[h1]Prologue[/h1] [i][b]Last Things Last...[/b][/i] >SITE 332, COLLOQUIALLY CALLED ‘THE HOLE’ >SOMEWHERE IN TURKEY >0034 “Ah, hell...” It was silent in the room. That was never a good thing because it meant the fan had gone out again. It had a habit of doing that so much that Donnelley figured it hated being here as much as he did and wanted so badly to let the suffering of the heat stop. But if Donnelley had to be here… He unplugged the little desk fan and plugged it in again, probably harder than he needed to. He tapped the little thing until it whirred to life again and let go a sigh of supreme relief at the tiny breeze it created, only a hair cooler than the room itself. “Should just get a new one.” “And go back into town after what Smitty did? That was high-vis shit on a low-vis op. We’re lucky we even got this sonofabitch.” Donnelley gestured to the tiny television on the desk next to the fan. The only source of light inside the tiny office he and fellow Paramilitary Operations Officer Donald Kingsley were sweating to death in, showing a live feed of a man forced into a squatting position with a black bag over his head. Donnelley could tell he wasn’t used to this, not trained, by the frantic head movement. If the feed had audio, they’d hear calls for mercy, maybe. “He talk yet?” “‘Course.” Kingsley said, nodding, eyes unwavering from the feed. “Just never said the words I wanted him to.” “Shame.” Donnelley may have hated ISIL and their allies, but he didn’t hate the kid scared and alone with two monsters of men watching him through the all-seeing eye of a closed-circuit feed. “He’s a street kid, not a fighter. We gotta truss him up like that?” “He’s [i]their driver[/i]. He’s seen the faces of the foreign fighters, seen the commanders, he knows what they look like and he knows the routes.” “Still. Are you sure your source wasn’t blowing smoke?” Donnelley looked sidelong at Kingsley. He was better at developing sources than he was, but there was always that little bit of chance somebody caught on. Somebody found out a source was giving you info and wanted to start feeding you horse shit instead of actionable intel. Kingsley pursed his lips at Donnelley, folding his arms. Donnelley remembered confronting Kingsley’s source, Azad inside his tiny apartment on the outskirts of Adana. A dingy little place they had no trouble breaking into and setting up their theatrical little dramatic meeting by moonlight where they brokered a deal. A paid-for trip out of Turkey to anywhere of his choosing in Europe if he gave the names of his network of drivers. Donnelley hid it well, the fact they had no plans nor the power of setting their end of the deal in motion. It was a cruel world. And maybe Azad would get left to the wolves or they’d sniff out his treachery, but as long as they got those names his screams as they tore him apart wouldn’t be in vain. The phone started ringing. Kingsley grunted to his feet from the chair he was sitting in and snatched the phone up. “Hello… Oh.” From behind him came Kingsley’s big hairy hand with the phone clutched in the thick fingers. He never got over how not-CIA Kingsley looked. Like the CIA set up a recruiting booth on the sidelines of a college football game years ago and Kingsley the linebacker stuck to it. Donnelley took the phone, putting it to his ear, “Donnelley.” “You are activated. Stateside. Check your email.” And that was never, ever a good thing. Kingsley sat down again, folded arms over his big barrel chest. “What’s it about?” “Nothing good...” Donnelley sighed as he rose from his chair to go pack his things. [center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/90/ae/4f/90ae4f504677b50f5bb3a76c6b765300.jpg[/img][/center] >BLACKRIVER COUNTY >OUTSIDE WHITE TREE, WEST VIRGINIA >UNITED STATES >0541HRS.../// The cold winds cutting along the porch of the run-down shack of a safehouse complemented the dark iron of the clouds well. The smell of the woods and the mountain air was tainted by the smell of diesel and smoke from the nearby mines, the only thing that drowned the stench of the tireless, obstinate march of industry was the cigarette held between Joseph’s lips. He took a draw and exhaled, letting it disperse on the air, watching the cloud drift off to be lost among the morning mists. The medium-sized house- if the glorified cabin could be called such- had been procured a week before Joseph and Steve’s landing, the accoutrements and vehicles set up by nameless, faceless busy-bodies of the Agency. All of it- the vehicles, the house itself, the living arrangements, and the sizeable stockpile of ammunition, weapons and tactical gear- was paid for by Steve Foster’s slice of the CIA black budget offshore account, untraceable by local authorities and anyone else without proper clearance. At least it had good location, perched atop a hill where a lookout could be posted and see anyone approaching from any direction. Not that the walls looked like they were ready to stand a siege, let alone a particularly rough sigh. To add to everything, the electricity was supplied by a generator- one in backup, just in case- and that electricity did not run towards fixed light outlets. There were lamps arranged inside the tiny cottage, and one outside. That was about it for mood lighting. More importantly, deep-down, in the places where Joseph refused to let soldiering and tradecraft taint, he loved to be able to see the sprawling mountains in every direction and the lights of White Tree speckled about the hills at night. The relatively low light-pollution lent the night sky an almost clear complexion, an unimpeded view of the stars when it wasn’t cloudy. Although, despite even his hardest efforts to beat back the rigors of work, the front door from the porch to the living room creaked open. Footsteps, slow. “Review the files yet?” Joseph shook his head. He could hear Foster sigh, “You know they’ll be here. You should look at their dossiers and get a feel for them.” Joseph nodded. He turned around and brushed past Foster, entering the living room where the dossiers were arranged neatly in columns on the coffee table. He took a seat and grabbed up the first one, [i]Mathieu, Laurence, National Parks Service[/i]. After a good hour of reading and review of each of the team handpicked by Steve, he leaned back on the couch, took a swig from his flask and then walked back outside, sitting on the rocking chair on the porch. It almost made him smile to fantasize about a day where he could be sitting in his own rocking chair, on his own porch. Without Foster... “How much do they know?” “Hmm?” Steve asked, following him closely and leaning on the porch’s banister. “[i]The team.[/i]” Joseph frowned, “How much do they know?” “About the same I told you on your first.” Foster said. “Well, that [i]really addresses my concerns.[/i]” Joseph said. He'd never forgotten Afghanistan, he'd never forget Somalia. He shook his head and sighed, “Do they at least meet the criteria?” “All. I made sure they’re not completely blind. A lot of them have seen a scary black rock.” Steve raised his eyebrows, as if that made things all better. Joseph had an urge to crack one on Foster's jaw about then, but then who'd babysit the newbies. “The rest know there’s things out there at the fringes of our sight. Things the rest of the world, the public, the average joe shouldn’t know. Just not enough to be locked up like a gibbering mess.” Foster turned around and leaned over the banister, his hands propping him up as he looked out over the town, “Pretty soon, Joseph, we’re going to be old and grey. Or at least I hope we reach that, but...” Joseph snorted, "You know," he lit up the burnt end of a half-smoked cigarette, puffing on it a couple times and then continuing, "I'm going to keep clinging to that whole narrative of one day winning this glorious holy war. Do you ever get tired of being so fucking depressing?" "Just being realistic." Foster shrugged. "The day I start being realistic to the exclusion of all else is the day I might just put a cyanide pill in my mouth and wait patiently." Joseph and Foster both chuckled. Gallows humor was a staple of surviving. You needed it, to see the humor in everything and anything. It was less an actual joke and a ritual, almost, the laughing its chants. "At least their's won't be a baptism of fire. Just errand work. For now." “More fuel for the flames.” Joseph nodded, slow. The words were quiet and more to himself than Steve, but he perked up a bit- little bit of that old bravado a younger Joseph had been bled of over the years, “I’ve got a few more fires in me.” “Of course you do,” Foster said, smiling over his shoulder at Joseph ant then looking back out at the mountains, “I do too. But that time will come, where we either find a good reason to use that special bullet we all keep secret, or we accept a little house on the prairie with a comfortable sum of money lest we trip and fall and accidentally shoot ourselves twice in the chest and once in the head.” Foster didn’t have to elaborate any more. Joseph only nodded in agreement, knowing the old lions of the Delta Green pride were nearing the end of their reigns. “Well.” Joseph sighed, getting to his feet from the chair, “Ain’t that a nice thought. What's their ETA?” "Should be here later this morning if they can find the place." Foster smirked. Joseph gave one of his own, "Oh, I'm sure the tough Ranger can." "Which one?" "Which one do you think?" Joseph chuckled, the sound of the front door closing after him...