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“Is baby Caili gonna be okay?” Raffi asks as we speed along the cliff road.
“Yes, she is.” I maintain my smile despite the world spinning around me. “When we get to the hospital, you stay with Thomas, okay?”
The boy nods.
“Hug Mr. Oreo.” I move the fluffy toy so it kisses Raffi, fishing out a chuckle from him.
So I’ve freed myself from the hell called Nando, only to fall into the arms of my own Grim Reaper, who will soon drag me into his lair. I’ve made a deal with Donovan Fletcher to save my daughter. I hope, somehow, I’ll be able to free myself again—although this time, I’m up against a man who’s wielding a scythe and not afraid to use it.
As the hospital ‘Emergency’ sign looms, my vision blurs.
“God!” I release a restrained wail, refusing to succumb as the night dips into total darkness. I swear, I will fight to the end for the precious life I’m carrying.
“Iz, hang on!” Even Thomas’s voice is no more than a faint whisper now.
My body contorts, signaling the inevitable.
No…
I… will… fight…
2
CLAYTON FABER HARTLEY
US Air Force facility, undisclosed location – present time
After yearsof bearing the title of ‘former’ fighter jet pilot, I’m back wearing the freedom green uniform, flying through contested airspace once again.
Better still, I’m getting my feet wet. Well, metaphorically, anyway. I’m taking the Snow Leopard 100 over the water. The silver beauty is a seventh-generation stealth fighter with the lowest heat signature yet—so it’s literally the coolest aircraft on the planet.
After opening my comms with our sea assets, I start sharing ops pictures with them.
“Snow Leopard 100, N.E.O data received.”
The confirmation comes loud and clear over the headset, but it’s no time for me to release a victory grin.
First mission accomplished. One to go.
With three minutes left in my allocated time, I’ve got to make the best of this mighty kitty’s electronic warfare system.
“Damn, you sucker. Show yourself!” I mumble to myself, focusing on my radar. They’re surely making it harder than what I was used to.
Ninety seconds to go, and—
“Tally-ho.”
I lock in my target and jam their radar.
“Good work, Snow Leopard.”
I grin at the announcement.
Fuck yeah!
“Thank you, sir. Snow Leopard 100 is RTB.”
RTB, or return to base—I’d uttered it countless times during my military days. Today those three letters still give me the homecoming feeling only a combat pilot can appreciate.
