The van's shocks were gone. Every rut in the road traveled up the frame and into Godwin's teeth. The once-black paint was now a canvas of pockmarked silver where rounds had stripped it bare, and a fine, pale dust coated everything, making the vehicle look like a ghost of itself.
Inside, the only sound was the labored grind of the engine and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of David's finger on his rifle stock. The air was thick—a cocktail of overheated electronics, copper, and spent cordite that coated the tongue.
Godwin turned the data drive over in his palm. It caught the faint light, a sliver of cold tech against his skin. His knuckles were white. In the footwell beside him, a long, black nylon bag shifted with the van's lurches. A strap had come loose, revealing a patch of olive-drab fabric from the shirt underneath.
The blue glow from Stephanie's laptop washed over her face, hollowing her cheeks. She blew out a sharp breath, the sound loud in the quiet. "It's a vault. Biometric lock. It's asking for a retinal signature." She didn't look at the bag in the footwell. She didn't need to.
Godwin's gaze drifted from the drive to the shifting black shape, then forward to Makarov. The Russian hadn't moved in twenty minutes, a statue staring out the passenger window. His reflection in the glass showed eyes constantly tracking the passing scrubland. Godwin didn't ask the question aloud. He just waited.
A fraction of a nod. That was all.
The van groaned as it left the tarmac, tires crunching on gravel. The headlights, one of them cracked and dim, swept across a decaying farmhouse, its windows like empty eye sockets.
They weren't alone.
Twin halos of light ignited from behind a rusted tractor, followed by another set, and another. Engines rumbled to life. The shapes that rolled into the open weren't clean spec-ops vehicles; they were mauled. One MRAP had its front grill caved in. Another's turret was scorched black.
A figure emerged from the lead vehicle, moving with the stiff gait of a man pushing past injury. Captain Briggs's right sleeve was sheared at the shoulder, the bandage underneath seeping a bloom of dark red. He didn't approach the van; he planted himself in its path, forcing it to stop.
Godwin rolled down the window. The night air, cold and clean, sliced through the stagnant interior.
Briggs's eyes were red-rimmed from dust and adrenaline crash. He looked past Godwin, into the van, taking in the bag in the footwell, the exhausted crew.
"Your intel led to a room," Briggs said, his voice gravel. "Ours led to a crossfire. We've got two men who didn't make it to the evac bird." He finally looked at Godwin. "What's your tally?"
Slowly, Godwin opened his hand. The drive lay on his palm.
Briggs stared at it. His jaw worked once, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He didn't ask what happened. The answer was in the bag, in the drive, in the very fact that they were both here, licking wounds at a derelict shack instead of celebrating a successful extraction.
A long, silent moment passed. When Briggs spoke again, the fury was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute clarity.
"They knew," he said, the words flat and final. "They knew where we'd be. They knew when we'd be there. This wasn't a mission. It was an appointment."
From the other side of the farmhouse, a soft purr cut through the diesel rumble of the MRAPs. A single black SUV, windows tinted to obsidian, slid into the light. It stopped with a precision that felt surgical.
The passenger door opened. Linda stepped out. She wore a dark coat, unbuttoned, over a crisp blouse. She looked as if she'd come from an office, not a warzone. Her eyes swept the scene—the battered vehicles, the bloodied Delta captain, the 141's ruined van. Her expression didn't change. It was a mask of polite, professional assessment.
She walked toward them, her heels silent in the dirt. Her two escorts, men with the blank eyes of security contractors, hung back.
"Captain Briggs," she said, her voice cool. "Your report is overdue." She then turned to Godwin. "Centurion-1. The asset."
Briggs shifted, his body blocking her path slightly. "The asset is dead, ma'am. So are two of my men. The op was compromised from the jump."
"Compromise is a risk of the profession," Linda said, her gaze never leaving Godwin. "The intelligence recovered from the asset. Hand it over."
The air tightened. Godwin could feel the weight of the drive in his closed fist, hidden at his side. He saw Briggs's slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don't.
Stephanie had quietly closed her laptop. David's tapping on his rifle had stopped. Makarov was no longer looking out the window; he was watching Linda's escorts, his hand resting near his weapon.
Godwin made his choice.
He opened his hand, but didn't extend it. He just let the drive sit there on his palm, a tiny dark scar in the center.
"It's encrypted," Godwin said, his voice as flat as the surrounding desert. "Biometric lock. Retinal scan. The key is in the bag." He nodded toward the van's footwell. "You want what's on it, you're gonna need a scalpel and a steady hand."
For the first time, a flicker of something raw passed behind Linda's eyes. It wasn't anger. It was calculation, rapidly reconfiguring. She'd expected defiance or failure. She hadn't expected them to hand her a corpse and a locked box, forcing her to get her own hands dirty.
She stared at the drive, then at Godwin's impassive face. A silent battle of wills played out in the dust between them.
"Secure the remains," she finally said to one of her escorts, her voice clipped. "We'll extract the necessary data at the facility." Her eyes pinned Godwin. "You and your team will be debriefed. Separately."
It wasn't a request. It was containment.
As her escort moved toward the van, Briggs took a half-step forward. "Ma'am, with respect. My men and I will be part of that debrief. We have a right to know what intel got our people killed."
Linda's smile was thin and cold. "All in due course, Captain. Right now, you are all material witnesses. Your only task is to be available."
The message was clear: You are not investigators. You are evidence.
Linda turned and walked back to her SUV, the drive's fate—and the truth it held—temporarily deferred. But the line had been drawn. They hadn't given her their trust. They'd given her a problem.
Godwin watched her go. He glanced at Briggs, then at his own team. No words were needed.
The war was no longer out there in the desert. It was here, in this dark field, and the first silent shot had just been fired