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The view narrowed. Mountains. Deserts. Borders. Turkey. Syria. Iraq.
The view narrowed again. Dec stared at a dot that was its focal point. He could hear the sudden thud-thud of his heart.
“This, gentlemen,” Black said, “is the kingdom of Qaram. It’s small, rich in natural resources—everything but oil. And though it is considered a U.S. ally, that allegiance has been less than solid for some time now.” He paused. “Still, as I said, it is an ally. And now an incident of some importance has taken place that directly affects Qaram—and, by extension, us.”
An incident.
Dec tore his gaze from the map and looked at his commanding officer. In Special Ops talk, an incident was not good. It was a term that covered anything from hostage taking to plunder, rape and murder.
“A diplomatic party travelling from Qaram to the neighboring kingdom of Tharsalonia was attacked. Some are dead. The rest are being held hostage.”
Black touched the keyboard.
Click.
A new image appeared. Video of a man on his knees.
“Shit,” someone whispered.
A pistol was pressed to the back of the man’s head. An off-screen voice spoke in accented English.
“I am the Deliverer. I bring what Fate has decreed.”
The pistol fired. Blood, bone and bits of flesh filled the screen.
“As you can see,” Black said calmly, “the situation is deteriorating at a rapid pace.”
Another click. A man’s face. Resolute expression, but with a large bruise on his forehead.
“The American ambassador to Qaram. He’s a member of the party that was attacked.”
Click. Another photo, this time of a woman. Middle-aged. Clearly terrified.
“The ambassador’s wife.”
Click. A guy in his thirties, bloodied mouth, cold eyes.
“An undersecretary from our Embassy.”
“You mean, one of our spooks,” said Sullivan.
“If we had spooks,” Black said, straight-faced, “yeah, this guy probably would have been one of them.”
Would have been. Would have been…
“Shit,” somebody said. “The guy who was executed?”
Black nodded. “Yeah. That was him.”
A final click. A final photo. Soft curses, and five heads swung towards Dec.
Dec looked like a man who’d just been struck by lightning.
That was sure as hell how he felt, because that final photo… That photo was of Annie. Annie, dressed in some kind of long-sleeved gown, her face dirt-smeared.
Dec felt the room tilt.
“Sanchez? I believe you know this woman.”
