>LEXINGTON, VA
>THUR.07.NOV.2019
>0737…///

Whatever sleep Donnelley had got was fitful and restless, and after the call from Tilly, he’d packed all his shit. He’d thrown his combat boots on, laced them right, and carried everything he had all the way back to Frank Gamble’s goddaughter’s house. Clyde Baughman’s daughter’s house, the man who had started what Donnelley was trying to finish for good. At least, that was the idea. In reality, a County Sheriff Deputy had taken him for some transient and picked him up. Donnelley still had the bruises, but then Frank Gamble showed up in the nick of time somehow and slipped the Deputy a brick of cash. They drove back, and Frank had told him that trick was starting lose its effectiveness as the years went on.

And that Donnelley smelled like shit and cigarettes. But nothing more. Donnelley knew Frank had days like this. So they rode in his truck all the way back to the outskirts of Lexington to his goddaughter’s house so Donnelley could shower, and Frank kept him well away from the liquor cabinet. Donnelley told him what happened, and Frank looked at him like he knew everything he was going to say already while they stood on his porch and smoked cigarettes after he was done packing all his things away in the Mazda truck.

After that, there was really nothing left to say. The time for action was now. Nothing else would be worth anything. Nothing else would make this all right. Donnelley’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he hoped it was Tilly before he remembered Tilly’s number was nowhere near his work phone. He answered, “Sam.”

“They read it.”

“They read [i]all of the dossiers?[/i]”

“No, but what they [i]have read[/i], they don’t like.” Sam paused, hauling in a breath, and Donnelley knew what was coming, “I’m on my way to Frank’s.”

And Sam hung up. Donnelley slipped his phone in his pocket and sighed. Frank spoke, eyes fixed on the horizon, “Maybe this time, they’ll [i]fuckin’ listen.[/i]”

Donnelley nodded, eyes fixed on the same thing as Frank, “Maybe.”

It was another half hour before they saw Sam in the not-so-subtly blacked out SUV. For all the secrecy the Program had, they really liked their blacked out SUVs. Frank snorted at that, but Donnelley just stared at it as it ambled up the road and stopped. The driver door of the SUV opened and Sam stepped out, a storm brewing in his eyes and heavy frown as he marched up to the porch with fists balled.

Not even a hello as Sam cleared the couple steps of the porch and grabbed Donnelley’s collar, forcing him back into the wall, “Donnelley, what [i]the fuck[/i] did you do!?”

“I did what was [i]right![/i]” Donnelley growled back through gritted teeth, sending flecks of spit over Sam’s shoulder.

“Right? What [i]you[/i] thought was right?” Sam’s voice rose almost to a screech as he throttled Donnelley against the wall, murder in his eyes, “Do you have [i]any idea[/i] how far this goes? How many dead and hospitalized?”

“Poker’s dead-“

“Poker [i]doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface,[/i] motherfucker!” Sam let Donnelley go, quite uncharacteristic until Donnelley noticed why.

Frank was on his feet and had his .45 jammed into Sam’s ribs. Sam carefully rose his hands, all the while staring daggers at Donnelley. Frank spoke first, “Best be careful. You shake him too much, that tiny pea brain of his might get broken, and then where’d we be, huh?”

“You remember what I said would happen if you ever pointed a gun at me again, Frank.” Sam said, but still not doing anything.

“Well, I’m pointin’ one now.” Frank had a vicious smile on his face, “Why don’t you remind me, you fuckin’ traitor.”

“I had my reasons for coming in from the cold.” Sam left it at that, and Frank stepped away to sit again. The fury of old men may have burned twice as hot, but it damn sure only lasted half as long. Bum knees and arthritis’ll do that. Sam lowered his hands, though Donnelley could tell they were still aching for violence, “It’s a lot more than Poker, Donnelley. Directors want to meet at Sobel’s.”

“When?” Donnelley asked, stepping away from the wall.

“Yesterday. Get the fuck in the truck.” Sam turned away from him and walked back to the SUV, slamming his door shut.

Donnelley looked back at Frank, still had his Colt on his lap, but his finger off the trigger. Frank wasn’t looking at Donnelley, but Donnelley still spoke, “I thought we weren’t friends.”

“We’re not.” Frank said simply, “You’re just the only guy I got for this now.”

Donnelley nodded as he looked away and stepped off the porch, “Alright.”

>FAIRFIELD, ID
>SOBEL’S HOMESTEAD
>FRI.08.NOV.2019
>1445…///

Miles and hours. No sleep. They needed to get to Fairfield quick, the Directors wouldn’t wait. There were scant few words exchanged between Sam and Donnelley, no matter how they’d become friends over the course of Sam taking a stupid fucking alcoholic with a death wish and training him back up to be the soul snatching killer the Program needed him to be. Now, as the miles had drained to just the few last drops and they had stopped at the last gas station out of the town of Fairfield, and Sobel’s place beyond it, Donnelley had to wonder.

“Why did Foster do it?” Donnelley asked, shaking his head as Sam was filling up his tank while Donnelley left his truck doing the same.

“That’s what we have to find out.” Sam said, “Did you forget what this was about? You’re the one who called [i]me[/i], Donnelley-“

“No.” Donnelley shook his head again, looking at Sam, “Why me? He could’ve gone to anybody else in the Company, sheepdipped some fuckin’ JSOC asshole or somethin’.”

Donnelley frowned, “Why me, and why then? When I was…”

“When you were what? About to take the easy way? When you’d lost everything and would grasp onto the first thing that would have you?” Sam said, glancing sidelong at Donnelley, “When you wouldn’t think too hard about the why? When you were nothing and easy to make into whatever he wanted?”

“He could’ve killed me in Chechnya.”

“I heard about Chechnya. You were the only one who got out. Always wondered how, I figured something was up.” Sam said, “I trained you best I could, but I knew either you were just unkillable or… someone else was responsible.”

“He could have done it then.” Donnelley shook his head, “Why didn’t he do it?”

“I don’t fucking know, but we can make sure he really fucking regrets not.” Sam’s voice rose, “So, stop moping around and get your fucking head in the game, asshole. This isn’t just about [i]you.[/i]”

They were pulling away from Fairfield and out into the countryside where Sobel’s house lay. They drove up the long driveway and into Sobel’s gravel lot. Donnelley got out and retrieved his pack from the back of Sam’s SUV, walking to the porch where a tabby cat sat and watched him. He wasn’t a stranger to cats, but this one. It was like the eyes knew something, something more than a cat should. Something about Donnelley, and anyone it stared at. Sobel’s door opened and there stood the man himself, just staring at Donnelley like the cat was. Blank, as if he was expecting something. Blank, as if you were just meat, and blood, and bone.

“Sobel.” Donnelley nodded.

“Joseph.” Sobel nodded back, his face suddenly full of emotion like he was greeting a friend he hadn’t seen for years, “I’m glad you came. It’s been a long time. Come in, the Directors are on the way, but they’re busy as always. Oakes really wants to meet you.”

“Flattered.” Donnelley mumbled as he followed Sobel inside, but had to stop. Something was off. It was like the air didn’t quite sit right, the angles somewhat askew, the geometry just wrong enough to notice. He wondered who and why this house was built, and when. He shrugged it off quick enough and followed Sobel to a guest room that he still felt shouldn’t even be where it was, and dropped his bags in a corner.

“I have dinner on the stove. Venison, fresh. You’ll like it, like last time we were together.” Last time they were together, they were waterboarding ISIS in Mosul and the places around it, and Donnelley would never forget the screams one particularly tough nut to crack made when they had to bring in Sobel to make some progress. But Sobel was just smiling in the doorway.

“Okay.” Was all Donnelley said though.

Sobel gave another nod, “You can do whatever you need to freshen up.”

“You’re not goin’ to show me around?” Donnelley asked.

“No need. You know where everything is.” Sobel still had his smile as he turned away from Donnelley to go back to the kitchen. It was the funniest thing, or most unnerving more like, but as Donnelley walked straight to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, he had to admit he did know where everything was in the house.

He swallowed, shook his head and sighed. He rested his hands on the sink, then turned it on to the coldest water it could give him before splashing and rubbing his face almost to the bone. Just to try to get himself back, get that single-mindedness back to the forefront. Get Tex back, the man with nothing to lose and no care in the world except for the next shithead to kill in the next shithole war zone.

Sobel’s friendly voice came from the kitchen down the hall, “Dinner’s ready!”

>1824…///

Donnelley was at the back porch, just staring out at the country and trying to forget everything except for the cigarette in his hand. There was a whiskey bottle at his feet. Sobel didn’t drink, but he kept it around for any guests, so he let Donnelley have the thing to himself. Whether or not Sobel knew that it was as much a mistake as it was, or if he just didn’t care, Donnelley couldn’t tell and didn’t ask. He took another drag, and he heard the door open and close, footsteps.

“I see you’re brooding again.” Sobel’s voice. The man himself took his moment before siding up with him. He had a rifle in his hands, an M110 CSASS.

“What kinda varmints you get around here?” Donnelley quirked a brow at Sobel’s gun.

“Hopefully none on two legs.” Sobel said, “Yet.”

The two of them stood there for a while. Sobel closed his eyes as he sniffed at the air, then opened them again, “Had to get away from all of it. At least as far as I could. You never really get to get away from it.”

“The city?”

“You know what I mean.” Sobel shook his head. “It was only a matter of time with Foster. Some just don’t let it go. They all see the consequences for it sooner or later.”

“Let it go?” Donnelley asked, “What?”

“Majestic.” Sobel sighed softly, “Sore losers. I’ve known a few. Never lasted long.”

Donnelley looked at Sobel, younger than him. What did Sobel know about the ones who came in from the cold, about the Program’s roots that Donnelley didn’t? He decided not to ask. “You know, I was with Foster in Chechnya.” Donnelley sighed, “They killed everyone. Made me forget all about it, and whatever they were doing there.”

“GRANTOR. We all heard about Chechnya, the ones who needed to know.” Sobel nodded, “I was there. The debriefing.”

“I don’t know why Foster came to get me in Eastern Washington. Why he wouldn’t just let me kill myself after Libya.” Donnelley shook his head as if he didn’t even hear Sobel talk, “Why I keep getting pulled in, and coming back. Why I’m still here after all that.”

“I knew you were telling everything you could after Chechnya. No matter what they did to you, Joseph…” Sobel frowned, shaking his head, “At least you can still feel human after that. At least you don’t [i]remember.[/i] Way back, when Oakes told me to suit up after I’d disappeared, not to mention how she even found me… It gave me purpose again.”

“I was selling the only skills I had to whoever would have me. I thought I’d end up doing what all the others did and just retiring myself, but,” Sobel winced a bit, “When Oakes told me what was coming back then, that I could make them pay for what they did to me? I didn’t need any more convincing.” Sobel nodded, silent for a few long moments. “I don’t ask why. Never have. Stopped caring, because the answer never really mattered to me. Maybe I don’t want it. But, I know what my purpose is, and that’s the most victory I’ll ever have.”

“What’s your purpose?” Donnelley asked, not really understanding why he was waxing poetic with a sociopath killer, but not turning down the company of someone he knew and trusted.

“Whatever I decide it is.” Sobel frowned, “And what I’ve decided it is since Oh-One, is killing everything Majestic ever touched before it kills me.”

Donnelley looked at Sobel, not quite understanding how the man fit into the world, but knowing that somehow, he’d jammed himself into it and wouldn’t be pulled free until he said so. The world didn’t make sense before to Donnelley before the Program, and it made even less sense after. But he did know that a good rifle and a hard enemy helped make sense of the chaos for just a bit. You had to find purpose wherever you could. At least Sobel did. Donnelley just nodded, and took another hard drag off his cigarette, still not quite content with anything.

“What did they do to me?” Donnelley asked, getting the obvious sense that they’d done something to Sobel too. “Majestic, March Tech? Foster?”

Sobel frowned, and stayed painfully silent as Donnelley could see Sobel working at the answer, and not quite finding one he would like, “Gave you a purpose.” Sobel looked at Donnelley, “Didn’t they? Seeing everything you’ve done to be here now?”

Donnelley swallowed, looking away from Sobel’s eyes to the horizon. “[i]Sure.[/i]” Donnelley stayed silent and took the last drag off his cigarette, before pinching out the cherry and pocketing the filter. “Send a message to UMBRA and what’s left of THUNDER while I’m here. They’re activated, get their asses to Fairfield.”

“I don’t think I have enough room for all of them.” Sobel looked at Donnelley with his brow quirked.

“They can get a hotel if they have to. Pitch a fuckin’ tent outside, just as long as [i]they’re here.[/i]” Donnelley growled. “We have a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it before Foster disappears. Maybe he already has.”

“We’ll find him.” Sobel nodded.

“I know we will.” Donnelley grabbed up the bottle and stepped back inside, going straight for the guest room he was staying in.

>SEVEN MILES FROM FAIRFIELD, ID
>SAT.09.NOV.2019
>1827

The air was dead and still. The sound of crickets filtered in from everywhere as the sun began to dip below the hills. Coyotes yelping and hollering in the distance perked Donnelley’s ears as he dragged off his cigarette. It was just him and Sam standing a few hundred meters from the packed dirt road, like two men come to the crossroads to bargain with the devil. He could smell the heat in the air, baking dirt and brush stirred up by the winds sweeping across the vast countryside. 

“You’re sure-”

“[i]Yes.[/i]” Donnelley answered Sam, not turning to him to answer. Deep down, he had that fear. If they could get Poker, he wondered if they could get to Ghost. He pushed it aside, “He’ll [i]be here.[/i]”

“We’re running out of [i]only-hopes[/i] here.” Sam grumbled.

“You want me to do this, you’ll want THUNDER.” Donnelley said, then mumbled, “Or what’s left of it.”

The shocks of the 2011 Jeep Cherokee handled the ruts in the road with ease, providing a smooth, comfortable ride. It was a surprisingly pleasant vehicle; Ghost had long been suspicious of Jeep products after owning a lemon of a Wrangler during high school, but the Grand Cherokee was winning him over. 

He glanced again at the GPS unit he’d bought at a gas station, matching it with the coordinates Tex had given him in their brief phone call since he’d left Vegas. He was close. He pulled over to the side of the road and slipped out of the vehicle, closing the door quietly and shedding the jacket that he’d worn over his tactical vest for the last ten miles. He put on his helmet, pulled up his mask, and brass-checked his rifle, then stepped into the woods, fading into the growing shadows. 

Donnelley felt a breeze waft through the sparse trees of whatever passed as a forest this side of the Cascades. He could smell something beneath the dirt and grass, subtle notes. He lay a hand on the butt of his FN and depressed the thumb brake, pulling it free. Sam looked over at Donnelley and followed suit, similarly sniffing the air, and putting a hand to his ear to amplify whatever noise he could hear that wasn’t the wildlife.

With the weight of his gun in his hand, Donnelley scanned the darkness around them with his handgun at low ready, “Is that fuckin’ Armani?”

Ghost stepped from the trees, mentally cursing both his lack of success and their lack of cultural knowledge. 

“It’s Creed [i]Aventus[/i],” he growled, lowering his rifle. “Armani is for posers. I actually [i]have[/i] money.” 

He’d picked up more than just gear from his stash outside of Henderson, Nevada. His party clothes had been replaced by his usual grays and dark blues, his vest settled over one of the hundreds of dark hoodies he preferred during urban operations. He tracked from Tex to the stranger and back, then reached up and pulled down his skull-emblazed mask. 

“Well? I’m here.” 

“Yeah, your fucking [i]cologne[/i] introduced you.” Sam grumbled, “Shit’s like an air horn for the olfactory senses.”

Donnelley glanced at Sam, standing beside him and slapping his gun back into its holster. He sighed, “We’re wanted. There’s a meeting of [i]important people[/i] at Sobel’s house.” Donnelley spoke, replacing his own handgun and slipping the retention back over his gun. “Catch a ride with us?”

“There’s a shower at Sobel’s.” Sam gave Ghost a once over, “Maybe you can try again after.”

Ghost ignored Sam, save for giving him a hard glare before looking back over his shoulder. He actually liked his new Jeep. Still, it was hot. There were bodies on it, thanks to his hasty escape. 

“I guess,” he grumbled. “I’m parked down the road, about two klicks. But everything I need is in my pack. We can leave it, the cops will find it sooner or later.” 

“They gonna be lookin’ for you this far north?” Donnelley quirked a brow, wondering just what Ghost had to do to get out of Vegas. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, “Then get in the car, let’s go.”

>…///

As they ambled up the road, Donnelley could see the black SUVs and the security detail for the bigwigs. They were here, and it was real now. Sam wasn’t talking out of his ass then, and Foster really was as grave of a threat as Donnelley was getting the feeling for. “Should we bow?”

“Funny.” Sam said, deadpan.

The GMC Yukon came to a stop behind the other clones of it. One of the security detail eyed them from the porch as Donnelley dismounted from the passenger seat. The inner circle could talk freely. The three of them converged in front of the Yukon, “Don’t waste their time. This might be personal for you, but they need to know you can pull the trigger when it comes to it.” Sam looked at both Donnelley and Ghost, “Can you?”

Ghost gave Sam a genuinely confused look, his gaze going from Tex to the old man and back. He seemed at a loss for words. It had been decades since anyone had doubted that he could kill a man.

“...Motherfucker, I’m [i]Ghost,[/i]” he finally said, shaking his head. “I can kill anyone. Let’s go.” 

Donnelley and Ghost made for the door, but Sam grabbed hold of Donnelley’s shoulder, halting him with a strong grip. It eased when he stopped and looked at him, murder in his eyes at the touch, or maybe the insinuation that he still felt anything friendly for Foster. Sam inclined his head, as if stating the question again. Donnelley’s brows knitted together and he shrugged Sam’s hand off of his shoulder as he followed Ghost. Sam followed after. One of the security detail reached over and opened the door for Ghost and the rest as they stepped onto the porch and then through the door.

Inside, the house was just a bit more spacey than outside, and Ghost might’ve felt a slight sense of vertigo stepping inside. Donnelley did. The dimensions seemed… off, and it wasn’t just creative use of space. His eyes going about the rafters and stairs brought him to looking into the kitchen at an assortment of men- and a token pair of women- standing and sitting in the kitchen and dining room. Donnelley caught eyes with one, and he could recognize that look in his eyes.

It made Tex rip himself to the surface, his shoulders beginning to pin back, and the only thing he’d left to do was bare his teeth. The feeling of two packs of wolves meeting. There was an emptiness in those eyes, and Tex knew that he’d seen and done the same things he had. And he never liked meeting people who understood. They’d convinced him to do things he couldn’t get away from no matter the years he’d put between himself and them. He nodded. The man nodded back. He saw one face he recognized at a dinner table, no matter the lines of age now set in his face that’d been carved there by the years eroding away at him.

They’d met in Somalia, and Donnelley had helped stab his best friend twenty times each before throwing him overboard. His best friend had been dead for twenty minutes before he started moving again. After Somalia, Tex knew however he thought the world worked was wrong. The Marine Raider stood and walked up to Tex, his team turning to stare at Tex and Ghost. He stood a head taller than Tex, but he looked up at him impassively as the Raider’s deep voice rumbled, “Is it true?”

DD, that was his callsign, Tex remembered. Dead Dave. Tex nodded. That was all that was needed, and DD turned away from him after clapping his shoulder and walking back to his comrades to continue whatever card game they were playing on Sobel’s dinner table as if Tex and Ghost weren’t there.

The sense of spatial discomfort passed quickly for Ghost. He noted it, grimaced, and shoved it into a dark hole in the back of his brain like he did everything else that bothered him. Once he’d made the decision to accept that physics wasn’t behaving he simply moved on. 

The faces around the room were mostly strangers, though Ghost recognized a few old dogs he’d worked with throughout his nearly 20 years of Program service. Weathered, scarred, suspicious. He understood. Unlike Tex, these were Ghost’s people. A number of them probably met the same clinical qualifications he did, and none of them felt the need to pretend to be anything other than what they were; killers. He found it refreshing. 

“Ghost.” The baritone voice drew the operator’s attention and he turned, spotting a familiar face coming his way. Five-five, compact, packing practical gear over civilian clothing, Ghost nodded a greeting. 

“Ronin,” he said. He extended a hand and the two shook. Ghost knew very little about Ronin; he was some sort of Asian, with an accent that Ghost now associated with Laine and probably meant he was from somewhere in Southern California. He looked to be between 35 and 50, Ghost could never tell with Asians. 

“Good to see you,” Ronin said, releasing his grip and giving him a sympathetic look. “Sorry about all this.”

“Happens,” Ghost grunted. “You here as backup?”

“Me and the rest of the boys.” Ronin jerked his head to where Working Group KAIJU sat. Ghost knew very little about Ronin, just like he knew very little about any of the other operators outside of THUNDER. What he did know was what mattered; Ronin was a Tier 1 shooter, fluent in Tagalog, and was one of the only men Ghost would hesitate to knife fight. That was all he cared about. 

“Glad to have you,” Ghost said truthfully. He wanted Foster for himself, but he was a realist; there would be a lot of guns around the traitorous bastard, and Ghost wasn’t in the game to lose just because he went in under-gunned. 

“Living room.” Sam called out to the two making friends with the guns in the house.

Tex turned away from the kitchen and walked down the hall and into the living room, where a man with quite the belly who looked more suited to briefing rooms than the football field now that he was in his older age sat. Across the room was a woman in her forties, looking like her intense aura was what was repelling the man all the way to the other corner of the room. Out of the two, Tex had to say he had a better impression of the woman. She was leaned against the wall, a good five-ten, and her build spoke of being honed by hard training and hard fights in a hard life. Her hair was cropped short, so it couldn’t be grabbed, and was fading from blonde to gray. She squinted at them, her lips pursed.

“So,” the woman looked between Ghost and Tex, “This is all of what’s left of THUNDER. Where’s the junkie?”

While the woman was busy looking as severe as possible, the man nodded. He had pallid skin, and a tired, professional smile that didn’t quite reach his bagged eyes. His hair was black, but thinned and graying. He held his hand up to the two other men, “Gentlemen, my name is Abraham Mannen, Director of Operations.”

The woman made no such gesture, simply turning her chin up at them, “Katherine Oakes. Director of Security.”

Ghost watched Ronin settle in his with team, noting the presence of a slim Asian female among them before returning his attention to the duo at the front of the room. He narrowed his eyes at the woman’s tone, but kept his mouth shut. [i]If[/i] they really were Directors, then things had moved well beyond his domain. It was best to shut up, kill who he was told to kill, and hope he was the one who got to eat Foster’s eyes when they caught the cocksucker. 

“Foster’s gone off the rails.” Katherine said, frowning, “And I understand that you two were the closest men he had at his side. There’s a delicate balance that the Program likes and [i]needs[/i] to keep. Foster is upsetting that balance.”

“I’d say.” Tex nodded.

Abraham snorted softly, nodding in agreement, “The Director doesn’t like this. This is starting to bleed over into the public eye.”

“Your friend, Kin Dang. I think you call him something like Thumper, Cruncher…”

“[i]Poker.[/i]” Tex enunciated, his eyes narrowing. No matter his opinions of the man, he was the closest thing he had to a friend or family after GRANTOR. He’d have Poker’s name remembered.

“Poker, sure. He wasn’t the only one. We’ve had several agents put into the ICU, put under investigation, and put into the [i]fucking morgue[/i], with the same note.” Katherine paused, eyes boring into Donnelley, “Tell [i]you[/i] to stop. What were you doing that got Foster so upset, I wonder.”

“Calling him on his bullshit. Foster is ex-Maj-“

“Majestic.” Katherine Oakes cut in, nodding, “Foster isn’t working alone. He’s a Case Officer, whoever gave him the case files he stole and then traded to whoever he traded it to… is higher up than him, and is very much [i]my concern.[/i]”

“We’re not asking you to stop, Joseph.” Abraham spoke up, “We want you, [i]The Director[/i] wants you to find Foster, and find Foster’s friends, and find Foster’s contacts.”

“And we’re promoting you to Case Officer. You’ll have UMBRA, you’ll have THUNDER, and the rest of those swinging dicks in there,” Katherine nodded over to the kitchen full of butchers, “And you’ll have a blank check. To do [i]whatever you need[/i] to do to fix all of this.”

“You’re sure?” Tex quirked a brow, searching the two of their faces, “Me?”

“We need people who can go to dark places, Donnelley.” Abraham spoke.

Tex’s brows furrowed, “Ghost is my second.”

“Done.” Katherine nodded.

“And I put whoever else I need on the team.” Tex said, “[i]Whoever.[/i]”

“Whoever.” Echoed Abraham, “Just get this done. You and your task force answer to no one but me, Katherine, and The Director.”

“And when you find Foster-“

“He’s dead.” Tex cut in. “And everyone else who ever even smiled at him.”

“I’m glad you understand.” Katherine smiled for the first time since they’d began, just the smallest upward curve of the corner of her lip, and Tex felt like those were to be prized as something rare. “We’ll be returning to Virginia now that we’ve reached an understanding and you know what we need from you.”

They stood, walking past Tex and Ghost until they both heard the front door open and shut again. And then the sound of a GMC Yukon turning over, and its wheels rolling over a gravel parking lot to fade away into the night. 

Tex drew in a breath and looked to Ghost, “Me and you.”

Ghost grunted an affirmative, watching Oakes leave. After a moment he turned his shark's gaze on Tex.

"I wasn't sure, until now," he admitted. His empty eyes hinted at the meaning behind his words. "But they wouldn't have scrambled a response like this over bullshit."

He nodded his head and extended a fist. "Alright, Tex. Let's go kill Foster." 

Tex knocked his fist against Ghost’s, and just like that, it was like he was back in Libya. Back in THUNDER. Back to being the man who’d bleed the whole world dry and scream for more. He had a purpose, and a goal again. [i]Kill.[/i]

“Make sure everyone’s as ready as they look. I’m goin’ to make some house calls.” He said, looking over all the stoney-eyed killers assembled just for him to set loose upon their enemies, “And then we head [i]south.[/i]”

>Blue house on Whiteville
>Ash, North Carolina
>MON.11.NOV.2019
>1103...///

A head of slick long hair over squared dark shades leaned from the window of a glued together ‘89 Chevy Baja. Hair-metal wailed from the vehicle as it reversed into the carport, screeching clear of a kayak strewn on its side against the attached shed.

The modest blue house was barebones, smelling of ocean and mud and a quarter mile deep from the main road.  It was the smallest of his three properties, the one he typically spends time alone in to relax and be a slob. Even in Montana he deals with the friendly local riff raff and friends from service who come to stay on part of his land at a retreat. It was part of some non-profit veteran recovery program. All bullshit, but an excuse to build funds for shooting parties with the boys. Helped grow the network with fewer additional expenses.

Holt cut the engine and footed the door open with a creek of old paint and steel. He wore a light linen button up and swim trunks, barefoot after kicking them off in the truck. The cooler air this time of year didn’t bother him. He grabbed two bags in one hand and in the other a half-through beer. He touched down in North Carolina that morning and was making his rounds. Drop off the bags, grab three months of mail, drop by his favorite bar to see “Tits” Tiffany as she opens, then grab grub and a six pack for the night.

In one swift chug Croc finished the beer and dropped the bottle off the side of the stoop in a trash bin and unlocked his door. He belched then froze in the entryway. A man sat on a stool at the kitchen bar. A burning sensation spread through his body like he should sub-second-draw a north-coast brew and lob it at the intruder's face. He didn’t express it on his shaded stone-face, as he realized— 

“Motha fucker.”

Rough hands cracked open another pistachio from the bowl on the counter and popped them into a smiling set of lips. Long hair kept out of his face by a set of aviators pushed up to his forehead, heavy-bearded, and a big scar on the cheek if you took the time to look deep enough. The stranger was still smiling even as he swigged off of one of Croc’s many, many beers in the fridge. You’d have thought that’s all the man put into his body besides protein powder. Maybe he even mixed the two.

“Howdy, fucker.” Donnelley said, now that he knew he wasn’t going to be greeted by a bullet through his face for going through all the trouble of surprising an old acquaintance in the spookiest of ways. Past the small greeting, he shut up so Croc could take in the ghost in his bar stool.

"Fuck. Tex?" Croc let the screen door slam shut behind him. The nerve agency folk had always fascinated him.  He pulled his shades off and tucked them in his shirt pocket, carrying a dumbfounded smirk as he approached Donnelley, reaching in a solid brotherly shake. 

"You ain't dead yet?"

“Nothin’ kills me.” Donnelley smirked that old bravado, voice full of West Texas drawl, but let it go unsaid that as the years went by, he could do without so many of the things trying. He returned the shake, and gave the other man a once over, “Lucky you showed up. I was worried I’d slipped into the wrong house and one of these rednecks over here’d bury me in his backyard.”

He chuckled, knowing he was a hair’s breadth away from Croc doing just the same if he took a little while longer recognizing him, “How you livin’, man?”

Croc pulled a cold case of beer out of the bag along with several gourmet sandwiches and snacks, setting them out for them.  He cracked open a bottle. "It's been fair, man.  Retired a few years back and now it's payday." He winked over his delight in two years of bank-rolls and took a swig. 

After separating from the Army he took to contracting,  landing a permanent gig with some fellow 160th pilots.  If he wasn't treading over the Congo canopy he was taxiing sheikhs around the Persian Gulf. Then, there were the DG calls. Dealing with Tex meant the latter.  People like them were all business,  they didn't have time to visit old acquaintances.  

"What about you my man, the fuck you doing in my house? Nobody s'posed to know I even come here. " He chuckled coarsely. 

“I’ve got my ways.” Donnelley said, a cryptic reminder that Delta Green could find anyone and drag them back when they needed. Even when they didn’t want to go, “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”

He smirked, though he knew that Croc knew as well as anyone that there were very few reasons Donnelley quietly breaks into your house to surprise you in your living room. Lucky for Croc that there was no reason DG had to throw him a retirement party. A cute nickname for something far from it, “And I need a favor.” He said, his smirk fading away, “I pulled you out of the wreckage of that bird, you saved me from those militants in Mosul.”

He clucked his tongue, the way he always did before getting to the point of things, “That debt’s settled, but I figure there’s been enough time passed I can start rackin’ up new ones from you.” He looked at Croc, “I figure you already know what I’m about to ask a former Night Stalker.”

"C'mon now. I ain't Moosama Bin Jacko like you're dealing in Panjshir, askin' favors." He remembers vividly the time in Mosul. Texs' sort were the company he kept. Keeps his blood flowing and his mind off health problems and an empty 401k. He selected a tightly wrapped sandwich. 

"Capitalism baby, debts what I do. You need something," Croc said, more uppity than usual. Then he slapped the sandwich to his chest several times, gesturing to himself,  until it was now visibly deformed, "you come to me. You know, if I can do it." He tore open the wrapper and took a big bite, compensating for the mess he made of it.

“I’d hope you could do it.” Donnelley snorted, taking another long pull from the beer he’d stolen. Add that into the debt too, “I need a pilot still flies, got a clearance, and ain’t a pussy.”

He chuckled, sipping from the bottle again, getting low, “It’s important. Way more important than whatever company’s payin’ you to be a sky-chauffeur to rich assholes or bush pilotin’.” Donnelley explained, treading closer still to the meat of it, “And it ain’t exactly… [i]legal.[/i] No sanction. This is just [i]us.[/i] THUNDER, few others.”

“And as good of pay as I can get you.” Donnelley quirked a brow, “How ‘bout it?”

Croc grimaced through another sip of beer. It was a solid team he’d be working with. “I just get home for some leave, now you’re hittin’ me with talk at all the right angles.” The exclusivity reeling in his interest. Operahouse pay was competitive to the UAE premium rates, he didn’t have a reason to say no. “I’m flattered man, but what kind of op are we talking about? Takes some time to get things together— especially if this goes international.”

Donnelley kept himself from smiling. Croc was edging closer to saying yes, even with the details coming piecemeal and dropping on his shoulders from high up. He raised his brows when Croc talked about international, “It is. I need someone with contacts that can get us undocumented out of the US.” He downed the rest of the beer and looked at Croc, “And back into The Shit. I’m huntin’ someone.”

"Always a hunt, brotha."  Croc said straight,  chasing down another big bite.

 He thought back, visually struggling to let go of opportunities to blow money this time stateside. As if Tex was challenging him, no wasn't even an option. "Destination? Timeline?”

“It’s all up in the air for now.” Donnelley shrugged, “Just do your best to get everythin’ ready. Worst can happen is you do and you’re early.”

Donnelley gulped down the last of the beer bottle and set it down wobbling to a stillness on the counter, “The Program gave me a blank check for this one, Croc.” He smirked, though his eyes held a weight, an edge, like Tex was peeking out through his pupils. 

The same Tex that had had a couple little children staring down his barrel and a Ghost breathing down his neck in Libya. The same Tex who had brutalized a helpless man in the woods under the thin pretense of getting him talking. The same Tex that had run amok in West Virginia and set it all quietly ablaze, the same Tex who’d come back from Afghanistan years ago with a hunger for blood and not much else, who took the first hand outstretched that would let him wade in it. The same Tex who wouldn’t just bite the same hand, but chomp it off with a frothing mouth, “You don’t want to know how desperate they have to be to give a man like [i]me[/i] a sanction to do [i]whatever the fuck I need[/i] to make sure we’re still behind the curtain.”

Croc chewed around his mouth for leftover bits. He slammed his bottle then dropped it and his guest’s empty in the trash, pulling out two fresh ones. He cracked them open on some fixture beneath the counter simultaneously and passed one over. “Sounds serious alright.” He said, figuring the meaning behind this personal visit.

Few men dealt their cards like Tex in Crocs experience. Even among the hardcore soldiers and spies, no better blend. He’d have been pleased to work with him more in the past, but good pilots in this scene were a commodity spread thin. Operations fluctuate with the climate of international relations; could be in Columbia one week, the next it's off to Turkmenistan to fly one mission where there are no assets. Other issues, like air interdiction, meant retention was low— likely half those recruited are in foreign prisons, shot down, or worse. The ones that perform, survive, and evade like Croc are put on special order by teams like THUNDER.

“Must be an exceptionally grave threat, “ he quoted, mocking clearance ratings, “kind where they can’t afford failure. If I learned anything back then, man, “ His lip curled at one side as he took a heavy swig.  “You’re no risk, you get it done. Collateral be damned.” 

Donnelley leaned his bottle Croc’s way and they clinked the necks of them. Nothing like sharing drinks while discussing how to make the world burn. More like setting a controlled blaze so the fire couldn’t eat the houses. It remained to be said, the fire they’d be setting would be in everyone’s front yards. But when the time comes, what Foster said to Donnelley when he asked, and what Donnelley said to UMBRA when they were too deep in it to ever turn back again- [i]We do the horrific to stop the apocalyptic.[/i]

But that could wait a little while longer, far as Donnelley was concerned, “All that big talk set aside,” he shrugged, “No reason we should rush to the fight. Let’s just sit back and get drunk, got a lot of years worth of it to catch up on, ain’t we?”

Croc chuckled. “Sure thing, my man. Get me the accounting code, then uh…  Three weeks and a day. I’ll have us ready for almost anywhere. Extra day’s for the reeling hangover you owe me.” He slid his sunglasses back on and grabbed his stuff,  beckoning Donnelly to follow with his sandwich hand.

“Oh, I gotta show yah. Remember that hentai mural? Got a rifle in the back cerakoted in it. Fucking art, homie.”