efficient.

She was also CIA, someone higher up. Porter had been circulated through at least five locations now, and she seemed to be in charge of each and every one of those bases.

John recognized the bright smile she flashed at him. She was after something, and she was willing to try the carrot first before whipping out the stick.

He went back to his cot, sat on the edge and countered with a disinterested look paired with a raised eyebrow.

“Listen to this,” she said, and took out a compact audio player. With the press of the play button, an electronically distorted male voice started to say something gravely in a language that sounded a lot like Urdu.

The file was about twenty seconds long. At the end of it, John let out a jaw cracking yawn. “What’s that? A food recipe or something?” he asked in a bored voice, “I don’t speak Arabic.”

The woman smiled thinly at him. “It’s Urdu.”

“Sounds bloody the same to me.”

The woman jerked her head at Todd, and Todd nodded back before wordlessly leaving the premises. John wasn’t inclined to give her a name. The recruits were just doing their jobs, and for all he knew, they had been told that John killed a bunch of Americans. He didn’t blame them. But this woman was a different story. John knew she was aware of his circumstances, and she had an agenda. She made the decisions.

That made him instinctively distrust her.

“Imran Sarbanri,” she said, watching him closely for a reaction, “He prefers to go by Latif. Ring any bells?”

It did. Several. Sarbanri had been a target a long while back.

“Not even a whistle,” he lied with a shrug, “Who the fuck is that?”

“He’s the guy we believe has taken over from Sharq.”

Now. Isn’t that interesting? “Good for him.”

“You know Sarbanri,” she said confidently, “In fact, you’ve made contact with him, all the way back in 2002. While you were stationed in Basra.”

She was right. John wasn’t at all surprised she had the information. It had been a joint op with the Delta Force after all.

“Must be the concussion you arseholes gave me when you fired missiles at my jeep,” John muttered, rudding a hand over the back of his skull where he could feel the rugged scar from the mostly-healed injury. “My memory’s been rather spotty lately.”

“You came across intel about a planned attack on Kenneth Bratton’s compound,” the woman went on as if John hadn’t spoken, the cheerful smile on her face never wavering. It was rather a disconcerting sight. “Your team arrested and interrogated a few insurgents, which led you to Latif. I know your team was dispatched to apprehend him. You managed to blow up his base, but Latif got away. I’ve read the reports. You saw him that day, didn’t you?”

There was something about the way she phrased the question that caught John’s attention, although he was careful not to let his interest show in his expression. For some reason, it sounded important that he had seen the insurgent.

John had gone on that mission a few months before Bratton had been taken hostage early next year. To this day, he had no idea what the military contractor’s remit had been in the middle of the warzone. His safety had been their responsibility, and the threat assessments alone had required the joint forces to provide Bratton and his complex with round the clock protection.

Sarbanri’s name had come up in a few intercepted messages, drawing their attention to the rebel leader as a potential threat. The intel from the prisoner interrogation had provided them with a possible hideout, and the order had come in from high up to launch a raid on the location.

They had managed to take over what had been a temporary facility, confiscating the laptops, phones and a few written records before blowing the place up. They had also arrested three insurgents. Two had died during the firefight that had lasted all of five minutes.

Sarbanri, however, had gotten away, using the short distraction his men created by engaging with John’s team. John had only caught a glimpse of the man as he had run towards the getaway car that came squealing down the back alley during the fight.

They had launched the raid just after midnight, and John had been lucky enough to be looking down the same direction when the rebel leader had looked back, his profile lit up by the nearest streetlight before ducking inside the vehicle.

The fact that the CIA woman seemed to be asking him, not the other two Delta Force Operators who had participated in the same raid meant that none of them had spotted the rebel leader, not enough to make a viable identification in any case.

What was more intriguing was the fact that she knew he had seen the target. John wasn’t even sure whether he mentioned that in his After-Action report.

The woman seemed convinced, and that gave John some leverage.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have some photos I’d like you to take a look–”

“Lady, I don’t know why you keep doing the same damn thing expecting a different result every time,” John cut her off with a sigh, deciding to make her work for it. Maybe he would learn the reason for the sudden interest. “I’m pretty sure there’s a term for it. Not a flattering one, I’m afraid.”

She didn’t say anything after that. Gracing him with another humourless smile, she turned around and walked out of the basement. John let out a weary sigh and laid back down on the hard, thin mattress, letting his gaze settle on the familiar rough, uneven ceiling.

He knew that smile too. She would make the recruits break out the electrodes before the day or the night was over.

18 Klicks North of US Marine FOB, Whiskey
Qalat
Afghanistan

10:16 Hours/Local (06:46 Hours/London)

Rules Of Engagement were vastly different when you were a deniable asset, conducting an operation off the books all by yourself.

On the one hand, you had freedom of movement. You weren’t bound by orders issued on site, having to issue orders in turn, maintaining/implementing rigorous schedules, or the responsibility of a team.

On the other hand, you were by yourself without anyone to rely on. You didn’t have the safety of numbers or the comforting company that you could trust to have you back when the things inevitably took a turn.

All in all, it was an entirely new experience for Michael.

It wasn’t as if he were on vacation, gallivanting around in a culturally-rich country looking for exciting adventures. He was in an active warzone – one currently quite unstable due to the death of the warlord who had kept the border region more-or-less pacified. What was worse, even the allies could turn into enemies within minutes if they were to learn about his presence around their bases, and his reasons for being there.

Lieutenant Thomspon’s briefing had been succinct, and she hadn’t held back on laying down the facts. She had made it quite clear exactly how dangerous it could get if he were discovered. He had understood that there was a good chance of him losing the career he had worked so hard to attain.

He had accepted the risks and returned to the same hellhole he had already spent closer to three years between deployments, nevertheless.

He did it because that was the right thing to do.

Michael supposed it was sheer dumb luck that the Colonel turned out to be vastly different from the bastard Collinson was. That was the only reason why he still had a job. Why Thompson had been able to take an early retirement out instead of facing charges herself.

His earpiece erupted in a burst of static, drawing his attention to his comms.

“The God is Great…”

Thompson had provided him with the latest communications and electronic gear along with a surprisingly hefty cache of weapons. Section 20 kept updating him with the weekly encryption codes for the friendly and allied bases. That way, he had a way of staying on top of the current events in the region.

The garbled message cleared after a few seconds and continued. It was another one of those propaganda messages, calling the masses to stand up and fight for their freedom. To get rid of the infection of foreign nationals occupying their lands, before their lives and cultures were destroyed beyond salvation.

He would hear at least ten variations of the same message everyday, broadcasted freely on air so that the encrypted network he was connected to could pick it up easily.

“…You will no longer dictate my life or the lives of my family, those who I love and the people of my nation.”

The Arabic translation aired the moment the message in Urdu ended. It was aimed at the villages on the border on Afghanistan’s side. The tribal lands still stuck to the ancient ways, and the modern barriers held no meaning in their minds.

“…This is your only warning. It is time for you to understand the meaning of true devastation. God is Great.”

It was the message.

Michael had received Richmond’s update the night before. That meant, another coordinated attack was going to take place in an hour’s time. They unfortunately had no way of deciphering the seemingly random locations Latif’s forces targeted just yet.

He listened to the influx of the terse, coded messages that were exchanged back and forth between the allied bases shortly after the broadcast ended. Even the base he was surveilling popped in the network to acknowledge the warning before going dark again.

Michael’s target called themselves the US Auxiliary Base, Whiskey Two. Over the course of the past six days, Michael had learned that they were an ammunition storage base. It was a small, squat structure barely the size of a two-bedroomed house, with barbed wire fencing around a thousand-square-metre yard. Judging by the number of soldiers he had clocked going in and out of the base suggested that most of the structure was underground. There was no way for it to house closer to fifty armed personnel otherwise.

What they didn’t broadcast on the net was that they also functioned as a blacksite, and that they held British Intelligence operator, Sergeant John Porter as a prisoner.

Michael was stationed seven hundred metres north-northwest from the base. He was closer to a hundred and fifty metres of elevation, perched inside a small, natural cave in the rocky hills. He had changed his own location three times, taking care to maintain a distance where his presence couldn’t be detected visually, electronically or by any other security measure that had been implemented around the base’s perimeter.

This was the fifth location to which Michael had trailed discretely along with the supply convoys when they had transported Porter. They never held him in one place for more than two weeks.

A few minutes after the propaganda transmission, a rare opportunity presented itself.

With a light tap on the comms switch taped to his chest, Michael addressed the Section 20 headquarters. “Zero, Bravo One.”

Major Sinclair’s voice greeted him within a few seconds despite the vast distances. In the absence of interference, and the occasions they chose to properly function, communications satellites were truly remarkable inventions.

“Go ahead.”

“I have something you might wanna take a look at.”

“Ready to receive.” The Major’s voice followed after the sound of a few keystrokes in the background.

Michael was using a long-range sniper rifle with transmission-capable scope. He kept everything plugged in and ready to transmit during the hours he kept an eye on the base, just in case he had to send something of value to the HQ in a hurry.

“This is the first time I have a clear line of sight on her,” he said softly after pressing the key to begin the encrypted transmission. “Pretty sure she’s the one in charge of our man. I’ve seen her a few times whenever they transported him.”

He had his crosshairs trained on the jeep that was on the road that curved around the same hill he was concealed in, leading towards the main city of Qalat. There were three soldiers, one in the driver’s seat and two in the back, all armed. But his attention was on the blond woman who was on the passenger side.

“Running her through facial recognition now,” Sinclair said. Michael heard faint commands and more typing in the background. Sinclair’s analysts were already on it. “Anything on our asset? Have you seen him?”

“Negative,” Michael reported, careful not to let his frustration colour his tone. “They haven’t moved him yet.”

He was under strict orders not to break his cover for any reason, even to rescue Porter from an imminent execution unless he could do it without being spotted. The British government was in no way prepared to risk its close relations with the US Administration over a wayward Sergeant.

Michael’s main objective was intel gathering – evidence they could use later on in case they needed to secure the cooperation of their staunchest allies for something or other.

In other words, he was out here collecting blackmail material. Porter’s safety was a secondary concern. At least, that was how it would be justified if or when Michael’s involvement ever saw the light of the day.

He had the full blessing of the Colonel to grab Porter and get him the hell out the moment he had a chance. He just had to be very careful about it.

“Bryant, Christy, US Intelligence,” Sinclair said, “Attached to Clandestine Operations. CIA Station Chief for the Southern region.”

“Fantastic.” Michael muttered, watching the jeep until it disappeared around the hill.

“Good work, Bravo One.” Sinclair continued. “Be advised. Shit’s about to blow somewhere in forty three minutes.”

“Yeah. Let’s hope Whiskey Two is not the winner of the lucky lottery.” Michael was quite certain he would be able to spot an advancing attack force, no matter how good they were at concealing themselves. But, unexpected things happened in the field more often than not, and that was how a lot of soldiers met their end.

“Keep your head down.”

“Always,” Michael acknowledged. “Bravo One out.”

Chapter 5

Two Days Later

Section 20 – Headquarters
WhiteHall
London

09:00 Hours/Local

Damien Scott stared blankly at the office that greeted him; the workstations, large monitors with ever changing information and the number of crisp BDUs and sharp suits that moved around with purpose.

Just looking at it made his headache worsen.

It was possible that it was the hangover from all the drinks the night before, or the broken nose he had distractedly popped back into place before boarding the HERC.

It was just easier to blame it all on the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed strangers.

“You look like shit.” Marshall greeted him, opening the transparent glass door to invite him in.

Captain Kate Marshall, Intelligence Analyst, Section 20. At least, that was how she had introduced herself when she had kidnapped Damien out of his home the day before.

Okay fine. Maybe ‘kidnapped’ was a slight exaggeration, so was calling the shack back in Kluang he had rented for only a week, ‘home.’ Marshall had made a compelling argument, and Damien had been in need of a quick exfiltration. Going along with her had seemed like the smart, sensible thing to do at the time.

Now, in the light of the day, when his head was relatively clear and not fuelled by adrenaline-induced fight or flight response, the snap decision seemed to have lost its appeal.

He had been sporting an impaired judgement, and clearly Damien had been brought into this fresh nightmare under duress.

“It’s what happens when you send your lackeys to drag me out of the bed in the asscrack of dawn,” he complained, following her in.

Dressed in a pair of scuffed sneakers, faded jeans and a wrinkled, button down over a t-shirt, Damien stood out like a sore thumb among the masses. Not that he cared. He had left all that bullshit behind more than eight years ago, and had no intention of embracing the spit and shine facade again.

If they wanted him to fit in, either they’d have to supply him with the uniforms, or pay him to spruce up his wardrobe.

Damien Scott’s services and labour were expensive these days.

“It’s nine.”

Was that a touch of exasperation he detected? Good. Misery shared was misery lessened.

“Exactly.” Damien yawned.

“There’s a break room, third door down that corridor,” Marshall stopped and jerked her head to the left, “there’s coffee.”

“You couldn’t lead with that?” Damien grumbled, and immediately changed his trajectory towards the much-needed caffeine.

“Five minutes, Scott,” Marshall called after him, “Don’t be late for your briefing.”

The asshole they sent to pick him up had barely given him time to brush his teeth and take a piss let alone wake up like a regular human, take a shower and have breakfast.

If they needed him coherent, they had to let him rouse himself first.

Damien came out of the break room armed with a big mug of surprisingly good coffee. Marshall led him through a maze of cubicles to an open area that Damien knew was a command and information centre.

There were four workstations, all occupied by analysts and techs gawking at their monitors and mumbling into the mouthpieces of their headsets. The massive main screen hung against the wall at the end, divided into six sub windows. Surveillance feeds from satellites and traffic cams littered the display. To the left of it, there was another screen, bearing regional maps of the Afghanistan and Pakistan border. The screen on the main’s right was dedicated to the transcripts of comms traffic. The rapidly shifting masses of text seemed to be a mix of English, Arabic and a number of other variants Damien had no hope of identifying.

Marshall led him all the way through another set of transparent doors to an office adjacent to the CIC.

Inside the office, a woman sat behind a desk, with a man in BDUs standing to her right.

The CO and her 2IC of the fancy little outfit.

“Ma’am,” Marshall came to a parade rest, and nodded politely at the duo. “Scott, this is Colonel Grant, commanding officer of Section 20.”

Grant wore her dark brown hair in a short crew cut. She had grey eyes, a straight hawk-like nose, a tight-lipped mouth and an unimpressed expression. Damien shook the stiff hand she offered, and saw no reason to wipe off the insolent grin he wore despite the good Colonel’s narrow-eyed glare.

“And this is Major Sinclair,” Marshall continued, and Damien shook hands with the tall, dark, bearded man as well, not even a little fazed by the stony look he received.

They didn’t want him there, and he didn’t particularly want to be there either. The circumstances had forced all their hands. The signs were already there that it was going to be a dream job.

“Thank you, Captain.” Grant dismissed Marshall with a nod.

Damien let the two Brits silently judge him for all of three seconds before casually taking the chair across from Grant, slurping his coffee noisily.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Grant inquired.

“Yeah,” Damien shrugged, “The pretty Captain mentioned you wanted to pick my brain about a certain asshole.”

Marshall hadn’t been that forthcoming with the details of the deal. All Damien knew was that he was here to share what he knew about a terrorist he had hunted years ago.

“Imran Sarbanri, Latif, we believe is the newest player in the region. His rise to power is rather new. It’s only been a few months, but he’s been in the game for a long time. You’ve encountered him before.”

‘Encountered’ was a strong word. ‘Caught a glimpse of the fucker when he had turned tail and run’ was a better description for Damien’s interaction with the rebel. He decided not to share that detail yet.

“Yeah, it was back in late 2002,” Damien gulped down the last of his coffee, wishing he had filled two mugs. He remembered the mission Grant was talking about. A Delta/SAS joint team had conducted the midnight raid. “My team was part of Kenneth Bratton’s security detail. We came across intel that Sarbanri was trying to break into Bratton’s facility. We found him before he could make a move.”

Kenneth Bratton had been a military contractor, and direct orders from the JSOC had come down the line shortly after his arrival to the region, elevating his security to the highest priority. They had never really been told why such an exalted status was attached to the contractor, however, or what had merited the privilege.

“He got away.”

“Yes,” Damien said, holding Grant’s gaze with an uncompromising one of his own. “He did.”

Damien had already gone through the post-op debrief at length. He had no intention of repeating the age-old experience.

Grant blinked first, and let out a quiet sigh before exchanging a glance with the silent Major. “We need your help, in a consultant’s capacity,” she said, her tone turning a little wry, “Your military background is a plus in the field, since you already know your way around firearms, and can hold your own in a fight. In short, we need you to identify Latif.”

Damien laughed. He didn’t really mean to, but he couldn’t help himself. It took almost a minute for him to realise that Grant and Sinclar hadn’t joined in on the fun.

“Oh,” he swallowed, “You’re serious.”

“We hardly have any intel on him other than the messages he’d been broadcasting all over the Eastern border for the past four months,” Grant continued, unfazed, “We don’t have a file on him. We only have rough estimates of his forces. All we know is that he’s been randomly attacking the allied FOBs along the border, and that he’s planning something big that could potentially blow right on our doorstep.”

“That’s where you come in,” Sinclair spoke for the first time, “The moment we have any actionable intel, we need to move. And you need to be on that team to make a positive ID.”

“You need me for that?” Damien asked incredulously.

Johnson, the other Delta Force operator who had gone on that op, was dead. Not in the theatre, but at home, run over by a drunk driver while returning from a fucking grocery run. Damien knew because his wife had been kind enough to call him and let him know. Johnson had been one of the only squadmates who hadn’t believed the charges the brass had piled up on Damien. Due to the questions and suspicions he had raised regarding Bratton’s activities, Damien had already been on thin ice months before Bratton had been kidnapped. Then, two weeks after the raid at Latif’s facility, they had brought the hammer down on his head.

The responsibility of the contractor’s safe recovery had rested solely with the SAS.

But that was a whole nother mess Damien had no inclination to revisit.

The thing was, even with Johnson gone, the Section 20 still had the two SAS operators who had gone on the same op that day. Damien was sure they had seen the same shit he had. One of them was John Porter, whom he knew rather well; a crazy fucker with a morbid sense humor and terrible luck. The other one was Andrews, Porter’s second in command, a quiet sort of a guy Damien hadn’t really interacted with much.

“Why don’t you ask the SAS counterparts?” Damien asked, frowning. “I was kind of busy dragging my buddy out behind cover before those fucks shot him again.”

Johnson had caught a round on the thigh, and they had been lucky to return to base with that as the only casualty. His injury had cost him his top-tier status, but at least, he had survived.

“We can’t.” Grant said flatly.

“What do you mean…” Damien cut himself off when his slow brain finally caught onto the meaning behind Grant’s flinty glare. “Shit! Both of them?” Dead already? Fuck!

“Yes,” Grant said, and didn’t share any further details. “As it stands, you’re the only Westerner who’s fought against Latif before now, and the only man who has actually seen him.”

“Fuck me,” Damien muttered, choosing to stare at the empty coffee mug instead of the twin glowers that pinned him in place.

“We have an entire file worth of images we’ve accumulated during counter insurgency operations,” Grant said, “Casualties, bodies and surveillance photos taken in the border towns, on both sides. Until we get something solid to go on, I want you to go through them all and see if Latif was captured in any of it. It’s a lot of work, but we need to eliminate the possibility. Major Sinclair will take you to your station, get you set up–”

“Whoa! Wait!” Damien held up a hand, his lips twitching almost involuntarily at her instant glare. There was a time he would have jumped with both feet in, orders received and eager to obey. Those times were long gone now. He decided it was a good time to remind her of his conditions. “We haven’t even discussed my payment yet.”

Grant graced him with a thin smile. “You get a chance at finishing what you started in Basra eight years back. Isn’t that enough?”

Damien let his smile grow wider, a little nastier. He wasn’t one of her obedient little soldiers.

“Not even remotely,” he shrugged. “It was a botched mission. Luckily no one died on our side. If you want me to slog through a million photos and shit, you’ll pay me a salary that’s competitive with top-tier PMCs, living allowance, and private health insurance and unlimited expenses.”

“Is that all?” Grant scoffed sarcastically.

“Oh, and there’s a couple of debt collectors I’d like paid off, too,” Damien replied easily, “And business-class travel twice a year back to the States.”

“You’ll find me my target first,” Grant dictated in a voice that was positively seething, to Damien’s great amusement. “In the likely event you have to be deployed in the field with the rest of the team, you’ll prove yourself to me that you’re an asset, not a liability. You’ll be paid at scale with no extra privileges whatsoever. You’ll follow every order you are given to the T, and maintain proper military discipline and respect at all times.”

Damien cocked his head to the side, pretending to consider her counteroffer. He was most definitely the wrong guy for the job. While it was true that Damien had a lot more capacity in his memory than an average human, he had only seen the rough silhouette of the terrorist when he had ducked out of the back door. Damien didn’t think that was remotely enough to do what Grant needed.

“I don’t know,” Damien said in a bored voice, mostly to bide time. He had to figure out a way to slip out of the trap he could feel closing around him before it was too late. Now he had irrefutable evidence why he really shouldn’t make decisions while inebriated.

“Let’s not kid ourselves, Scott,” Grant sneered, “It’s not like you’ll ever get a better offer, or, indeed, any offer anywhere else.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Damien agreed with another carefree grin, figuring now or never. It was time for him to bail. He stood up from the chair and flashed the Colonel and the Major another confident grin. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not sold. So if you’ll excuse me–”

“Trojan Horse.”

Damien froze. Grant couldn’t have incapacitated him with a point-blank shot to his forehead the way she did with those two words. They rang in his head like a gong, shaking loose a reel of black memories he had done his best to bury for the past eight years.

“What did you say?” his question came out quiet, in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.

“Latif didn’t plan his uprising yesterday, Scott,” Grant said just as gravely, “He had already started when you came across him in Basra.”

“That wasn’t where I had seen that reference, Colonel,” Damien said, wondering exactly how much she knew about the ominous code, and what it contained.

“I know,” she said, “Do this job, and I’ll tell you exactly why you were brought up on charges that everyone involved knew were false, and why you had to be kicked out of the army. You came close to figuring out something way above your paygrade, and you were a potential leak that had to be plugged with maximum efficiency. Stick with us, and you’ll have your closure.”

“You got yourself a deal, Colonel.” Damien said.

He didn’t know if she would keep her word. Worse, he had no idea how he would deliver on his own promise. All he knew was that had to try his goddamn best. He finally had a chance to find out what ruined his career, and his life, and he had no intention of letting that slip through his fingers.

Five days Later

Quetta
Balochistan
Pakistan

Waking up felt much more painful and confusing than usual, for some reason.

John kept his eyes closed, his body still, and took stock of himself, wondering what had changed.

Everything hurt. His head, face, torso, arms, legs, fingertips… his fucking hair. Every. Bloody. Thing.

It took him a moment to figure out why it felt like he had been so thoroughly tenderised. The memory that floated to the forefront of his mind was hazy, but it was as good an explanation as any.

“Imran Sarbanri, or, as he prefers to call himself these days, Latif, was operating in Iraq back in 2002, using a small town called Al Ashar in Basra as his base…”

She stood a few feet away from him, well out of the splatter zone. John’s wrists and ankles were bound, and he was hanging from a hook above his head. It was high enough that he had to stay on his toes to keep his shoulders from dislocating due to too much strain.

At least, he had lost a lot of weight during the past – two, three, four? – months, and he felt more like a dirty piece of linen than a rotting piece of meat.

Starvation was the least of his problems, however. The CIA didn’t want him dead just yet, so they kept him fed just enough to keep him alive and functioning. Currently, he was going through a brutal, yet not too sophisticated interrogation session.

The woman asked the questions. The two recruits she had with her got to test their boxing skills using him as a punching bag when John failed to provide the answers.

“Lady, are you even sure this is the same guy?” John spat a glob of bloody saliva to the side. It landed on the left boot of the recruit with bloody knuckles, making him take a step back in disgust. A small victory. “You said he was Pakistani earlier, didn’t you?”

He only remembered the bits and pieces of the pre-mission brief that had happened all those years ago. Their local contacts had insinuated that Sarbanri wasn’t a native, that he had only arrived in Iraq for a specific purpose. He had only had a small group, mostly his own people who had followed him from home. It was another reason why they hadn’t had a lot of intel on the man, and his operations. The capture of the insurgents from his outfit had been a stroke of luck.

John saw no reason to make the CIA woman’s life easier by sharing any of it.

The blonde smiled, and ignored him, “We suspect he relocated back to the land of his father when his plans didn’t work out in Iraq.”

“If you know so much about him, why the fuck are you asking me?”

He got another fist to the side of his gut for it, but John saw the woman lose her smile a fraction. Another win.

“Look,” she snapped, and woke up the projector that had gone to sleep during her questions. John squeezed his eyes shut with a hiss. The sudden bright light in the otherwise darkened room transformed the ache in his head into white hot agony. “I said, look.”

It was either doing as she ordered or losing a rib. John squinted at the wall she was using as a screen for the projector. “Is Sarbanri in any of these stills?”

It was a reel of surveillance photos taken all over the town; of markets, near mosques, the roads and neighbourhoods. It had been suspected that Sarbanri made a lot of contacts while he was in the country. The woman was trying to make him confirm if they had managed to capture the insurgent on any of those crowd clusters.

In other words, she was trying to use him to find a specific needle in a stack of almost identical needles.

“I don’t fucking know!” he growled.

His insolence earned him another painful round of punches and kicks. While he was wheezing to catch his breath, John heard her threat as if from a far distance:

“We can do this all day, Porter.”

It felt as if she had kept her promise.

What didn’t make sense was the fact that his hands were still bound behind his back. They never really bothered when they dragged his unconscious body back to the cell and dumped him on his cot to recover.

Also, why the fuck was there a cover over his head?

John resolutely refused to believe that they had beaten him so bad that he had gone blind. No amount of blinking chased away the absolute darkness around him, and the feel of coarse material rubbing against the side of his face and his nose was a comfort rather than the massive irritation it actually was. It helped him keep his calm, and reinforce the conviction that he hadn’t lost his sight.

The sound of hurried footsteps made him freeze. A door unlocked somewhere to his right, and a couple of voices shouting at each other in Arabic drew near.

That wasn’t good. Alarm bells rang in his mind, flooding equal amounts of panic and adrenaline in his system.

There weren’t any recruits in the base that sounded like that. These men definitely weren’t Americans. They were natives.

What the fuck was going on?

Somebody gripped his shoulders suddenly, and John wriggled like a man possessed, his previous aches and pains forgotten, trying to get away from the hands grabbing at him.

“Stop fighting,” one man snapped with heavily accented English, and they hauled him to his feet with forceful grips on his arms. “Come.”

John cursed, struggled for all his worth and even managed to catch one of his unseen captors with a kick to a knee. A vicious strike to his gut with what felt like a rifle butt soon put an end to his short-lived defiance.

The two men dragged him through a winding path for some distance before letting go of him. John dropped to the ground like a puppet without strings. He grunted, trying to breathe in a way that aggravated his screaming ribs the least. Laying on his side on a cold, rough floor at the feet of his captors, it was only then John realised how weak and in pain he was.

The head cover was unceremoniously ripped off of his head. John squinted up at three impassive faces watching him. The three rifles pointed at him said that they weren’t taking any chances with him.

“Mr Porter.”

The cultured voice didn’t belong to any of those faces. It came from somewhere behind him. Measured footsteps brought another bearded face to the circle above him. The stranger was also dressed in the same local garb as the others, although his keffiyeh was wrapped around his neck instead of his head.

He was different from the rest, and he spoke with barely any accent, which suggested that he had been educated overseas, possibly even in the UK.

None of it mattered, however, as much as the fact that this man knew John by his name. And that John had absolutely no recollection of how he went from being a prisoner of the CIA to being captured by the locals.

Frying pans and fires had nothing on this nightmarish development.

“Who the fuck are you?” John demanded hoarsely.

The man tsked, and shook head like a disappointed teacher. “Why do Westerners always insist on being so impolite? Crude? There’s no need for swearing.”

He nodded at his men, and one of them slung his rifle over his shoulder before bending over John to haul him up by his arm. Kneeling before them wasn’t any better than lying at their feet. But, as restrained and injured as he was, John didn’t really have any other options.

“Met and killed a lot of us, did you?” John sneered.

Now that he was upright, John could see a little bit more of his surroundings. The walls he could see – built out of the same flimsy sheets, planks and bamboo-like shoots almost all the native structures sported – were bare, and windowless. To his left, there was a narrow corridor, which he assumed led to the same area where he woke up. The room was empty, with nothing in the form of furniture. The flat ceiling above his head suggested that there was another floor above.

It was hot, stifling, and the room was only dimly illuminated by a single bulb hanging down from the ceiling. John still had no idea what day or time it was.

The disorientation on top of everything was starting to grate on his already frayed nerves.

“Well, what can I say?” The man opened his arms expansively, “It’s a harsh country, but it is ours. You have no business trampling all over our soil, fighting a war that has nothing to do with you for your own gains.”

John raised an inquiring eyebrow, “Which country is it again?” Am I still in Afghanistan? Or have I crossed borders?

“It matters not,” the man said, taking a step to the side, revealing a sight that had John’s already bruised and battered insides tightening even more painfully. “Not for the purpose you’re here for.”

It was a video camera on a tripod, its lens aimed straight at him with a blinking red dot on its side. Craning his neck back, John saw the flag covering the wall behind him. It was a dark piece of cloth, exact colour unclear due to the dim lighting. It had writings, words and phrases written in what he assumed was Arabic. There weren’t any identifiable markers on the flag to discern which country or group of insurgents it represented.

One of the men stepped back, and picked up a board that was leaning against the wall. When he turned it around, John saw that the message on it was written in English. The intention of the gesture was clear. John was to read it for the record.

‘To the Imperialist powers of the West. I, Sergeant John Porter, confess to the crime of being a British spy, trespassing on the holy soil of Pakistan. The people of this nation have tasted humiliation and contempt for decades, her sons murdered, her holy places desecrated…The time has come to end it. The time has come for the Righteous to claim victory.

Latif demands the immediate release of all his oppressed brothers being held in British and American prisons. Unless his brothers are freed, my life will be sacrificed as just retribution. God is great!’

That answered a few questions.

John had no idea whether they only wanted to record or broadcast the damned thing live. Either options weren’t good, not when it was abundantly clear that they weren’t really expecting anyone to adhere to the demands. There were no specific names, or deadlines. It was just a broad statement, a bold claim and a promise. John could easily guess how it would go down.

They would release the initial recording as a taunt, and when they were sure they had an adequate audience, they would follow up with the spectacle of John’s very public and gory death.

The situation was only made worse by the fact that they knew John; his name, rank and his nationality. Even though they didn’t know exactly what kind of a nasty mess they would kick up by putting his face on the internet for all the world to see, it would certainly get them what they clearly wanted; Attention.

Whichever way this went, John wasn’t going to be around long enough to see the aftermath.

“I’m not going to read shit, you prick,” John snarled, sudden fear fuelling his anger. He barely felt the punch that landed across his jaw.

“Here’s how this is going to go down, John,” the man said calmly, ignoring his outburst, “You read the message, and you get to live a few more days as a reward. Use that time to think about the life you lived, things you’ve done, until it’s time to leave this world. If you don’t, I read it for you, and then alter the end to reflect that we’re serious about our message, and execute you right now. Believe me, John, it’s not very hard to find soldiers like you to become our ambassadors. The lands are crawling with an abundance.”

John held his gaze with his own, refusing to back down. It was just a matter of time, and he would die anyway. His real choices were whether he would go down fighting, with his head held high, defiant as ever, or whether he would cave to their demands, and read propaganda for their benefit like a pathetic loser.

There was no one coming to his rescue, John knew that for a fact. There was no hope at the end of the line, no reason to fight for time. He didn’t really stand a chance, not with his already injured and broken body.

Most of all, he was just damned tired.

His choice, therefore, was obvious.

John took a careful breath, as deep as he could make it without the pain shooting up his chest. He let it out slowly, along with the jarring anger that was competing against mortal fear. He felt a lot calmer after the decision was made.

“A few minutes, a few days…there’s no difference–” John said softly, “Do your worst. I’m not reading shit.”

I’m not going to make this any easier for you. Go fuck yourself.

“Very well.” The man nodded once, and said something in his language. Two of his men took positions on either side, well out of the frame of the recording and in a way they wouldn’t shoot each other instead of John, and aimed their rifles at his head. The other one went behind the camera, and flashed a thumbs up.

John was either being recorded, broadcasted live or both. He still didn’t know.

The leader stepped outside of the camera frame, placed the placard with the message on the floor by his feet. He didn’t seem to need it.

“Since you’re about to put a bullet in my head, why don’t you tell me who the fuck you are, hmm?” John asked, mostly to distract himself from the inevitable.

He smiled, and lied with a straight face:

“Why Mr Porter, I’m sure you’ve heard of me already. I’m Latif.”

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