Page 63 of Broken Oath

Alaska looked like the end of the world.

Snow-covered mountains rose beyond the harbor, their jagged peaks disappearing into a ceiling of gray clouds. Dark water stretched between them, restless beneath the winter wind.

Fishing boats rocked against weathered docks.

Gulls circled above the shoreline.

Somewhere across the bay, a foghorn released a long, mournful call.

Rook stood at the end of the pier with his hands buried inside his jacket.

The cold bit through the fabric.

He welcomed it.

Cold made sense.

Cold didn’t offer condolences.

It didn’t ask questions.

It didn’t look at him with pity.

Two weeks had passed since the funeral.

Two weeks since Rook, Sniper, and Fathom had stood before six graves and promised to find the people responsible.

Captain Sam Cutter had made good on his offer.

New identities.

Untraceable transportation.

A chartered plane that never listed them as passengers.

By the time government officials learned someone had visited the cemetery after the funeral, Rook and his men had already disappeared.

James Callahan was dead.

Caleb McDougal was dead.

Michael Sarrilla was dead.

Only their call signs remained.

Rook.

Sniper.

Fathom.

Three ghosts living at the edge of an Alaskan harbor.

A gust of wind swept across the pier, carrying the sharp scent of salt and diesel fuel.

Rook looked toward the warehouse at the far end of Cutter’s property.

Massive.