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He set a fast pace, and I matched his stride.

Minutes later, we bypassed the border control queue.

A guard in a cramped side office stamped my passport, after which we headed to a parking spot and into a waiting Jeep.

Jacob steered us toward a cluster of colossal sheds dominating the horizon, then pulled up outside a corrugated steel structure emblazoned with the bold letters IR.

‘This is where we operate from,’ Jacob said as I pushed open my door.

We stepped into the cavernous hangar.

Concrete floors stretched under industrial girder trusses, echoing with the clatter of wrenches and the roar of pneumatic tools.

Mechanics in grease-stained coveralls swarmed around a fleet of aircraft; twin-engine turboprops sat with exposed engines, flanked by tactical cargo haulers undergoing maintenance.

Outside the open bay doors, a convoy of transport helos lined up on the sun-baked tarmac.

Above, a suspended mezzanine level housed the comms hub and administrative offices, where personnel worked behind floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the entire ground level.

Luka King stood near a massive projected map screen, a towering silhouette of muscle and grit.

At six-foot-four, the British operative’s face seemed carved from granite, split by a jagged scar running from his left cheekbone to his rugged jawline.

Handsome and fit, with high cheekbones, a neat beard, and dark hair shorn close to his skull, he was formidable.

He spotted me and grinned, stepping toward me with a grace that belied his size.

‘Deacon, you magnificent bastard,’ Luka murmured, his grip like a steel vise as our palms slammed together. ‘You haven’t aged a day since Papua. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.’

‘It is what it is, mate,’ I muttered, my pulse racing. ‘Thanks for taking the gig on such short notice. How are we traveling?’

‘We’re pushing the envelope. However, we’ve kicked some ass and got quite a bit laid down while you were in the air,’ Luka said, gesturing to the team gathered around the briefing table. ‘Your band manager Mason made some calls, and I got his contacts in Addis via Nairobi to waive the regional ban for our evac flight. We’ve got official clearance from the Ethiopian government and air control for a humanitarian medical extraction.’

Relief hit me. ‘Awesome, mate.’

‘Meet the squad,’ Luka continued, turning toward five colleagues nearby. ‘That is Dr. Tariq Al-Mansoor, our trauma specialist. He’s saved lives in active war zones for a decade.’

Tariq, a lean man with wire-framed glasses, intelligent, dusky eyes, and silver-streaked hair, gave me a curt nod as he organized a clinical field kit.

‘Next to him is Sina Lemaiyan, our critical care nurse,’ Luka said.

Sina was Kenyan, slight in a tee and jeans, but with ripped, tattooed arms and an expression that radiated competence.

‘Our ground support guys, Jax and Miller,’ Luka said, pointing to two broad-shouldered men checking their rifles at a counter a few feet away.

One was dark-skinned and stocky, the other red-headed, scarred, and jacked.

‘Jax is an ex-army soldier from London, while Miller is a Scotsman with a lifetime of combat.’

They both raised their chins at me.

‘And our pilot, Captain Jane Malik,’ Luka added, gesturing to a lean, honey-skinned woman in a flight suit with a calm smile. ‘Malik is an ace pilot at navigating night missions through sandstorms in Iraq and zero-visibility blockades across Somalia. If anyone can punch through a volcanic ash cloud, she’s the one.’

Malik stated, tapping the screen to bring up the satellite weather data.

‘We’re first taking a transport plane I’ve got prepped in the hangar. We’ll head to Wajir in Northern Kenya.’

Luka tapped his vast display, with a dot pulsing to indicate the location of the camp within the remote topography of the Omo Valley.