Calling it quits at five o'clock, Mark exited the front of the Chilvati building, anxious to get home for his meeting with Paul. Being Friday, he knew there would be news from Bruce.

His cell phone beeped. Fishing it out of his pocket and seeing the notification labelled GINNY had him grinning ear to ear. He crossed the street before stopping to read it.

Screeching tires and the metallic grind and thump of a sliding door being thrown open pulled his concentration away from her typed words, and he glared over his shoulder at the interruption. There was just enough time to catch a glimpse of the van before a cloth hood dropped down over his head while rough hands grabbed at his arms. He managed to yank one of them free.

As he went for the hood, a massive shock hit into his lower back and spread in every direction from the point of impact. Blindly, he grappled for the phone as it fell from his hands, his grip loosened by painful pulses. He heard it hit the pavement as he was being dragged, his abductors handling him like a sack of potatoes. When his back made contact with cold, hard metal, he knew he was lying on the floor inside the van. He tried punching his arms out to hit bodies but couldn't move. He tried yelling but couldn't speak. He tried tracking their conversation, but there were too many voices and he couldn't concentrate. What did register was the throbbing pain in the back of his head.

"He's fighting it. Christ, he's going to give himself a concussion," a male voice called out over the rest.

"Do what you have to," was yelled from farther away.

Without warning, there was a pinch on his upper arm.

Mark strained to remember the few words in her text he had managed to read, staunchly fighting against the pull of unconsciousness . . . losing the battle by the third blink.

)l(

Bruce started jogging to keep up. The tank was far ahead now, but he could still hear the metal tracks ripping at the dirt road beneath it. It had yet to fire and was unlikely to—just the sight of a tank was enough to send the Taliban into a retreat.

Unfortunately, retreating didn't stop them from shooting. Mortar rounds had already done their damage, aimed without accuracy or remorse into a village filled with innocent people.

As the tank took care of what was in front of it, the real mission went on behind it. Mark and Steve were up ahead, about to turn a corner and go down the road where intelligence had last placed their target. Adam and Ben had turned down the street they had just passed to make their approach from the rear.

The one-story mud building on Bruce's right had been hit, a corner section of it gouged away like a filched piece of cake, the rubble tossed about like scattered crumbs. As he passed, he glanced inside and saw children lined up against the far wall, their faces wet with tears as they clung to each other. It didn't take long to find the source of their despair—a woman lying on the ground near the gaping hole, her legs and lower back covered in what had only minutes ago been a wall.

Bruce stopped, his feet refusing to take another step despite the fact that the adrenaline kept flowing and he needed to catch up. An explosion rang out from further down the street. The woman's hand moved. She was alive.

He started toward her.

"Major!"

If he could dig her out, the medics might be able to help her.

"Major!"

He stepped over the rubble, ducking his head to fit through the opening. A hand on his shoulder swung him around. Mark was right in his face. At least it looked like Mark—with the helmet and ballistic glasses, identification was somewhat restricted.

"Major, we need to go," he yelled.

What the—? Mark's mouth didn't line up with the spoken words, and his voice was . . . strange.

"Major." His shoulder got a hard shake.

Bruce frowned, struggling to understand why his boss had gone all foreign film on him. Somebody needed—

More shaking. "Major, wake up."

Bruce jolted awake, heart racing, armpits and inner thighs slippery with sweat.

A helmeted head leaned over him—not Mark's. "Major, we need to get you out of here."

"What?" he croaked, the line between asleep and awake still slightly blurred.

"Chopper's waiting, Major. Let's pack up your gear."

Bruce shook his head. "No, no, I can't go." Not yet. He needed one more day. Just one more day.

"General Evans's orders, Major."

Bruce looked around. His roommates were in various stages of alertness, two of them propped up on elbows and wiping sleep from their eyes, only to have curiosity replace it.

Bruce sat up and pushed off the sleeping bag. "I need to say goodbye to someone." He stood, grabbing for his uniform.

"Can't let you do that, sir." The man swung his gaze around the room. "This is a stealth mission. We already have too many eyes."

There wasn't much to pack since he hadn't really unpacked. Within minutes, with duffel bag in hand, he was being ushered out of the tent. He put the brakes on by the doorway, turning to one of his roommates. Captain Tremain was a real solid guy, someone Bruce knew he could trust. Bruce's escort obliged and waited, his stance shifting with impatience. Captain Tremain stood up, looking a little ridiculous wearing nothing but khaki boxers and a stunned look.

"Tell Commander Wilson I said goodbye," Bruce said.

The captain nodded. "I will."

"And tell her—" Tell her what? That you failed to do what you promised, yet again? His mind flashed to those faces in the pit. "Tell her I didn't want to go."

His roommate nodded again.

Bruce's time was up. A hand clamped down on his upper arm and he was pulled outside. The Venom helicopter was sitting silent in the distance near the main gate, its dark silhouette menacing in the graying shadows of predawn.

A radio appeared in his escort's hand. "Hen House, this is Rooster," he spoke into it as he broke into a run, forcing Bruce to do the same. "I've got The Fox."

The blades started to rotate.

)l(

Paul pushed his chair under his desk and headed for the door. After passing behind the female agent who had given him Michelle Callahan's file, he halted, tilted his head back, and blew air at the ceiling. Pivoting around, they locked eyes for a split second before she wrenched her head back to her work. She seemed to stiffen as he walked over.

"You were right," he said.

She looked up at him from her chair, the large round glasses giving her an owlish look . . . even more so when she raised her brows.

Opening the folder in his hand, he pulled out the picture Bruce had sent earlier in the day and dropped it on the desk. It showed Morris standing in front of a rundown building with two other men. He pointed to the Pakistani. "That's Syed Ahmed, a rug manufacturer based in Pakistan."

As she studied the photo, her lips parted and a pink glob appeared between them. It slowly grew larger, a bubble for Christ's sake! With a shift of her jaw, it broke, the resulting snap as jarring as the crack of a whip. Once the remnants were secured back inside, she drew out a, "Wow."

Paul's face hardened. He knew sarcasm when he heard it.

Her head lifted to the screen in front of her. "Technically, it's his brother, Asad Ahmed, who owns the business, but I appreciate the tip."

He followed her gaze, seeing two men with similar features standing arm-in-arm in a photo, a desert landscape stretching out behind them. The one on the right was his Mr. Ahmed.

"Well"—he grabbed up the picture—"I see you're one step ahead of me. I won't waste any more of your time."

She looked up at him with an exaggerated grimace. "Your Marilyn is in a whole heap of trouble."

"She's not my—" He frowned. "Whatever," he muttered. Jamming the picture back into the file, it snagged on other clipped papers. After three attempts he finally got the thing in and lying flat.

Paul turned and retraced his steps toward the door. Man, you try to help some people and all you get is—

"Captain Sullivan, a word please," Agent Carter called from across the bullpen.

Nuh-uh, no way. Without missing a stride, Paul shouted over his shoulder, "Sorry, no time. I'm meeting Colonel Spinelli."

"This is about the colonel."

Something in Carter's tone brought Paul to an abrupt halt. Spinning around, he captured the agent in his glare. "What about him?"

Carter squinted as he scratched the back of his head. "Well . . . it's . . ."

Paul stalked across the room, bearing down on the man with a pounding impatience. The bullpen fell silent but for the sporadic squeak of chairs swiveling on their bases as the rest of the staff rubbernecked what was going down. Yet there was no drawback, no cringe, not even a flinch on Carter's part as he crossed his arms and held his line.

With the agent's chin only a foot away from his chest, Paul lowered his voice and growled, "I don't want any of your FBI bullshit. Tell me what's happened. Who fucked up?"

END OF CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Oh my goodness, there is a LOT happening in this chapter. Mark abducted and Bruce being forced to leave before he was ready!!!! And what about Claire?!😳

Up next: Virginia hears the news. What do you think she's going to do?

Dedicated to @Doritakw , my little re-reader. I think I may have tricked you into reading my books from the start, but I'm so glad I did ❤️ Your comments always go straight to my heart, and I appreciate you making sure every chapter gets a little ⭐️