>ROAD OUT OF LANGLEY
>15AUG2019
>1330...///

Donnelley took a nip off his flask and replaced his cigarette, taking in a hard drag and screaming along to Cinderella’s Night Songs. Already, the doom and gloom of the conversation with Laine back at Langley, and the rigors of the case, were starting to fall away from him like chains. He was worried they’d start to chafe a little too much soon. But Queen had many a remedy for that. His mere presence was one for Donnelley, the secret they shared, the things they got up to. It was a rockstar’s life like an oasis in a desert filled with fear and the growling unknown.

They didn’t have their sights on anywhere but anywhere that wasn’t the stifling cubicles of Langley. They passed a few places that looked too quiet, but their options were open. They always were with these two, and besides, they only had to kill the time it took Ghost to clean up before they could skip town to somewhere their wanton degeneracy would go more unnoticed in a sea of it.

“God-fuckin’-damnit, man.” Donnelley smiled out at the passing scenery of the highway, “How long’s it been since we even been together like this?”

Queen gunned the old Camaro, the big block engine roared until they hit the expected traffic around the DC area. Once he got off the highway, he drove down the roads through the small towns that dotted the landscape. They were more like self important suburbs full of HOA condos and quaint neighborhoods serving as living areas for government workers. Around DC was the real hood but they were driving away from that area. 

At Donnelley's question, Queen grinned, "Been a long time, man. Too long. Jesus Christ this place sucks, let's head down towards the university there's bound to be better places to drink."

He glanced at him, a quick look but he knew Donnelley probably better than most. He was relaxing but not quite there. "Check the glove compartment," Queen said, "Got some goodies perfect for forgetting lost opportunities."

“Anything to wash ‘em down with, pardner?” Donnelley asked, looking in the back and smiling when he spied a big case of beers. Opening the box, he found a menagerie of loose ones, bottles and cans of different brews. He grabbed the first one he saw and popped open the glove box, withdrawing a baggy of pills with a wild smile.

Perfect for forgetting, he thought as he fished out a couple Xanax, “God, I love forgettin’.”

He popped them into his waiting mouth and cracked open the beer, biting off the cap and guzzling it down. He wiped his mouth off on his forearm and laughed, “How long you think Ghost’s gonna be? Gettin’ another spray tan?”

Queen flashed a smile, "I'm the king of lost weekends, hand one over and grab me something in a can."

He took another tab, the ones at the cabin now wearing off. Washing it down with the Busch Light made him want a view of back roads and the Glades. Queen tucked the can snug between his thighs as he drove. Fuck the cops, his DEA badge would usually be enough to get them out of his hair.

He laughed and said, "His big ass is probably in a human panini press now. Once he's roasted and we're toasted, we can hop over to Vegas. He'll have a plane no doubt, you know how he hates commercial flying."

Queen took another drink from the beer, the cheap taste reminded him of his childhood and he said as much. "When my Dad would come around, him and his buddies would drag out coolers of beer. I'd steal one for everyone I'd fetch for him. They loved Busch...'and bush.' That was always the punchline."

“Gotta love jokes you know the punchline to,” Donnelley shook his head as he dropped a tab of Xanax into Queen’s palm, “And then repeating them ad nauseum.”

His dad and the few friends that could stand him had much the same ritual. It was like a sign of getting old no matter who you were, so resistant to change it snaked its roots into your subconscious so deep that even your humor was stagnant. Donnelley hoped he never had that happen to him if he got old. Hell, on days like this, he felt the same as that young fiery punk in Dalhart. “You think they’ll let us through the gate at Area 51?” Donnelley asked, “Get fucked up and then walk in there and take pictures with the aliens.”

Queen chuckled, shaking his head slightly, "We just flash our Program clearance, fucking A. Imagine seeing that shit on acid or mushrooms? Hell just being in the desert at night is fun doing that. We should fucking do that, man." 

He chugged his beer, crushing the can before tossing it behind his seat. "Trip balls out in the desert, find us some peyote."

“Go out to one of the Rez’s,” Donnelley smiled as he nodded along coolly with the idea, “Find us a medicine man and have us a dang vision quest.”

Donnelley mentioned afternoon a moment, “Oh we should-“ he was about to float the idea of going to the bunny ranch, but the image of Laine slow dancing with some handsy fucking rich dude stopped him dead in his tracks. Would going to the Bunny Ranch be cheating? Were they even a couple?

He dragged off his cigarette, thinking if they were even serious in the slightest. Too much sex, not enough real intimacy. He couldn’t blame Laine for using him… if she was. Maybe she was, he thought. Didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it.

“Brothel.” He left the word on the air to gauge Queen’s reaction.

Queen smirked, mirroring the devilish smile that often crossed Donnelley's features. "You really want a vision quest after some of the shit we've seen? Brothel sounds better."

He turned down another street glancing at Donnelley, "Grab me another beer, would you? Hell yeah I wouldn't mind a brothel with high quality, you know Ghost will be down. I might try finding a little red head and work out some frustration. Or maybe a gothy chick with a big ass. Or both, together."

Donnelley gave Queen a tight smile. The only consolation was he’d had the real thing, and put her to sleep damn good if he said so himself, “Sounds like a party.” He said, reaching back to get another two beers for them, “Hey, man, what if I told you they’re already fuckin’ gettin’ together.”

He tried to take the conversation away from the image of Queen playing pretend with a discount Laine, while trying to make it seem like he wasn’t bothered by it. “The redhead and that mountain man. Ava and Dave.” He said, “Sometimes I’m glad THUNDER was just a bunch of swingin’ dicks.”

Queen's eyes lit up for a moment at the thought of Ava and Laine in an embrace  but it didn't ring true and the image was replaced by Dave and Ava. Not bad, but not what he wanted. He cracked the beer open with a grunt, "Figured that might happen, he's practically on top of her every time I see them."

He took a drink, he was cruising down a street lined with apartment buildings, they were near the university. "I don't blame him, I wouldn't mind breaking her hips. And the Feeb, man..."

Queen trailed off then chuckled at that, then raised his brows, "Because a buncha dudes get along, we know how to team...we don't fuck around with each other?"

He flashed a knowing glance at Donnelley, then smiled, "Man, honestly. This shit we get into yeah, I guess attachments can fuck with team dynamics but hell...I don't think it's all bad."

Queen shrugged, turning once again down another street. This was a main road full of bars, restaurants, and a club or two. 

"You ain't telling Foster, I take it?" He said, sitting at the red light.

“You said it first,” Donnelley shrugged, head turning as he eyed a college girl walking with her friends down the sidewalk, shorts too short and shirt too tight, “Ain’t all bad. Ain’t Foster’s business if it don’t screw with the team.”

“‘Sides,” Donnelley smirked at Queen, looking at him sidelong, “Team bondin’ comes in all kinds of forms. You know that.”

"Damn right, I do," Queen said, the memory of the carnal comfort they had in the depths of the ship. He met Donnelley's gaze briefly, then grinned. "Special bonding, for the most select of agents.

He gunned the car through the greenlight, making a sharp left into the parking lot of a bar. Queen watched some people walking in, they were also college age and he was acutely aware they would be the older guys. Fuck it. 

"I just wanna get some drinks, do a couple lines in their bathroom," he said, looking at Donnelley in his punk t-shirt and he himself was dressed casually in a distressed sleeveless shirt that read "Forgive me, I have sinned", jeans and button down shirt worn open. They weren't dressed for dance clubs, even ones around here. 

“Save the real party for Vegas. These kids wouldn’t know.” Donnelley chuckled, pushing his door open when they stopped in a parking space and chugging down the last of his beer. He let go a loud belch and lit up another cigarette, “Hell, we’d probably kill ‘em if they tried to hang.”

Queen laughed at that, finished his beer then followed Donnelley out of the car. "They gotta start pickling the liver early."

He sauntered across the parking lot with Donnelley beside him, the college kids both giving curious and guarded glances. 

Queen passed by a couple of younger dudes passing a joint and flashed a grin as they hid it. "What, think I'm a cop or something?" He laughed, the stink of dirt weed still in the air around the kids. Donnelley left them with his kissy face, putting the cigarette out on his tongue and flicking it away just before they disappeared into the bar.

They entered the bar and he found a spot to lean against it, waiting for Donnelley to order. The bartender wandered over to them and smiled at the two, “What’cha drinkin’?”

“Shots. Johnny Walker Blue.” Donnelley slapped down a pair of bills. Ordering shots was a good way to keep the bartender from watering down their drinks, and Donnelley wasn’t trying to sip water. “That was funny.”

He chuckled, looking at Queen, “Should’ve flashed your badge at ‘em.” He said, “Spook ‘em real good. Stay in school, don’t do drugs, it ain’t easy bein’ cool, young man.”

“I didn’t step foot in a college and look at me. I save the world everyday.” He snickered.

Queen grinned, the choice of shot was perfect and he shook his head, "Then confiscated his shitty weed."

He took a shot as they were laid out on the bar, handing one to Donnelley, "We are pretty badass. Cheers."

“To bein’ big damn heroes.” Donnelley said, throwing back his shot with Queen.

After a few rounds, they found a corner table and Queen leaned on his elbows, holding his phone. "Gonna text ole boy, see if he's ready to fly," he announced, "Hey, that chick with the pigtails is checking us out."

He gave a subtle nod to Donnelley towards a college girl sitting with friends, she was dressed a little more daring. Bleached out hair in pigtails, a short skirt and a choker, she screamed daddy issues. She was sucking down mixed drinks, and laughing too loudly, her heavily lined eyes darting over to the table where the men sat. 

Despite the opportunity that might have been, Queen sent Ghost a text: "ETA on plane?"

>...///

Ghost's phone chimed as he was toweling off in the gym shower. He'd found a local Gold's and had proceeded to make it his own, after dropping a Benjamin to the kid behind the counter to skip past the members-only restriction. He ignored the other men and their subtle glances; he'd cowed them with the weight he pushed, and now his network of scars was keeping them from bothering him. If there was one thing he hated it was having other lifters try to talk weights when he clearly outclassed them.

He studied the phone, checked his email to confirm, then tapped back a text of his own. 

[I]Plane ready. One hour or I leave.[/i]

He tossed the phone on his bag and dressed, making a show of strapping on his Glock in blatant violation of local law, then left, heading for the chartered car that would take him to his chartered plane. 

He wasn't on Mission. He was on leave. He was going to travel in style, like a professional on leave should. 

>...///

Queen glanced up from his phone as the response popped up, the chime of 'uh oh', that was Ghost's custom text alert. "Eta one hour," he said to Donnelley, then finished off the draft beer and final shot. "We better boogie, you know he'll fly off without us."
 
He texted back an obnoxious set of emojis then wrote, "On our way."

“Some other time, doll.” Donnelley jokingly whined in the direction of the girl that looked the spitting image of trouble. Testing to see how much trouble was too much would have to wait until they touched down in Nevada. He threw back his shot and chugged down the last few gulps of his beer, “Let’s fuck off.”

>HOURS LATER...///

As promised, they were there at the airstrip. And as usual, they were fashionably late, making it in time by the skin of their teeth. They’d made it past customs, not that there were many impediments to them with badges belonging to the DEA and FBI, respectively. Donnelley waved to Ghost from the cart he and Queen had commandeered from an airport employee for the simple price of a hundred dollars. If Ghost asked what took them so long, it wasn’t the trip to the airport, but the little joyride that Queen and Donnelley had taken with their bribery-bought set of wheels.

Donnelley cut a turn and the wheels squealed as they came to a stop mid-drift in front of Ghost, “[i]Woo![/i] Still got it!” Donnelley laughed, slapping the side of the little luggage cart.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind his Matsuda Aviators. He checked his Rolex, growled, and straightened his blue Armani jacket. 

“Two minutes,” he grunted. He looked from them to the plane and bit back a sigh; Tex and Queen usually made for a good time, but he wasn’t yet sure if he was disappointed that they’d made the deadline or not. He eyed the two for another moment, then jerked his head towards the chartered Cessna. “Get on. We’re burning daylight. I want to be settled in before the nightlife starts.” 

Queen rolled out of the cart, bouncing upright and adjusting his sunglasses. He grinned at the plane and clapped his hands together, “Hell yeah, brother. I got a hankering for some Texas Hold ‘em.”

He glanced at Donnelley, throwing him a wink when Ghost turned to board the private plane. Time for Tex to ride with the boys of THUNDER again. “And a couple good escorts, I’ve got particular itches to scratch this time around.”

>ONE FLIGHT LATER...///

It was a tight fit in the Cessna Citation CJ2, three grown men and a pilot. The Light Jet was made for eight people, but with as much territory the three pasengers were keen to claim for themselves the jet might as well have been at full capacity. Like throwing three mountain lions into a cage, but with more drugs and alcohol. It made for a slightly uncomfortable ride and Donnelley took the chance to stretch their legs once they hit the tarmac again. Once the journey to Vegas was over, they’d caught an Uber to a hotel near the strip, which one had caused a slight disagreement. Donnelley opted for a price conscious choice of a seedy motel in North Vegas, but neither of his other two fellows wanted to get stabbed or stab anyone else without a good reason. With a shrug, they’d settled on suites paid for by their personal accounts run by the Program’s black budget. Nothing that could be missed.

They diverged to their rooms, situated as close as they could be, one or two rooms between. Donnelley didn’t bother with unpacking his luggage into the closet or the drawers, instead spending the first 45 minutes doing calisthenics in his room. Less time spent drinking and more time spent lifting iron had made him look respectably bigger in his clothes. Spending more time around Ghost had made him feel small, to his chagrin. His glory days in THUNDER lifting with Ghost had been years gone until now. Working up a pump before going out on the town wouldn’t hurt either.

In certain circles of Vegas, Ghost was something of an institution. He’d adopted the city as his own, and spent much of his time (and much of his money) there whenever he didn’t have business on the docket. With his total lack of bills, massive paycheck, and dangerous aura, it hadn’t taken him long to insinuate himself among the strip club owners, casino concierges, escort services, and the myriad other low-life, high-dollar people who made Sin City what it was. In Vegas Ghost lived like a rockstar, and he enjoyed every minute of it. 

He left his suite in another suit, this one a classic slate grey with no tie. His hair was combed, his pistol secured beneath his coat. A switchblade rode in an inner pocket of the jacket. The clubs didn’t search him. He spent enough money to keep them happy and had caused them remarkably little trouble. It left him free to pursue his entertainment unmolested. 

Ghost met the two men and handed each a business card with their name on it, and the contact information for [i]Executive Enterprises[/i], a fake contracting company. The phone number went to a pre-paid that Ghost had left in a drawer and never touched; all he needed was an answering machine to make people think he’d get back to them. 

“You remember the drill. I’m Jeff here,” he grunted. It was a callsign he used on occasion, and he’d had an ID made to match. “We’re just a pack of high-end mercs on vacation. It explains the scars, the physiques, and the money we’ll be throwing around. We’ve got reservations for the bottle room at the Palomino for whenever we feel like showing up.”

Donnelley took the card and eyed it with a fair bit of scrutiny, his eyes narrowed and his lips followed suit and curled in offense, “This isn’t the same name as last time, man.” He said, looking up from the card and fixing Ghost with a stare, “This says Ben Holloway, not Buck Samson. I liked Buck Samson. It sounds tough.”

"It sounds gay," Ghost said. "That's a gay pornstar name. Not a professional operator's name." He handed Queen his card. "We want people to think we made our money stacking bodies, not taking dicks." 

“I’d be givin’ dick, pardner.” Donnelley snorted as he tucked the card into his wallet, “Ben reminds me of some pencil pushin’ asshole.”

“And what if I do get into gay porn, them dudes get paid out the ass,” Donnelley chuckled, “So to speak.”

Queen snickered then bit his lower lip to stop it. "Alright, Jeff. Gimme that card."

He looked at it and his cocky expression faded, "Come on, no one is going to believe my name is Ashley. Ashley Buchanan. Like some antebellum son."

Queen shot a look of bemusement at Ghost, certainly his idea of a joke. A feminine name but fuck it, he'd be Ashley. 

"Now su' while we are here I expect to procure the finest succulent flesh the Yankee dolla can buy," he said, affecting a very strong Georgia aristocratic accent. "I've come bearing the finest of powders for your consumption, gentlemen."

He rolled his eyes and slipped back into his own North Florida drawl. Donnelley's comment about getting paid made him snort a chuckle and sideeye him, "Gay for pay? Catcher prolly gets paid more."

His gaze settled on him for a moment before tucking the card into his pocket and adjusted his coat, and he grinned, "Fuck that, I'm gonna find me a big titty goth girlfriend for the night. Let's go, boys."

The Palomino Club stood in all its retro glory, the red and white vintage western letters blazed across the front of the bubble of awning that hung over the doors. Queen whistled to himself, then checked his inventory of drugs and condoms, smoothing his coat pockets of any lumps. He rolled around a few mollies, the pastel pills looked like Easter candy and he popped one, dry swallowing it. 

Queen bumped Donnelley, offering him one, "Get a little warmed up, [I]Ben[/I]?"

He grinned and glanced at Ghost, "How 'bout you? Wanna get extra horny and scary for the poor bitch taking your hog tonight?"

“I came here to do drugs and fuck.” Donnelley nodded, “I aim to keep that promise.”

He held his hand out for Queen and popped the pill, swallowing it down and shaking his face, his tongue lolling out, “Thanks, Ash.”

Ghost eyed the pill for a moment, then pocketed it. "Are we ready?” He himself was eager to get to the club and find his preferred dancer. She was willing to do just about anything in a private room after you paid the bouncer to turn off the camera. 

“Fuck yeah, I am.” Donnelley nudged Queen in the side while looking at him like a child about to be loosed into a candy store. Once they got past the bouncer and left him a hefty sum as their Fuck-It Insurance, they entered into the world of the Palomino. A world of red and pink mood lighting that offered slices of vision, half-naked bodies writhing and sliding on poles suspended in the pink.

Donnelley’s wolf-grin was plastered on his face like surveying his territory, a territory he hadn’t been for a damn long time and whose reckoning was now at hand. He rubbed his hands together and his eyes went from girl to girl to girl in the search for whatever tastes he was wanting to satisfy tonight. Waking up half-dead after thoroughly rearranging two girls’ organs and ripping line after line for an entire night was the only reason Vegas existed to him. Tex was riding again.

Ghost, in the guise of Jeff, looked over the Palomino with an almost possessive air. This was [i]his[/i] club, fuck what the owner thought. 

He cut a striking figure in his suit, larger than all but two of the bouncers. They were fat lumps of men, overstuffed scarecrows masquerading as hardasses. Ghost had nothing but disdain for them. They were bullies, eager to push around timid businessmen on vacation, but wary of real predators like himself. Coyotes knew their place around wolves. 

Ghost made directly for a waitress, enjoying the gleam that came to her eyes as she took in his sheer mass. After a quick introduction and a check of the books she led him and the others to the back of the club, where their private bottle room waited with champagne already chilling and a bottle of top-shelf Scotch sat, unopened, on the central table. Ghost hated Scotch; it tasted like bog water. Still, this particular bottle was worth nearly a grand, and ordering it brought more of the kind of attention he liked. 

As they entered he slipped the waitress a Benjamin and then promptly ignored her, mixing generosity with arrogance in a time-honored technique that had worked for him a dozen times or more. She left in a huff, but with an over-the-shoulder glance that told him she’d be back. 

“Scotch,” he grunted, pointing at the bottle. He’d have to pour himself a glass just to sip on when the staff was around, but he fully intended to leave the Scottish laundry water to his comrades for now. The champagne would do for him, and after a couple of bottles he’d be able to stomach the foul-tasting whiskey a little more easily. 

Donnelley on the other hand made good on his heritage and scooped up the bottle, pouring out a sizable portion of the scotch and downing it immediately after pouring another for the sipping. The burn as it went down made him smirk, looking at Ghost, “Big bad Ghost’s tummy don’t like scotch?”

Ghost glared at him, resenting the implication that the drink was somehow [i]too much[/i] for him. 

"Tastes like shit," he said sourly. "Like some skirt-wearing savage filtered it through his socks. Not paying 12 bucks an ounce to gargle some highlander's piss." 

He picked up the bottle of champagne and examined the label. He knew it was what he'd ordered, but wanted the others to know it, too. "This is worth the money."

“We’ll see ‘bout that.” Donnelley plucked a flute from the arrangement on one of the tables and offered it out for Ghost to pour him some.

With three men like these in a place like this, trouble had been brewing before they even stepped off the runway. The night was young, and laid itself open to them. Vegas, under the shuffling herds of tourists, there was an underbelly of sin and debauchery enough to make Satan himself blush. A perfect place to be new people, albeit with old habits. Habits that hadn’t been satiated in a long, long time...

[i]Some Days Later...[/i]

>CIA-INIS BLACKSITE
>29AUG2019
>2300...///

The metal door squealed open on its hinges, slow as slow. A crack of light at first, and then a thick pillar cutting through the darkness of the room. A shape in the doorway, silhouette of a man carrying what looked like a tool bag. He could see Viktor Ozan naked and standing in the corner, shackles around his wrists and ankles that jingled as he took a couple shuffling steps forward. It smelled of piss and desperation in equal measure and Donnelley did not envy being Viktor Ozan. “Far away from home.” Donnelley said to what was once a man now staring at him with glimmering eyes like a raccoon in the darkness, living on scraps of garbage, “Can’t imagine what they did to you.”

“Not as far away as you,” Viktor croaked in a voice that had to be painful to use. A privilege that Viktor would spare the words, truly, “American.”

“Yup.” He said, simply, reaching over to a light switch outside the door and bathing the room in light. To Viktor it may as well have been the sun, the way he shrieked and hid his eyes, “Sorry. I’m not looking to have a candle lit dinner with you, so we’ll have to settle with this for mood lighting.”

Viktor said nothing. Donnelley retrieved two metal folding chairs from behind the door and began setting them up, one in front of the other, a good distance apart from each other. He produced a protein bar from his tool bag and opened it, eyes on Viktor. Like the desperate animal he’d become in this dark place, Viktor had his eyes on the protein bar from the second he heard the wrapper crinkle in Donnelley’s hands. Donnelley ripped a piece off and placed it on the chair, “Sit.” He said, like speaking to a dog.

Viktor wasn’t one who could afford turning down calories right now, and so he did what he was told, Donnelley walking backwards away from Viktor’s chair. He wasn’t keen on turning his back on desperate men. “You were in contact with your cousin from the moment you left Chechnya to the time we caught you up and dumped you here.” Donnelley said, matter of fact, “So, tell me where he is.”

“I won’t.” Viktor said around the mouthful of cheap chocolate flavored protein bar, “I won’t betray him.”

“You’ll die here then. Slow, painfully hungry.” Donnelley said, lighting up a cigarette, “And I’ll go back to my bunk, masturbate, and fall asleep like a baby.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because, I figure you could give me answers. You don’t have to die, and I don’t have to wait so long to go and jerk off.” Donnelley shrugged, “Throw me a bone here, man, I’ll come back with some eggs or something next time.”

Viktor was quiet then. Self preservation was a strong motivator. Viktor spent a bit looking away from Donnelley, mulling over the pros and cons. Probably weren’t many cons, “Fine.”

“See how easy that was?” Donnelley smiled, patting his leg, “We’ll get along.”

“On one condition.”

“Name it.” Donnelley said, deadly serious. Or sounding like it.

“Take me away. Send me to Europe.” Viktor said, a very sincere wetness in his big, blinking eyes, “I hate it here. They did things no man should, American.”

“Yeah, Iraqis don’t think too fondly of-“

“Not them! Not the Iraqis! No, I mean… them. [i]Them[/i].” Viktor’s voice quivered at the mention of whoever ‘them’ was. “They… I can not speak of them or they will come.”

“Who is [i]them[/i]?” Donnelley asked, his curiosity peaked, leaning forward in his chair. “They can’t touch you here-“

“You don’t fucking know that!” Viktor screamed, rising slightly from his chair and Donnelley instinctually went for his gun before Viktor sat back down, “They took me somewhere in Chechnya, I don’t remember anything else, but then I was in Turkey. On my way to see my cousin here.”

“Where here?” Donnelley asked. Viktor didn’t answer, looking away from him again. “Where, Viktor. I can fix this for you. Give you money, give you a new life somewhere in Europe, whatever the fuck. Just [i]tell me where.[/i]”

“He’s everywhere. He knows me, he felt me, told me that he is waiting.” Viktor whispered, “There is no hole deep enough to hide from him. Before I woke up, he said something to me.”

Donnelley felt a tightness in his throat, piece of him knowing where this was going. Wanting it to go there, maybe. Maybe he didn’t want it to go there, but someone did. Either way, he spoke, “What did he say, Viktor?”

The skinny man shook his head, looking away. His arms went around himself as best they could with the shackles. He closed his eyes. Donnelley ripped off another piece and tossed it at Viktor’s feet. The other man bent down to take it, stuffing it in his mouth and chewing furiously. He swallowed hard, “Water.”

Donnelley pulled a bottle from his tool bag and tossed that over too. Viktor uncapped it and downed the whole bottle, the only sound in the room the loud ‘glug, glug, glug’ of Viktor’s swallowing. He tossed the empty plastic to the floor and sighed. Still silent.

“What did he say, Viktor?” Donnelley asked again.

“What do you think he said, Donnelley?” Viktor asked.

“What?” Donnelley had never given him his name. Viktor had never seen him before now. Had he?

“Come and see.” Viktor smiled, his breath quivering. Soon, his quivering breath turned out to be quiet laughing, and then louder, “Come and see! Come and see!”

Donnelley was rooted in his chair. The power he felt walking into this room had evaporated at that phrase. His heart was beating quick, throat dry. “Who said that to you?” Donnelley balled his fists, working hard to keep himself calm. “Who, Viktor. Before I show you what else is in this bag.”

“Walidu Alharb. Walidu Alharb!” Viktor shrieked with laughter, but the look in his eyes was anything but merry. Fear.

“Who is Walidu Alharb?” Donnelley asked, voice raised above Viktor’s mad laughter. Viktor wouldn’t answer, only laughing. Donnelley was getting tired of this. “Who is he?”

“Come and see!” Viktor laughed, “I made a promise!”

At that, lightning quick and without even realizing it, Donnelley was standing over Viktor. Blood was dripping from Viktor’s bent nose and his knuckles hurt. Viktor had stopped laughing. “Who is he, Viktor?” Donnelley asked through clenched teeth, “I’m tired of asking nicely.”

“I made-“ Donnelley landed a punch that made Viktor’s head thump against the concrete floor of his cell.

“Who is he!” Donnelley screamed it now, right in Viktor’s ear, “Who!”

“I made… a pro-“ Donnelley wrapped his hands around Viktor’s neck and hauled him up easy, planting his boot in his stomach and sending Viktor tumbling through the air onto his back.

“Who!” Donnelley screamed, “Who! Who!”

“Mosul…” Viktor wheezed, writhing on the ground, “Mosul…”

Donnelley growled, taking a step towards Viktor, and another, “I swear to fucking god, Viktor…” Donnelley grabbed the shackles at Viktor’s wrists and ankles, sending him sliding across the slickness of his own piss on the floor into the wall. Donnelley followed after him, picking him up again as he screamed and pinning him against the wall, punching him just under the ribs once, twice. “Tell me who the fuck Walidu Alharb is, you fucking piece of shit!”

Donnelley knew he should stop, but that animal part of his brain was telling him to choose fight instead of flight. But from who? Certainly not Viktor. He wasn’t much of a fight. But his heart was beating like mad, mind a blur. The punches had crumpled skinny Viktor to his knees, gasping for air. Donnelley reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look him in the eyes, “Who is Walidu Alharb?”

He asked, but he wasn’t even sure he cared that much anymore, just wanted something to focus his goddamned anger and fear of that phrase. Like a trigger word, unlocking some unholy rage deep as his bones laying dormant until now. He jammed a punch into Viktor’s face like he was trying to punch hard through his skull and grab his brain. Look around in it for himself. Viktor wasn’t even in there after a punch like that. But Donnelley gave him another, and another, and he reared back with his leg and drove his knee straight into his head and let him fall.

He lifted his boot to stomp down on his head and finish this. To make sure he wouldn’t hear those fucking words out of Viktor’s mouth again. “Donnelley!” He heard before he was bowled over and then lifted to his feet, thrown away like Viktor. When he got his wits about him again, Kingsley was standing over him, “What the fuck was that? You could’ve fucking killed him!”

Donnelley said nothing, just gawking up at Kingsley with no coming explanation. No method to this madness. He swallowed, Kingsley shook his head, “Jesus Christ.” He offered his hand to Donnelley and he slapped it away, “Donnelley-“

“I need to go.” He said, walking away from his shame and terrifying aggression. It terrified him too. Reminded him of the day at his daughter’s school. Security had gotten in his face. He thought. It felt like they were. “Make sure he’s okay.”

He had to keep from running away.

>CIA-INIS BLACKSITE
>BAGHDAD, IRAQ
>30AUG2019...///

Donnelley closed the door on Viktor Ozan’s mad babbling and dollar store prophecies. If he paid attention to every fucking string of madness in this world he’d be drawing magic circles in his front yard and never leaving. Time was, though, he’d probably find that crazier than he did now. Come face to face with the things he’d put down, and the things he’d almost been put down by, you see the world in a new light.

Or darkness, maybe. He shook his head, wiping his sweaty forehead and telling himself it was because of the Iraqi heat as he fumbled for his cellphone. Who would he call? Foster wasn’t even in-country, Ava wouldn’t be much help, bless her heart. Dave was probably off enjoying his mountains… that left only one. He remembered the feverish looks they gave each other, one part confusion, one part fear as they sped off from a burning meth house and two dead bodies in West Virginia.

Remembered too, how Jason had looked at him when he found out what he and Ghost, and Queen had done to the old woman. She’d seen their faces, he’d said. Seemed a poor footing to stand on when asking for favors, but he’d already had the phone to his ear and the dial tone trilling. He stuffed a cigarette in his mouth and hurriedly searched his pockets for a lighter. Waiting for an answer. Hoping for an answer…

When one came, the sound of a phone being picked up, he spoke the words in a hurry, “You’re activated. Iraq, text me when you’re leaving.”