The Department of Military Sciences
Worldwide
The Warehouse, Baltimore, Maryland
For Rudy Sanchez it was like someone had driven a cold steel spike into his chest.
All of the display screens in the mobile computer center were filled with pages of ciphertext and meters showing progress on other sections of the two books. But the central display screen had a different image, a real-time feed from a button camera worn by Mr. Church. It was all there. The Mothers of the Fallen. Lilith and Violin. Joe.
The things Lilith said. The truths she shared.
Rudy wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. To continue watching and listening and understanding was far more than a job requirement, however. To turn away would be the worst kind of cowardice-the kind that refuses to hear the truth. The kind that refuses to care.
He touched the crucifix he wore beneath his shirt.
He barely felt the pain from the crushing, desperate grip Circe had on his other hand.
The Hangar, Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn
Aunt Sallie stood apart so she could study the faces of her staff as they watched and listened to Lilith. She saw shock and horror. She saw tears. She saw jaw-clenched rage. She watched to see if any of them turned away, or sneered privately, or smiled, because God help them if they did.
What she saw on the faces of her people, however, was what she thought she would see. What she needed to see.
No one was looking at her. They were unable to look away. So no one saw her nod her approval of them.
Echo Team, outskirts of Tehran
Top Sims heard a small sound. A wet sniff, muffled and discreet. He cut a look sideways, expecting it to be Bunny. But he saw John Smith pull back from his sniper scope to wipe his eyes and nose. Top grunted softly to himself.
He had known Smith for almost a year, had been in every kind of fight with him, had fought to save the world alongside him, but he did not actually know him. The sniper’s file was filled with data but no insight. His psych evals were by the numbers, describing a quiet man with an interior life he did not care to share. Not uncommon for someone raised in an orphanage and bounced around from one foster home to the next. No criminal record, though. No politics, no religion, and if he had opinions he never shared them. He was a blank, a question mark except in one regard: he was the best sniper currently serving in the U.S. military. The best by a good margin. He killed whatever he aimed at. He never pulled a trigger in a questionable situation; he was patient enough to wait for a clear target and an unshakable reason.
Seeing Bunny, Lydia, or Khalid cry would not have jolted Top. Not even surprised him. Bunny, for all his size and experience, was a softie who really did believe that the good guys won in the end. Lydia also had a lot of heart beneath the wisecracks and trash talk. And Khalid, the scholar of the team, was a deeply passionate man, very religious, strongly invested in social justice and ethics. They would cry. They were all probably fighting tears now.
But Smith? Smith never showed a thing. Not a goddamn thing. Not when he killed. Not when his comrades went down. Not when he took a bullet. He was the only person who showed less on his face than Mr. Church.
And yet this-what the woman Lilith was saying, what they were all finding out about the strange mission they were on-was turning dials on the man.
Smith must have sensed him watching and turned slightly toward Top. He touched his left thumb to the tear glistening in his eye then reached out and smeared the wetness along the barrel of his rifle. He said nothing, did nothing else. It was a statement and he let Top interpret according to his own understanding.
Top nodded.
Maybe he did understand.