>GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE, CIA HQ
>13SEP2019
>1200…///

Some places look exactly as they appear. An office, a home, dull endless dwellings meeting every expectation from first glance. They were forgettable visual clutter fading from memory the moment it’s witnessed. No tricks of the eye, no subconscious biases of color or shape filtered out of our daily experience. Much of life is this way, especially the space it occupies. And then there are places that fool you. Bungalow houses inexplicably hiding extra floors, twisted knots of corridors and rooms obscuring a bedroom or study; forgettable spaces that cloister impressive amounts of space within. They were the liminal becoming reality, or had always been some version of reality, but were undetermined until seen before you. 

Jason remembered his grandparents house in Galveston before it was sold off in his teenage years, subsequently now ruined from the next hurricane that had slammed against the Texas coast. There were twin Magnolia trees flanked by old oaks that boxed in the front yard and obscured its Georgian style porch pillars, the house close enough to catch the brine filled air of the ocean but far away enough to drown out the call of the waves. It was painted bone white and seemed quaint and diminutive to him even despite living in nothing but apartments during his then short life. 

Back then his memory was patchwork the way a kid’s could be, the brain still developing too rapidly for experience to keep up. He had been to his grandparent’s house before he truly remembered it, had even seen holiday polaroids of him smiling gleefully, no doubt pausing between loud gallops across its wooden floors. But for a span of a few years the house was a shapeshifter, a cozy but unknown place that hid much from the boy that was Jason. He’d discover a new room here during the summer, or a closet there later at Thanksgiving. It took him a year to figure out there was a split third story, his older cousin using the furnished attic room as a reprieve from the holidays and the younger kids, himself included. It never occurred to him where she could be when she disappeared, only that she was doing ‘teenager stuff.’ 

Every time he visited he found more space, and what was once a small house took on a near mystical nature as a mansion oddity. There was more space than what was suggested from its frame, and each subsequent visit held the mystery of the unexplored, the unknown. Ever since then Jason held particular interest in the moments where space surprised him, revealed more than what was expected. And if there was any place he should have expected that sensation and awareness, the George Bush Center was one of them. But despite this, when he first stepped from the elevator to the Black Floors he was reminded of that sensation, of the Galveston home, and of all the in-between spaces nestled away from the world. 

The corridors meeting the elevators were forgettable, painted a two tone cream white and navy blue like so many other sterile government buildings. Stock landscape art and vaguely patriotic paintings broke up the monotony, but the true entrance of the Black Floors was markedly different. Glass panel doors opened into a lobby facing a reception desk boxed in with reinforced glass. Jason handed over his ID to an attendant through a metal deposit tray he could only recall from two places--Intelligence skiffs and corner stores in the hood. 

“Looks like we have some expedited paperwork for your clearance, Mr. Jimenez,” the clerk said, thumbing through a manila folder with intelligence labeling stamped all over it. She pulled a few sheets of paper and slid them back through the bin for his signing. She waited until a colleague could man the chair and came out to take his picture for his access badge. He was no stranger to the process but expected to be waiting at least a day to process access. They had him ready to enter in a mere hour. 

The skiff itself was massive, modular metal shelves lining a slightly depressed ground floor. Several computer terminals flanked the shelves and half way through the floor was a hallway that led into an identical conjoined room. It took several more minutes of processing his login credentials before the clerk asked for any specific requests. 

“Case files for Donnelley, Joseph,” Jason said. “Anything you have.”

The clerk returned half an hour later with several bound folders she plopped on his desk nestled deep within the shelves. 

“Use the same labeling for digital queries,” she said dully. “Any time you walk in or out, even to tinkle, you log it for the clerks. Otherwise, you can camp here all night if you want.” 

Now alone, the question became where to start. He supposed he could from the first files in Donnelley’s folder, but who knew how far that went back and what was pertinent. If anything, Donnelley was prolific in his operations and the stack before him only confirmed it. Jason fumbled in his pocket for an adderall pill and felt it stick in his throat as he tried swallowing it with nothing to drink. It didn’t matter. He went to work. 


*   *   *


More and more Jason was in the company of ghosts. He followed them through featureless paths on paper, faceless reports shrouded in the shadows of redacted details. At his cluttered desk in the archive skiff he trailed Donnelley through the files, and when his face emerged in his mind’s eye Jason paused and committed it to memory. The wounded stare, the past like chasms lining the valleys and plains of his face. These things would fade in time. They would leave Jason alone in the abstract of what was, what had occurred. His memories would eventually be filled with blurry specters, caricatures restaging imperfect moments. Even now he couldn’t recall every face on TF-11; only those burned into his memory from the night that everything changed, from what he now understood was a ritual. The why and what was still very much a mystery. 

In all of this he was at least spared the visage of UMBRA’s death. Of their stilled expressions, bullet marred bodies, their faces echoing the final moments. That he wouldn’t allow to break the surface. For Donnelley, Jason relied on that same imagination to fill in the gaps the reports couldn’t provide. There had to be an answer somewhere, some sort of beginning whose roots were deep in the soil of the past. 

The team lead’s work had been messy from the start and disproportionately leaned toward HVT hits; coordinated search and destroy missions, asset termination, raids. Each black box littered report fell like matching pieces into what Jason knew of the man. After days of searching something had caught his attention; Operation ABLE HARVEST. It was the first mission on paper for Donnelley after the Chechnya fiasco, and of that Jason knew next to nothing. 

Donnelley had survived it, this Operation IRONWALL, though it seemed he had returned in a peculiar state. At least one worth noting in the reports. Seeking post-op medicals had been a dead end, and whatever state Donnelley had been in would remain a mystery. The events of the operation, what was accessible anyway, seemed to be a pivot point, a turn into ABLE HARVEST. First, Donnelley’s bizarre recovery, and second, the GRU-SV8 compromise in Libya. First Chechnya, then a long history of Russian interference there after. Rot from within, allowed to fester for years. 

Jason had laid awake at night, hotel lights casting him in a nauseating yellow glow, and he fought the developing bias he was forming against his dead team lead. Donnelley was the common denominator ever since Chechnya. That was the only common link he was finding. Was Donnelley casting pitfalls before the path? Had he led UMBRA, hand in hand, to their demise? And why hadn’t he taken out Jason in Iraq or had him on the Alaska job? On paper it seemed clear, but every moment he had spent with the man said otherwise, implored him to ignore the simple logic before him: Donnelley was compromised. 

It wasn’t until the early hours of his second day that UMBRA emerged in the case files, and by then a mental fatigue had washed over the analyst. Jason was surprised he had waited so long to finally read it over, but he knew he couldn’t admit he was hiding from it. Especially after studying Donnelley’s history, he couldn’t come to terms that he may have led UMBRA into this. Above all, he didn’t want to know the details, even knowing it was likely absent the report. It would be clinical, harsh. Uncaring. But how did it go down? Did Donnelley pull the trigger? Had they fought back? No, Jason thought. He had died too, like the rest of them. Whether it was the brain addled by the early hours or his fierce denial, Jason rejected the notion it was Donnelley’s fault. But that led to an impasse. 

So he left again to his hotel with its forgettable liminal space. Its empty halls and hollow rooms, its vacancy of the mind. Jason roamed until he was too tired to continue, his mind an exhausted void.Like the halls, his room, it remained empty and longed to be occupied. He was afraid UMBRA was already beginning to fade, and he fell asleep clinging to the memory of their faces. 
 

*   *   *


“You’re looking at this all from the wrong point of view.”

At the beginning of the third day Jason’s solitude in the archives was breached. A man of waning middle age, leathered from decades of sun, shuffled to Jason’s table and matter-of-factly pressed his palms on the surface, looming in towards the analyst. Jason didn’t look up. 

“And you know what I’m looking at?” Jason mouthed, trying to avoid meeting the stranger’s gaze. 

“By what you’re pulling, yeah,” the man said. He dropped a bulging manila folder on the table and slid it towards Jason who picked it up and flipped through the papers without a greeting. He was too annoyed for pleasantries now. Foster’s name revealed itself in each paper he briefly scanned. Foster. Umbra’s case handler. The boss of the boss. 

“You’re an old chair force guy, right?” The man asked as Jason flipped through the folder’s contents.

Jason finally glared up at the man, who seemed either oblivious or absolutely apathetic at the jab. 

“Scope limit,” the man went on. “Radar can only see to a certain distance. It could see the target, it just doesn’t have the range. I guess they don’t teach that to every flyboy, huh?”

Jason glanced down both sides of their row, as if the reason for this non-sequitur would reveal itself.  “...um—”

“The name’s Sam. I’m here to pull your head out of the sand. You’re wasting time chasing Donnelley’s tail.” 

“Hey who the fuck are you to tell me anything,” Jason barked. “This cryptic bullshit is wasting my time.”

“Who do you think led Donnelley along, smart guy?” Sam replied. “Who was putting together missions, connecting the dots and feeding the working groups actionable intel? Foster. He ain’t never going to show up in after actions, why would he? He’s a god damn ghost if you’re looking at it from Donnelley’s angle. He worked the process to hide himself. Why haven’t you heard from him, huh? Wouldn’t he contact the remaining members of UMBRA?”

“Member. It’s just me.”

Sam chuckled. “Wrong, boyo. Dave made it out.”

“McCready?”

Sam leaned back to stand upright and nodded in affirmation. “Another familiar face too. Ghost from THUNDER. One other team member you haven’t met on account of you being bogged down by DIA. The point is, pretty strange he ain’t even talk to you. Haven’t thought about that at all?”

“Why would I,” he said. “The Program doesn’t have a set pattern. Sure, Donnelley called but he’s dead, so I assume whoever was available showed up.”

Sam chuckled again, one amused huff swaying his chest. “Foster can’t be found. Went dark after UMBRA was terminated. Can’t say more here, and I won’t.”

 Jason paused, studied the open folder in his hands without actually committing to reading the words. Intuition said there was a link between Donnelley and SV8, but it also insisted he was innocent of the betrayals therein. Jason was still missing a vital piece of the puzzle. 

“10:30. Run a cold shower, turn on the TV. Keep the door cracked,” Sam said. He leaned back over the table and flipped the contents of the folder to the back where a sticky note lay pressed against the last page. It simply read <i>Artemis</i>. Sam tapped it twice with his index finger then began walking away from Jason. “10:30, boyo.”


*   *   *


Jason had done what was asked, the shower running with the door open to help fill the room with noise. A tacky Discovery channel reality show was blaring from the TV, and Jason sat at the desk around the corner from the entrance walkway to catch whoever might show up off guard. That is if he could have heard anyone enter. He stared at the entryway for a good forty five minutes, pistol in hand, and at exactly 10:30 at night Sam emerged from the hallway and shut the door, a brand new gym bag sagging in his hand and outlining an object within. 

“Any luck on Artemis?” Sam asked, Jason barely able to hear him. He shook his head, and Sam went on, “Figured as much. Several of the redacted groups you’ve seen may be them. Group’s sealed up tighter than a preacher’s wife. This,” he said while handing over the bag, “is for you. To help put things in perspective.”

It took more than a few minutes to sift through what was a collection of intel documents and several micro SD cards he didn’t spend the time to watch, but there were photographs that belied the stashes intent. IMINT photos of Foster, some sort of live drop. A classification at the top of Foster’s dossier raised an eyebrow as well. 

“MAJIC?” Jason thought aloud. “What classification is this?”

“Top of the pyramid,” Sam said. “This was gifted to Donnelley, you could say. This is what he was working on. What you have to work on. Foster’s dirty, got your team killed. Sold them out to Ivan.”

Jason leaned back, shook his head while studying the deflated gym bag on his lap. “What do I do now?” he asked. 

“Read it,” Sam said. “Connect the dots. Might open a door, steer you somewhere.” 

“So why give me this? What are you in all of it?” Jason asked.  

“Invested benefactor, one of the only few you may have left. Most importantly trusted by Donnelley. Everything else is irrelevant.” Sam turned the corner and Jason followed. At the door he turned to face Jason, a grim thoughtfulness stopping the analyst from pressing any issue further. “I wish I could help you more, Jimenez. I truly wish I could. I can’t say anything gets easier.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Jason in the wash of overbearing sound and silence.

*   *   *

[i] Chase another Sunrise. Magic Valley Regional Airport, Twinfalls, Idaho. 08NOV2019[/i]

The message had come from an unknown number in early hours when Jason’s thoughts expanded into abstracts, exhaustion stretching his mind’s eye into flashing images and fleeting sensations filling the hotel’s emptiness. The date gave him a small window, but with carte blanche to extend his research indefinitely he had the time. He considered the risks the next morning and it only took two hours for him to book a flight and hotel. His only deviation was not flying into Twin Falls but instead Boise. He’d give himself the time for the boring drive down and to scout out the airport, which overall seemed safer. If he’d die on the trip it would be the most idiotic decision he would ever make. A fine line between impulsivity and intuition, but that phrase; [i]Chase another sunrise[/i]. He knew he had no choice but to show up.  

Besides, maybe it would give him some free time to find some trouble in Boise. Before the notion would be tantalizing, the promise of an altered state and with any luck a nice fuck, but the edge was dulled. If he didn’t feel like complete ass before his drive he’d try regardless, otherwise it would be another night occupying an empty room, reading through the chaff of self-published paranormal investigation books trying to glean any semblance of understanding. It reminded him of that scene in the movie M.I.B. when Tommy Lee Jones elaborated on finding tips in whacky tabloids, the type that circulated JFK theories twice a year and at this point were running out of celebrities and global elites to expose as the alien cabal they were. Jason’s variety was dredged out of amazon and reddit, the content no less “Coast to Coast A.M.” but now more widely consumable and entertained.  

On the flight over he began reading on the prevailing figureheads to frequent the both, the C.I.A. By now his leisure reading had made him aware of the agency’s remote viewing programs, the spoon bending parties with Berkley academics and convoluted ties to cartel death cults. This next foray into the fringe was MK Ultra. By the time he was landing in Boise he wished he had bought more books on the subject, and ordered his food delivered while he scanned the internet for any worthwhile epubs. Jason even forgot he had idly sent out a call looking for a drug connect in Boise and almost missed a message back. Almost. 

>Magic Valley Regional Airport, Twin Falls, Idaho
>13NOV2019
>1200…///

He was feeling a bit sluggish at the trip’s beginning but after some greasy food and an interesting audiobook on MK Ultra Jason felt he had shrugged off the sleepless jaunt of the night before. He arrived at the airport having missed two of the five inbound flights of the day, but wasn’t tip-top enough to give a care. He spent the rest of afternoon parked in his car between arrivals, feigning bathroom trips inside and the occasional snack machine purchase. Whoever was waiting knew him, or at least enough to spot him out when they arrived. He kept himself armed just in case, and was thankful the airport was small enough to not get hassled with a concealed carry.

A man walked across Jason’s view with a face that prodded Jason’s memory, but somehow off. It wasn’t until the man stopped and gave Jason a double-take full of the same fuzzy recognition as his own. It was the blonde hair, the long beard distracting from the scar that had been so prominent and openly displayed just months ago. A ghost of a small smile crossed Donnelley’s lips, like the ones that spread across them by reflex when you saw an old friend. Or at least one of the only friends you had left.

Donnelley stopped where he was, smothering his smile to match the boring ballcap and shades he was wearing. He crossed the street only after looking around for anyone who was looking around for him, making it out like he was some husband keeping an eye out for his wife returning from a trip. He made a show of crumpling a piece of paper in his fist, dropping it in the ashtray of a garbage can next to him and walking away into the crowds.

Jason was sitting in an uncomfortable rounded plastic seat feigning interest in his cell phone when Donnelley bled into his vision. At first he dismissed the man as any other background actor, but something caught his attention and he followed his motions until the paper was dropped. That was it. Jason gave a show of checking the time, scanned the periphery, and made for the note after downing a bottle of water and dropping it in the bin. In his hands was his wallet, which he dropped and subsequently retrieved with the note crumbled within its fold. It wasn’t until he was back in his car that he uncrumpled the paper and read its contents. 

[i]124 motel 6, look for blue thumbtack, means safe[/i], a room Donnelley had paid for in cash. He hoped Jason would believe it was him, news of his fate—his [i]real[/i] fate—probably never made it out of the small circles he swam in, the shallow waters that got more and more suffocating in the darkness as each day passed. He waited inside the room, not knowing whether it would be Jason or FBI Special Agent Mark Garcia and a US Marshal SOG team coming through the door. Or one of the Program’s killers.

It smelled of stale tobacco and alcohol, and not all of it was him. He’d tried to stay as sober as he could, but a man never really can get away from his devils. When he saw the shadow pass by the window, his hand tightened around the flashbang grenade and his muscles readied himself to sprint towards the bathroom window.

There wasn’t any clever, crafty way into the room. No way to convince the cleaning crew to bring a change of sheets, nor key cards to spoof or scam out of the front desk. The place was too old and it wore its age in its sun bleached pine shingles slumping over its walls. Jason gathered himself for a few moments, took a few deep breathes as he curled his fingers open an closed. When the shaking stopped he double-checked his pistol and began to stroll past the doors scanning each one. 

A blue thumb tack protruded from a peeling door frame, light escaping the corners of the drapes in the window, and there was no sound within. Jason peered around him,pulled out his pistol, and slowly worked the door handle. The end of his gun poked through the door and opened it slowly, Jason scanning from left to right as he side stepped inside. And there he was, Donnelley; an aura of grisled resolve permeating the room in the form of whiskey and smoke. Jason was too astonished at first to train his weapon on the stranger before him, but then recognition froze him in place. His face betrayed his thoughts.

“Donnelley?”

Donnelley shoved the flashbang’s pin back in, heaving in a breath as he set the unarmed grenade beside him and slumped in the chair at his back. He looked at Jason, giving him a once over. He was skinnier than he remembered, leaner, but not quite as thin as Queen had been getting. Like the Program was sucking his very life force away from him. Donnelley just stared at Jason for a few long moments, wondering if that gun in his hand was meant for him. If Oakes and Mannen didn’t believe him, or someone in the Program had fed Jason something to make Jason believe that he was the true mole, or that he was just too close to getting Foster and that was something they couldn’t have him doing.

When the shot never came, he just nodded at Jason, “Yeah.” He said, none of the bravado or brashness he was usually known for, “Yeah, it’s me.”

The door shut with a manic quickness and Jason fingered the blinds, disbelief exuding from every angle. He looked back at Donnelley, pistol hanging limply in his hand threatening only the carpet below. 

“What the fuck,” Jason muttered, studying his team lead. Former team lead? It was apparent he was trying to work it all out before asking questions and the moment extended beyond comfort. 

“Foster,” he mouthed. It escaped his mouth the way a secret sprang from a kid’s mouth against his will, sudden and without control. What else could he say? What other loose end hadn’t converged in this hotel room; Foster. 

“Foster is a fuckin’ traitor, is what he is.” Donnelley said, “He’s been doin’ everythin’ he can to make sure UMBRA doesn’t connect the dots in West Virginia. He’s been compromised for a long time.”

“I was startin’ to think…” Donnelley watched Jason, carefully at first, because he just didn’t know who to trust anymore. Jason was the only other one who’d been cleared Delta Green with him in Mosul and the prison. He was the only other one with tangible leads on ISIS and close to Abna al’Harb and Anzor.

And he’d been gone while all of this happened to UMBRA. Then he softened a bit, but he still felt the weight of his handgun in his waistband, “I was startin’ to think they’d got to you, like they got to all of us.”

The hours flashed like a zeotrope in Jason’s thoughts, the files he had poured over again and again. All for one declaration spat bitterly from a dead man. Donnelley had held on to this for a while. It was the only way he could have ended up here. How long had he been suspicious and how much of that time was with UMBRA? That revelation alone had a winding trail of questions. Jason was beginning to feel light headed. 

“No, but…,” Jason scanned the floor, eyes darting around. “Maybe they suspected. Maybe that was the heat I was getting out of nowhere.” He paced a few steps towards the door, turned, and seeing no other place to go besides the window side of the bed and closer to Donnelley, stood still. “Files said you were killed in Alaska. How the fuck did you get out?” 

Donnelley swallowed, and shook his head. He’d known for a long time since Afghanistan and the mission with the CIA Spook—the [i]Program[/i] spook—that a darkness older than man hid at the edges of the tiny fires they all huddled around on this insignificant planet. How could Jason understand, or believe him. He could hardly believe himself.

“We didn’t.” He said, looking away from Jason, “One second, I was shootin’ the team that was supposed to be watchin’ our backs. I took one to the plate, another in my neck.”

He looked at Jason, his eyes almost like a mad believer, fevered and hounded by a revelation that all those stories were real after all. “I [i]remember[/i] it. I remember dyin’. And then I remember wakin’ up.”

“I was in someone else’s clothes, in someone else’s car, and…” He swallowed again, his breath shaking, “The mission in Alaska was FUBAR from the start. We found a man named Ipiktok Irniq. He said he was [i]from the future.[/i] I thought he was talkin’ shit at first. He said he dreamed all of this before it happened, and we needed to follow whatever happened in his dream, and I needed to shoot the guy next to me. I thought he was batshit.”

“Until I died.” He said, “And then I woke up.”

It couldn’t have been a coincidence. The sudden betrayal in the field, madness skirting the edge of what shouldn’t be seen. The planet turned and in its revolution another insignificant tremor on the fault line of the real, the horrible. There was a reason such synchronicities were repeating. Jason could feel it now tethering them both. In this moment they were meant to be here, this solitary rock upon that same fault line. He was so confused but so sure of his place now. 

“You telling me you died? I mean,” Jason paused. “Induced coma, I-C-U. You could have been patched up, man. Who knows how—” No, it didn’t make sense. The timeline was off. No way Donnelley could have recovered given the date of his [i]death[/i]. “What are you telling me? There’s some 12 Monkeys shit and he brought you back to life?”

It sounded insane, certifiably was insane, but Jason couldn’t shake that deep recognition that maybe some truth was in it. They had already seen things that couldn’t be explained, things that blew down the facade of normalcy constructed all around them. Why shouldn’t it be true?

“I [i]know[/i] what happened, Jason!” Donnelley stood with a quickness as if he was a zealot offended at the mention of heresies. He knew what happened to him, and to Laine, and the rest of them. “They handed me the clothes I was wearing when I was killed and it was [i]my blood.[/i] I… I can’t understand how, or why, but I know what happened.”

“I get it. Sometimes, when I try to sleep, I’m fucking terrified. I’m terrified, man. That when I close my eyes they won’t ever open again,” Donnelley stroked at his beard and ran his hands through his lengthening hair, down to his shoulders almost, “Fuckin’ so scared that this is all a dream, and I’m really [i]just dead.[/i] That this is just some leftover sensory hallucinations from the last synapses firing off before it all just…”

And Donnelley made a gesture with his hands, pantomiming all the somethings and everythings around them just blowing away with a swipe of time and death’s hands, like swiping dirt off of your desk. “But then I wake up.” He frowned, and thought of Poker dying, thought of his daughter sobbing through the phone and telling him to just be there with her, stop chasing danger right to her doorstep, “And I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

“If this is all fake, maybe I should just fuckin’ play along,” Donnelley huffed a ghost of a chuckle through a fleeting smile, “Right?”

It’s what Jason would do. He’d convince himself the same thing, to live in the dream until it frayed and split. It reminded him of the Bardo Thodol, how after death the confused soul would relive and replay its life still bound by its attachments. But Donnelley wasn’t dead because Jason wasn’t. It was too pretentious to say aloud but had its grounding effect on the analyst. 

“And everyone else? Are they…”

“Dead?” Donnelley finished, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. A small twitch of his head, “I don’t know. But, Foster has a list. The [i]Russians[/i] have a list.”

Donnelley folded his arms, lowered his head, grounding himself in the moment like he was in danger of floating off like he thought he would sometimes, “They’ve been goin’ down that list. Poker’s dead. They tried to kill Ghost, but… well, you can guess how that went.” He snorted, starting to get back that humor, “Last I heard, Dave and Ava are still out there somewhere, layin’ low, movin’ careful. I sent out an activation message through the channels, see who turns up.”

Donnelley shrugged, “So far, it’s only you and Ghost.”

“And Laine?”

Jason wished he could have taken back the question but had no power other than to ask it. His gut sank but he didn’t understand why, only that he wished Donnelley would have just mentioned her name among the living. 

“Last time I saw her was the end of last month.” Donnelley said, a hope in his eyes and voice when he spoke again, “She’s alive.”

“Fuck man,” Jason spat, and sank on the bed studying the floor. “Program is acting like you’re KIA. Whatever friend you have seems to want to keep it that way. And I don’t know how deep this goes, I feel like they’ve put me in a closet.”

The relief was bittersweet. He wasn’t alone, that was immeasurably soothing, but now he didn’t feel safe. He didn’t even know how deep in the web he was, especially now being the only overtly living member of UMBRA. So naturally the next topic of their reunion, or the one his mind was leap frogging to, was West Virginia. 

“What the hell did we stumble into in West Virginia? What would terminate two fucking teams, I mean they had to play their cards to do it. What’s worth that?” It sounded cold but he couldn’t help it; his curiosity reigned over the relief, the sorrow, every other emotion emulsified into his current demeanor. 

“I think they found somethin’ there. Somethin’ that’s been there since before they dug into those mountains.” Donnelley shook his head, staring over Jason’s shoulder, eyes looking at something in the fog of memory, “Whatever it is, maybe it wanted to be found. And whoever found it, they think it’s worth killin’ over.”

He looked back to Jason, the only other man besides Queen who had gone off the path with him. Who had dared ask the questions no one else thought to, or no one else would, “Somethin’s in Blackriver, man. Just like somethin’ was in Mosul. You were there, we saw what happened in that place.” Donnelley frowned, “This is bigger than just some fuckin’ backwoods old minin’ family in a county no one’s ever heard about.”

“Okay…” Jason said to himself. He was practically hanging of the side of the bed, and shifted back to his feet as he faced Donnelley. “This whole time thinking I’ve missed it all. Some sort of door that opened but only for a moment and it closed when my back was turned. I don’t want to be on the wrong side of that door ever again, even if that means I don’t get to wake up. So whatever the fuck you’re doing now I’m part of it, and I don’t think it could be any other way, Donnelley.”

Donnelley had that same resolve in his eyes that was there when they were fighting for their lives in the prison in Mosul. They went in together. They came out together. He nodded slowly, “Good.”