Page 3 of Freeing Lark

He’d also seen the family afterward. The wife. The little girl. The grandmother. He still remembered the little girl’s scream. Not because they’d done anything wrong. Because her father wasn’t coming home.

It had been a justified kill. Rules of engagement. The threat confirmed. Mission accomplished. Everything had been legal, necessary, and correct.

So why had he remembered her face for eight years?

Maybe karma wasn’t lightning from the sky. Maybe it was memory. Maybe it lived inside you, waiting until two in the morning when sleep abandoned ship.

Bullet interrupted his thoughts. “So you don’t worry?”

Hoot looked at the kid. “Every man should worry.”

“About karma?”

“No.” He slid the rifle back together with a decisive click. “About becoming comfortable.” The words surprised even him. “The day killing doesn’t bother you...” He locked the bolt to the rear. “...is the day you shouldn’t be carrying a rifle anymore.”

Nobody had a joke for that. Not even Voodoo. Outside, the distant thump of helicopter rotors grew louder.

The door opened, and Flynn “Flint” Condor, their CO, appeared, his commanding presence immediately demanding their attention and snapping them to their feet. Four men filed in behind their commander. The men were introduced as belonging to Praetorian Strategic Group.

Everyone had heard of PSG. They were everywhere these days. Embassy security. Corporate protection. Disaster response. Training foreign military units. Their commercials made them look like a cross between a humanitarian organization and a group of modern-day knights.

“PSG will be supporting the operation,” Flint stated.

The first was a man in his early forties with close-cropped dark hair and the kind of calm expression Hoot recognized immediately. Not because he looked dangerous. Because he didn’t. The dangerous ones rarely did.

“Grant Calloway,” the man said by way of introduction while shaking Flint’s hand before looking over the SEAL team. Not like a contractor sizing up soldiers. Like someone evaluating a problem. “This is my team.”

The three behind him moved forward. A former military medic, judging by the gear he’d brought. A communications specialist. And a woman carrying herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent years in places where mistakes got people killed.

Hoot’s eyes narrowed. These weren’t corporate security guards. These people had been in the field.

“Thought PSG was a security company,” Voodoo whispered beside him.

Hoot didn’t look away from Calloway. “So did I.”

Hoot had learned a long time ago that the most dangerous missions rarely started with explosions. They started in rooms like this, with men in clean uniforms pointing at maps and using words like manageable risk and controlled environment.

Nobody who had ever kicked down a door believed those words.

The projector clicked, and the image on the screen changed from a satellite view of the compound to a photo of a man in his late fifties.

“Dr. Elias Voss,” Flint said. “Former military biochemist and weapons-development specialist. His work focused on advanced incapacitating agents and targeted biological compounds. Intelligence believes he’s been selling classified research to hostile actors for the past eighteen months.”

Hoot frowned. “Incapacitating agents?”

“That’s the sanitized version,” Flint said. “Some of the compounds he was researching weren’t designed to put people to sleep.”

The room went quiet. Hoot leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Objective?” he asked.

“Secure Voss. Recover all digital and physical intelligence. Destroy nothing unless directed.”

The words recover all intelligence hung in the air. That was always where the trouble started.

Calloway stepped beside the map. “Our role is technical recovery and intelligence exploitation,” he explained. “Your team secures the objective. Once the area is controlled, we enter, identify sensitive materials, and begin extraction.”

“You mean you search it,” Voodoo said.

Calloway glanced at him. “We analyze what you recover.”