Some heroes betrayed their brothers to save their children.
He’d have to live with being that kind of hero.
The countdown had begun, and none of them, except Sullivan, knew that the mission was compromised before it even started.
The C-130’s cargo hold smelled of hydraulic fluid and old canvas—the kind of smell that soaked into military equipment over decades and never quite left. Four operators sat along the webbing seats, checking equipment for the hundredth time. Checking because equipment failure at twenty-eight thousand feet meant death. Checking because it gave their hands something to do besides shake.
The aircraft’s engines droned at a pitch that made conversation difficult. Not that anyone was talking much. This close to the drop, words felt superfluous. Each person was lost in his or her own thoughts, own fears, own understanding of what they were about to attempt.
Evelyn sat closest to the jump door, running through the plan again in her mind. Every detail. Every contingency. Every second of the eighteen-minute window mapped out like a choreographed dance where one misstep meant everyone died.
She thought about Garrett, wondered what four years of captivity had done to him. If he’d still be the same man she dragged out of Syria. If the torture had broken something fundamental. If he’d even be able to walk when she found him.
Didn’t matter. She’d carry him if necessary. Drag him if that’s what it took. She hadn’t come this far to leave without him.
The loadmaster appeared, making his way down the hold. He gave the ten-minute signal. Time to pre-breathe pure oxygen.
At twenty-eight thousand feet, the air was too thin to sustain consciousness. Jump without proper oxygen saturation and you’d pass out during freefall. Wake up dead, if you woke up at all.
Each operator connected their oxygen hose. The flow started—four liters per minute of pure O2 flushing nitrogen from their bloodstream, preventing the bends, preventing hypoxia, preventing the hundred ways that altitude could kill you before you ever left the aircraft.
Evelyn checked her altimeter, her GPS, her reserve chute, her primary chute, her oxygen flow indicator—every piece of equipment that stood between her and oblivion.
All green. All functional. All ready.
She looked at her team. Callahan methodically checking his medical kit. Brennan test-firing his rifle’s action, ensuring the cold hadn’t seized the mechanism. Sullivan sitting very still, staring at nothing, lost somewhere inside his own head.
Something about Sullivan bothered her. Had bothered her since the briefing. The way he’d hesitated. The way he’d mentioned his family. The way his eyes wouldn’t quite meet hers when they’d loaded onto the aircraft.
She pushed the thought aside. Too late for doubt now. Too late for second-guessing. They were committed. The only way out was through.
The loadmaster returned.
“Five-minute warning.”
Red light illuminated above the jump door.
Final equipment check. Each operator inspecting the man next to him, looking for loose straps, disconnected gear, anything that could fail. Brennan checked Evelyn’s rig. She checked Sullivan’s. Callahan checked Brennan’s. Sullivan checked Callahan’s. A chain of mutual dependence. Your life in someone else’s hands. Their life in yours.
All green. All ready.
The red light cast everything in a crimson glow, like the inside of a heart. Like being swallowed by something vast and hungry.
“Three minutes.”
Evelyn stood, moved to the jump door. The others formed up behind her, single file, ready to exit on her signal.
The loadmaster opened the door. The world exploded with sound and wind. The slipstream tore at her, trying to rip her out before she was ready. The temperature inside the hold plummeted. Minus forty degrees Fahrenheit outside. The kind of cold that didn’t just chill—it burned.
She looked out into darkness. Twenty-eight thousand feet below, the earth was invisible. Just blackness and stars and the thin line of horizon where the two met.
She was about to fall into nothing. About to trust physics and fabric and training to keep her alive.
“Two minutes.”
She thought about Cole, the way he’d stepped in front of that RPG without hesitation. The way he’d died so she could live. She thought about Preacher, his last words, his last look. The forgiveness in his eyes even as she left him behind.
This jump was for them. This mission was for them. Everything she’d become in the four years since Syria was because they’d paid a price she couldn’t repay. But she could honor it. She could finish what they’d started. She could bring Garrett home.
“One minute.”
The loadmaster held up one finger.
Evelyn’s hand went to her chest, checking one last time that her ripcord was accessible, that her reserve handle was clear, that every life-saving device was exactly where muscle memory expected it to be.
“Thirty seconds.”
She moved to the edge, toes over the ramp, wind screaming past, the void calling. She didn’t look back at her team. Didn’t need to. Either they were ready or they weren’t. Either they’d follow or they wouldn’t. She’d find out in about ten seconds.
The light changed from red to green.
Evelyn stepped into nothing.
The wind hit her like a physical thing, tore the breath from her lungs, spun her for half a second before training took over and she arched, stabilizing. Arms out, legs spread, falling at terminal velocity toward the earth she couldn’t see.
One thousand one.
One thousand two.
One thousand three.
Behind her, three more bodies tumbled into the void. She couldn’t see them yet, couldn’t hear anything but wind. But the weight on her back told her they were there, the IR strobe on her helmet marking her position. Trust they’d find her. Trust they’d form up.
Fifteen seconds into the fall, Brennan appeared on her left, tracking her through the darkness. Then Callahan on her right. Then Sullivan below and behind. All four operators falling together, a formation held together by skill and faith and the shared understanding that separation meant death.
The altimeter on her wrist glowed green in the darkness.
Twenty-six thousand feet.
Twenty-four thousand.
Twenty-two thousand.
Falling at a hundred twenty miles per hour, the earth rushing up to meet them even though they couldn’t see it yet.
Evelyn watched the numbers tick down, watched the GPS track their position, watched the wind drift them exactly as she’d calculated.
Thirty-seven hundred feet west of their intended freefall end point. The numbers matching her predictions within meters. She’d done the math right. Now she had to hope physics agreed.
Eighteen thousand feet.
Sixteen thousand.
Fourteen thousand.
The darkness below began to take shape. Terrain features emerging from blackness: mountains, valleys, the thin ribbon of a road cutting through wilderness.
The target compound still invisible, but getting closer with every second.
Ten thousand feet.
Eight thousand.
Six thousand.
Evelyn’s hand moved to her ripcord handle.
Not yet. Not yet.
Wait for the exact altitude. Deploy too high and you’re visible for too long. Deploy too low and you don’t have time to fix malfunctions before you crater.
Four thousand feet.
Thirty-five hundred.
Now.
She pulled.
The pilot chute deployed, dragged the main canopy out of her pack. She felt the tug, the opening shock, the sudden deceleration from terminal velocity to fifteen miles per hour, like hitting a wall made of air.
Above her, the MC6 canopy blossomed, black fabric against black sky, nearly invisible. She grabbed the toggles, checked the canopy for malfunctions.
All good. Full flight. Controllable.
Around her, three more canopies deployed. Brennan, Callahan, Sullivan—all good deployments, all flying, all tracking toward the landing zone she’d marked on their GPS units.
The ground was visible now, rising up in shades of gray. Mountains becoming real. Trees taking shape. The landing zone, a small clearing marked by her GPS as a glowing waypoint.
She flew the canopy like she’d done it a thousand times, because she had. Spiraling down, trading altitude for position. The wind pushing her exactly where she needed to go.
Two hundred feet.
One hundred feet.
Fifty feet.
She flared the canopy, converting forward speed into lift.
Touchdown. Soft feet. Knees. Roll. Combat landing. Up immediately, hand on her rifle, scanning for threats.
Nothing.
“Clear.”
Brennan landed ten meters to her left. Then Callahan. Then Sullivan.
Rally point. Thirty seconds. Weapons hot. Perimeter established.
They’d made it.
Phase one complete.
Now came the hard part.
Evelyn checked her GPS.
Eight kilometers to the compound. Two hours to cover it.
She looked at her team, made eye contact with each.
“Ready?”
Three nods.
“Move.”
