Page 37 of Broken Oath

JAMES COLE

Not Callahan.

Cole.

Close enough to answer to while unconscious.

Different enough to hide him.

Sniper held up his own wrist.

CALEB DOUGLAS

Fathom’s band identified him as MICHAEL SANTOS.

Someone had kept their first names and altered everything else.

Someone who understood that critically injured men might respond to familiar names.

“That isn’t an accident,” Rook said.

“No,” Fathom agreed. “None of this is.”

“Where are we?”

“A private trauma center in Germany,” Sniper answered. “The entire third floor was leased two months ago by a medical security company.”

“What company?”

“It disappeared yesterday,” Fathom said.

Rook stared at him.

“Website gone. Records gone. Bank accounts closed. The listed corporate address belongs to an empty building in Luxembourg.”

Rook’s pulse quickened.

The monitor betrayed it immediately.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

“What does the military know?”

Fathom’s expression hardened.

“That six bodies were recovered from the mountain.”

Rook stopped breathing.

Six.

Hammer.

Ghost.