Yawning, I take a quick shower and get into bed. And then, predictably, I can’t fall asleep.
Getting up, I read some more, then scribble down the words to a melody that’s been in the back of my mind all day. It’s angry and dark, far from my usual music, but something about it feels right—raw and honest and healing.
Feeling tired again, I return to bed, and this time, I drift off into uneasy slumber.
93
Henderson
Icy air whooshes past my ears, drowning out the terrified roar of my heartbeat as we plummet through the pitch-black sky from thirty thousand feet. The night is on our side; the clouds hide even the faintest glow of moonlight.
My night vision goggles are strapped over my oxygen mask, and I see the four other figures next to me. We freefall for what seems like forever before I feel a violent jolt, and the parachutes above us deploy.
“There,” Danser says over the comms as the outlines of the treetops appear below. “That’s our landing spot.”
It’s a forested patch deep inside Esguerra’s compound, far from the guard towers at the perimeter. The main danger here are the drones that patrol the air, but thanks to the CIA’s latest gadget, I have a solution for that.
When we’re right over the tree line, my device detects the approaching drones and automatically syncs with them, allowing my contact at the CIA to control the cameras while we’re in range. The drone operators won’t see anything but the usual scenery as our parachutes float by.
Since I haven’t done high-altitude jumps in two decades, I’m flying tandem with Danser, and his feet touch the ground first, taking the brunt of the impact. Still, my knees nearly buckle as we land, narrowly avoiding getting impaled by a tree branch. As I bend over to catch my breath, Danser unhooks the parachute gear from us both and stuffs it into the bushes.
The rest of the team does the same thing, and by the time they’re done, I can almost stand upright.
“Ready?” Danser asks through the comms, and I nod, ignoring the residual weakness in my limbs.
So far, all has gone according to plan, and I won’t be the reason we fail.
Quietly, we creep through the darkness, using the trees as a cover. The trickiest part will be the open area around the house, but that’s what the distraction at the border is for.
Pausing at the edge of the forested patch, we wait for the Alpha Team’s signal. The minutes tick by with torturous slowness, and I feel sweat trickle down my back as I stare at the white building ahead.
Fucking jungle humidity.
It’s worse than the dry heat in Iraq.
As we suspected, Esguerra’s actual residence doesn’t appear to be heavily guarded. And why would it be? Between the drones and all the security at the borders, the mansion might as well be sitting inside a fortress.
There are only two guards walking in circles around the house, and when they pass near us, Russ and Kilton fire off silenced shots, getting them right in the foreheads.
First obstacle eliminated.
“Engaging now,” Alpha Team leader says through the comms, and I hear gunfire in the background.
“Let’s give it fifteen minutes, see if anyone comes out,” Danser says, and we wait, tensely staring at the house.
There are no signs of movement inside, no lights coming on.
Esguerra’s border guards either didn’t inform their boss of what’s happening, or he doesn’t think this requires his presence.
Or, if we’re lucky, he’s not home at all.
Just to be on the safe side, we wait another twenty minutes, and then Danser motions us forward.
Crouching, we beeline across the wide lawn, using the manicured shrubs on the sides as a cover as we approach the pool area in the back.
All is quiet here too.
“Go on,” Danser whispers to me as we stop by the back door. “Do your fucking magic.”
Nodding, I pull out the CIA device again. It jumps on the house Wi-Fi and syncs with the cameras and the alarm system, giving my contact access to disable everything.
While he’s doing that, I activate a cell signal scrambler, in case anyone tries to call out for help.
“All done,” I say quietly when I receive confirmation from my contact. “It’s showtime.”
94
Sara
I sleep restlessly, waking up what feels like every half hour. Each time I drift off, anxious dreams about Peter combine with fragments of nightmares about my parents’ deaths to jerk me awake. It’s on the fifth such wake-up that I stumble to the bathroom, bleary-eyed, and decide to read for a bit to distract my overactive brain.
Throwing on a silk robe that I’ve borrowed from Nora, I turn on the bedside lamp, grab a book, and curl up in the arm chair, yawning.
With any luck, I won’t be up long.
I’m halfway through another chapter when I hear it.