Leidenschaft

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>FAIRFIELD, ID
>SOBEL’S RESIDENCE
>0725
>16.NOV.2019

There was a certain peace in the morning that Donnelley hadn’t felt in such a long time. It almost felt like something new, something yet undiscovered by the rest of humanity and sorely needing to be told to everyone else, as if he’d discovered something as important and amazing as fire. The smell of the bread when Ava had taken it from the oven reminded him of his late Aunt’s biscuits in the morning, calling him and his uncle inside for breakfast as they’d long been up and working in the small hours of the day.

He’d told Ava all about that life while they worked in the kitchen and waited for the small pieces of bread shaped like rabbits to be done. She’d sat and listened, laughed when he’d told her about the first time he’d tried to ride a horse, let alone break one. After that was done, she’d taken a few pieces back to her and Dave’s room. That left Donnelley alone with his few pieces.

He now sat in the kitchen soaking up the sun coming in from between the slats of the blinds in the windows. Both tranquil, and yet softly paralyzed by the prospect of seeing Laine. Of trying to cross the cracked boards on that bridge between him and her. As always, he reminded himself of all the things he’d have never done if he let his fear and uncertainty dictate everything. He rose from the creaking stool in Sobel’s kitchen with the confidence of a child in front of a dark hallway. His footsteps creaked along Sobel’s floors, until he was standing in front of Laine’s room. He slowly raised one hand, a bunny shaped piece of bread roughly the size of his palm in the other, still warm. He swallowed anxiety and knocked on Laine’s door, and waited.

Laine still lay on the bed, the early sunlight crossing her body in stripes through the blinds. Another sunrise, she observed through half slitted eyes. Not only the promise of a new day but more importantly proof of making it through another night. Her thoughts flit back to the last meeting with her boss back at the office in Quantico and she frowned, then rubbed her hands over her face and pulled a pillow over her head. The two parts of her life were colliding and the struggle to keep one from infecting the other was becoming a losing battle.

The knock caught her by surprise and she tossed the pillow aside. Laine sait up and grabbed the pair of jeans she wore yesterday and pulled them on, leaving the t-shirt on that she had slept in. It was a faded out band shirt that had worked its way into the last days of sleep wear. The collar had been cut out, leaving it to hang over one shoulder and the Cramps logo crackled but still recognizable. Her bare feet whispered against the rug as she crossed the room and opened the door, peering through it.

She smelled the bread as she registered who it was, not Ava coming to fetch her for breakfast but Donnelley. Laine shut the door, running a quick hand through sleep tousled hair and rubbing her eyes, smearing the remains of yesterday’s mascara even worse. Laine sighed then opened the door again, and held it wider, but not enough to be inviting yet.

“Hey,” she said, glancing down from his eyes to the bread in his hand, “Who’s your friend?”

Donnelley looked up and tried to erase the subtle hurt from his face when the door opened again. At Laine’s question, he paused, looking down at the bread. He cleared his throat, raising his eyes back to hers and trying a small smile, “I don’t know, but he wanted to talk to you.”

Laine met his blue eyes, everything he held behind them she had seen laid bare and a hint of that vulnerability flickered in their depths as he spoke.

She smiled a little then stepped back, opening the door enough to welcome him in. Laine closed it behind him then shoved her hands in her back pockets and stayed quiet, first looking him over then pointedly at the rabbit shaped bread.

"A bunny bun," she said, smiling slightly, "Trust Ava to make puns for breakfast."

Laine cleared her throat and shrugged, then gestured with her chin at the wooden chair draped by her coat. "If you want to sit."

Letting him decide, she shook herself internally and forced calm to her expression and body language. She dropped her hands from her back pockets and said, "So, Mr Bunny, what is on your mind?"

After Donnelley internally let go a sigh of relief that Laine was slowly opening back up to him, he took the offered seat. Even so, he still didn’t want to make himself too comfortable. He could feel it in the way Laine held herself, as if she was still keeping her distance from the family dog that had bitten her too many times. Just like the dog, Donnelley kept his eyes on the ground.

“I stayed up all night with Ava. Just like we used to.” Donnelley said, offering the bunny bun to Laine, “I missed her. I told her as much, after we were done huggin’ and gettin’ all wet in the eye.”

“And…” He shrugged, swallowed, “I just miss you too.”

Laine listened before reaching out to pluck the bread bunny from his hand. The buttery soft pastry with some kind of dried fruit for eyes. Maybe blueberries. She glanced up at Donnelley and asked, "Remember the chocolate rabbits at Easter? Did you bite their ears or feet first?"

Laine bit the bread, taking the head off at the neck and chewed as she watched him. "Either way, I always felt a little bad. There was no way to make it nice, but the chocolate was too good to not take a bite."

She gazed at him and shrugged a little, taking another bite. Laine rubbed her thumb across her bottom lip to wipe away the crumbs.

"I do, too," she admitted, "I can't help myself. I love you."

Donnelley lifted his eyes from the floor and looked at Laine. He took her face in as if it was the first time he’d ever seen it, beauty anew in his eyes. Some part of him felt like it was too easy, that he didn’t have to fight for her love as hard as he thought he should have to. Or maybe that’s just how it is, and normal people didn’t just yell at each other and scare their daughter under her covers.

He knew he had a lot of love to earn back from a lot of people. He knew he had to teach himself to take the victories as they came, big or small. So, he smiled at Laine and rose from his seat. He looked her over as she ate the bunny bun, those same eyes holding the same look. Hunger, passion, lust. Most of all, love.

“I love you too.” Donnelley said, quiet, as if their love was a house of cards built on sand and his voice could topple it, “More than you know, Laine.”

“I’m sorry for everythin’.” He said, “For all the things I know I’ve done, and all the things I don’t.”

He smiled a bit, “I’m just wonderin’ why the hell you stick with me.”

Laine met his gaze and nodded, finishing her bite of the bread. “Probably because you’re not the only one that can make decisions that you know are a dangerous gamble but you do it because you could not do anything else.”

She brushed her hair back behind her ear, the manicured nails a black pearl. “I knew it would be trouble, you would be...the wrong choice. But I couldn’t help it, no matter how I fought it and tried to change course. My path always leads back to you, since that night you put your jacket around my shoulders and explained why you fought against such evil.”

Her green eyes flashed up at him, “I know I’ll pay for the decisions I am making. Whether it’s you hurting me or losing my job. Or dying, again.”

Laine cleared her throat, “My boss, he’s been on me since I got back. He hates that he’s been left in the dark, he’s tried enlisting my coworkers to spy for him, undermining my work, threatening my position and my place at the Bureau. He can’t fire me so he’s forcing me out of the BSU, transferring me to some field office in the sticks. Last I heard it was Salt Lake City.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, looking down and away from her, his hands coming together and fingers interlacing, “You don’t deserve this. It comes with the job, but you don’t deserve the job neither.”

He shook his head slow, “No one does.” He looked at her again, “I did what I had to do to make sure that Dave and Ava could get out. I ain’t afraid to do it again to make sure you can.”

Laine watched him, her gaze sliding over the burn scar which cut down his cheek, something that defined him. Marked as a broken man but also a survivor. She looked down at his hands, hands that had killed and had soothed down her back as they made love.

"I keep going around in circles," she said slowly, "Thinking that I can get away, forget you and UMBRA, about the horror and injustice. Things that should not be but are. Things I don't think we could ever defeat but the circle tightens."

Laine made a gesture with her finger, swirling the air. "That circle I talk myself into closes in and chokes me with the knowledge. I already know what I will do, it's just the doing of it that's hard."

She drew in a trembling breath, and felt the prick of tears in her eyes before blinking hard, resenting them. "I know we won't have a happy ending, Donnelley. We won't ride off into the sunset together. But we may yet hold back the night to see another sunrise, together."

Laine sighed a little sound between a laugh and a sob, then bit her lip slightly. "I'm living on borrowed time anyway, this life is not just my own. I took an innocent to come back and I owe it to her and the others lost to these monsters to keep fighting. I owe it to you, to the team. To give my sanity, my life... again."

She met his eyes, "The circle closes now. I am in this until whatever end waits for me. And it scares the shit out of me."

Laine moved towards him, seeking an embrace, her black polished nails digging in.

“Fuck, it scares me too-“ Donnelley stopped abruptly from what would have been his response, taken by surprise at Laine’s sudden embrace.

He stopped cold in his tracks, even holding his breath until he let it out, nuzzling his face into Laine’s neck. He wrapped his arms around his love, accepting the silence if it meant this closeness wouldn’t end. He drew in another breath, “I thought I’d ruined this.” He said, “Ruined me and you, ruined the team, ruined everythin’.”

His hand moved to the nape of Laine’s neck and he held her close like they’d been apart for years, “All I remember in Alaska was just tryin’ to get my hand ‘round yours before I died. I was so scared I was the only one to come back, that I’d never fuckin’ see you again…” He squeezed her gently, “We’re here. Ipiktok needed us here. We owe it to him to make sure his dream was true… whatever it was.”

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>FAIRFIELD, ID
>SOBEL’S RESIDENCE
>2200
>15.NOV.2019

Donnelley had noticed the banging around of pots and pans in the kitchen some time ago, though the alcohol kept him in bed and uncaring of it. After all, it was highly unlikely that the Feds or the Russians would infiltrate Sobel’s house without him knowing. Even then, he doubted even more that the Russians would break in and take a break to bake some cookies before killing a few of them in their sleep.

Everyone had gone to bed early and relatively without fuss. Sobel would be the last to retire after himself, and Donnelley tried his best to stay out of Ava and Laine’s way. He felt it a few times, looking just in time to see Ava’s eyes dart away from him and make like the floor was mighty interesting. He and Dave had that talk, and Donnelley agreed that he and Ava should make peace with each other. It was just a matter of when. A matter if Donnelley was strong enough to set aside his stubborn nature, because he knew Ava certainly wouldn’t approach him first.

Not after the hurt he put on her. He took another swig, and then set the bottle down, looking out at his shrouded window and at the white moonlight filtering through the silk curtains. He sighed, his knees popping as he got to his feet and the floorboards creaking slightly as he made his way to the window and opened it a bit. The cool night air felt like the rolling waves on Ruston Way in Washington, frigid but it replaced the breath it took from your chest with a fleeting moment of feeling alive.

There was a time he wanted to just walk out into the Puget Sound to see if that water could make him either feel alive, or at least hold him tight and deep enough for long enough that a living man’s problems wouldn’t ever be able to reach him again. He doubted the plains and tall grass outside could drown him, so there was only one other direction he could walk. He opened his bedroom door as quiet as he could, stepped down the hallway as soft as he could. He finally made it to the kitchen to see none other than Ava in the kitchen, hard at work baking… something.

He watched her work for a time, maybe a few moments, remembering what he had said to her before their whole night went to shit. Remembering the pictures of the younger Ava he’d been shown, all severe and smoldering. Or at least trying to. The floorboards creaked again under his subtly shifting weight, and he froze like a deer right after a twig snaps.

Ava glanced over at the sound of the floors creaking, expecting to see Thor padding into the kitchen to beg for what she was making. Instead she gave a start as she saw a figure in the shadow of the doorway, before relaxing when she realized it was just Donnelley.

“Donnelley. You scared the shit out of me.” Ava sighed, pressing a flour covered hand to her chest, then immediately removing it with a frown. She glanced back at him then focused on dusting at her pajama shirt, a familiar pink baseball tee with a happy turtle exclaiming ‘Shell Yeah’ on it. “Sorry, was I being loud in here?”

Donnelley smiled at first, though it was snuffed out when he remembered they weren’t exactly on smiling terms. He looked away from Ava and then shook his head just the tiniest bit back and forth, “No, you’re alright. Just, uh, can’t sleep some nights.”

Donnelley made his way to sit at the bar on one of the stools looking into the kitchen. It fell quiet again as Ava returned to her task of baking. Stayed that way for some time while Donnelley twiddled his fingers and pretended there was something interesting about the plain white counter top kept immaculately clean and without a single scratch on any millimeter of it. Sobel kept his things almost disturbingly neat. But, then he’d seen a lot of disturbing things about Sobel.

He looked back at Ava, “Can’t sleep neither?”

Ava wasn’t sure if she should be happy or not the awkward silence was broken. She tried to ignore Donnelley’s presence, instead focusing on the messy lump of flour she was trying to hand knead into a cohesive lump of dough. But that hadn’t been working as Donnelley being there seemed to settle on her back like a physical weight.

“No,” She answered, still looking down at the lump in the bowl she was pushing and pulling. “But I’m used to it.”

“Yeah.” Donnelley snorted softly at the truth in that. He could relate, but again, the smile he had quickly snuffed out as he now began to sense Ava’s nervous energy.

He would’ve politely excused himself back to his room if it weren’t for the fact he knew that the team’s cohesion would depend on the strength of their bonds with each other. The fact that he’d told Dave he would apologize. The fact that he liked Ava, and missed her and her quirky energy while she was gone. Still missed it now she was here too, and hadn’t brought it along it seemed. He sheepishly cleared his throat of nothing and looked around the kitchen, still unable to muster the courage to just say what he needed to. What he wanted to, “What’re you makin’?”

“Sweet bread.” Ava answered simply, judging the dough in the bowl to be cohesive enough to knead properly. She dusted some flour on the table and dumped out the dough with a soft ‘plop’. “I’m going to make some cream for a filling too.”

She grew quiet as she began to hand knead the dough, the normal therapeutic monotony of the activity somewhat dampened by Donnelley being there and ignoring the obvious elephant in the room.

It seemed like she would have to break the tension. “So did you just come in here to see why I was baking in the middle of the night?” She asked, her tone coming out blunter than she had intended it.

Donnelley was hit with offense and an edge of hurt at Ava’s tone, a tide of anger rushing in to smother both and replace them with something better to face her with, “You know what?”

Donnelley stood quick, the stool’s feet jittering across the wood floor and making a racket. Donnelley already felt the tingling in his arms from the adrenaline dump, more like he was about to get into a firefight than making a clumsy effort to apologize. He was breathing hard, so he hauled in a breath through his nose and let it out the same way. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them up again with a softer expression.

“No.” He shook his head imperceptibly, “No, I didn’t.”

Ava started from the sudden anger and she tensed, both unsure of what he was going to do and afraid she’d just provoked another rage fueled tirade out of him. She froze and didn’t say anything, carefully watching Donnelley as he visibly calmed himself down.

“Okay.” She said quietly, careful not to invoke more of Donnelley’s anger. “Did you…want to talk about…What happened?” She asked carefully.

The voice in the back of Donnelley’s mind immediately made him feel ashamed. The part of him that wasn’t chewed up and blackened by his life so far. He was used to arguing with Holly, or Laine. They stood their ground and threw it right back in his face, stoking the flames until they just died, or he had to remove himself or they’d devour the whole place and leave blackened timbers and smoldering bridges.

The look in Ava’s eyes as he found himself standing reminded him instead of someone else. A girl who didn’t deserve what he’d done to her, or what was happening to her mother and father because of it. He swallowed at Ava’s question, nodding softly, and then more visibly, “Yes.”

He put his hands together, rubbing his palms and looking away from Ava, “I’m…” He sighed, “I made myself a liar.”

He cleared his throat again, surprisingly dry, and then swallowed a bit of spit to keep his voice from growing hoarse, “Maybe I didn’t. I remember I told you before… everythin’. Everythin’ that I did happened. I told you that whoever would leave a girl like you had to be the stupidest, sorriest bastard in the world.” He glanced at Ava, “Or, somethin’ ‘long those lines.”

“And then I did what I did…” he said at first, but shook his head, he’d better say it how it rightly happened, “After I yelled at you for somethin’ you didn’t have no hand in doin’… I left.”

“And I’m sorry,” He said, “I’m sorry for doin’ that to you, I’m sorry for sayin’ everythin’, Ava.”

He looked back up at Ava and his hands dropped to his sides, a wetness glistening in the corners of them, maybe just the whiskey taking hold, “There we were, watchin’ movies together, and you showed me your paintin’s, and I was talkin’ all this good stuff to you…” He swallowed hard, gulping in the silence, “And then I do that, I leave, and you can barely stand to fuckin’ look at me now.”

“My daughter’s in the fuckin’ emergency room with a broken arm, she can’t fuckin’ paint or draw, or anythin’ now and she’s beggin’ me just to be there for her, and I’m over here knee deep in this shit and it’s all my fault, and...” He stopped himself as his voice shuddered, “But that ain’t about you. All I know is after I left you, I’ve been sorry about it this whole time. Sorry for everythin’.”

“So, yeah, I guess I was just in here to see what you were bakin’ in the middle of the night. Only other thing I can do right now except drink and think about how sorry I am.” He sheepishly tried a smile on, but it fizzled out, “But… yeah. I’m sorry for what I did.”

He sat back down for a moment, staring at the countertop. It grew quiet again, and he sniffled wetly, “Maybe I’ll just go back to my bedroom and try to sleep again. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat again, “How, uh, how do you feel… about it… I guess?”

Ava stared at him for a moment before reaching over for a dish towel, wiping the flour off her hands and walking over to quietly hug Donnelley. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders and giving him a firm but gentle squeeze. “I feel like you might need a hug.” She said quietly, her eyes growing misty themselves.

Donnelley gave a chuckle despite himself, a blubbering thing as he placed a hand on Ava’s arm around his shoulders, “You’re the one who deserves it.” He said, “I just don’t want you to look away from me anymore. I don’t want to make you think I’m gonna explode at you anymore, you don’t deserve none of it.”

“That, and I’ll have to deal with fuckin’ hillbilly Dave.” He chuckled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Ava sniffed and pulled back from the embrace, wiping her hands over her shirt. “I appreciate the apology.” She said, folding her arms over her chest. “What happened…It really hurt and still kind of hurts.” She started to look away from him but stopped herself and looked back into his scarred features. “But, I appreciate you apologizing.”

“I know.” Donnelley nodded, looking back at Ava, “If there’s anything I can do… more than apologizing, just give me the word.”

Ava pursed her lips in thought for a moment. “Honestly, I kinda miss hanging out with you.” She nodded her head to the dough on the table. “Also, this is a brand new recipe I’m trying, so, you can be the taste tester.”

Donnelley smiled again, and it stuck this time. He looked at the ball of dough and then back to Ava. He knew one apology wasn’t enough, wounds didn’t heal right after the gauze was put on. He nodded, “I missed hangin’ out too.” He said, getting up from his seat and sniffling again and ripping a piece of paper towel off to wipe his nose, “Gotta stop doin’ this shit. Ghost wouldn’t ever let it go if he saw me like this.”

“Well, then he doesn’t get a roll.” Ava said, returning to the table and resuming kneading the dough, pushing and pulling it across the floured surface with quick and practiced movements. “These are sweet rolls, not jerk rolls.”

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>FAIRFIELD, ID
>SOBEL’S RESIDENCE
>15.NOV.2019
>0500…///

Donnelley opened his eyes to the dark room, teeth bared as he growled, reaching for something that wasn’t even there. Not anymore, anyways. That was all back in Alaska. For a moment, he didn’t recognize where he was, and he sat up in a panic, thinking of the horror it would be if this was still in Yutu’s house. Then heard the sound of clinking dishes and the sink running. Sobel making breakfast. He looked to his right and saw the time, sighed, then got up to sitting on the bed. His hip and shoulders popped with the effort and he gave another sigh. He went to put on his shirt, a task that sent him around the entire room looking for it until he found it crumpled underneath the bed, draped over the suede of his Danner boots. He slipped it on, grabbed the chopped down AK laying on the bed next to him, and opened his door to the smell and sound of bacon and eggs frying. He trudged into the kitchen, giving a half-assed smile to Sobel’s nearly sincere one. TAva
.xcv
e
smiles rarely were, Donnelley was probably one of the only few who knew that. Sobel didn’t seem bothered by that, just went back to his cooking. Donnelley spied white gravy and a tray of biscuits too.

“Your favorite.” Sobel spoke from the kitchen, earning another look from Donnelley, his brows furrowed.

“How’d you know that?”

“You told me. Mosul, remember? Twenty-sixteen.” Sobel looked back to his eggs, “How do you like these?”

“Over hard.” Donnelley’s eyes were still on Sobel as he cooked. Paired with the weird shit the first day he was here with the layout of his house, and suddenly knowing all of it, Sobel wasn’t endearing himself to Donnelley. He was getting tired of people getting inside his head and rooting around in there, taking away or adding to what was inside.

“What?”

Donnelley shook his head and looked away, realizing he’d been caught staring. He crossed the kitchen and opened the door outside, wondering where Ghost was. Maybe he’d taken the Wetwork Teams and decided to go off and kill Foster himself. At least then, he wouldn’t have to deal with it. But he knew he had to. It was already decided, a debt was made in Alaska. There would be blood until it was paid. They’d hurt his daughter. He hadn’t heard from anyone besides Dave and Ava, and that wasn’t recent. Maybe it was all up to him again, another time being the only survivor. He put a cigarette between his lips, not really wanting to go down that road. Not yet. And not at all. He thought of calling Laine, or Tilly, but he knew it’d be only a matter of time before either Russians or Feds showed up on Sobel’s doorstep. Fairfield didn’t seem the type of town where a reunion like that and its fireworks would go unnoticed.

Instead of doing any of that, he just sat on the steps of the porch with his rifle in his lap. He took in the view of the Idaho countryside while he puffed away slowly on his cigarette, nipping off his flask every so often, waiting for the first of UMBRA to come. If they did at all.

In the morning twilight a pair of headlights on a white hatchback encroached from the long stretch of road that cut through Fairfield. Bajbala rolled her windows down as she pulled up to the house on the coordinates, spying the man seated on its porch.

It took a moment to regain her composure after the long night drive, one of belting out funky lyrics to keep awake. She exited the vehicle and walked up next to Donnelley with hands in her jacket pockets. The dark beneath her eyes masked by the morning.

"Hi. " she said with the cold on her breath and a smile. The one always seeming to be plastered beneath any expression.

Donnelley watched the hatchback creep across the lonely highway. He quirked a brow when it made a turn onto Sobel’s considerably lengthy driveway. The visibility around Sobel’s house was good, relatively few obstructions besides the tall grass and an errant tree here or there. That meant if this was someone Sobel wasn’t expecting, he had every chance to take that rifle of his and do something about the stranger.

As it were, the person who stepped out of the vehicle was anything but a stranger. Donnelley matched her smile, the memory of them getting the drop on ol’ Sam Dee, Company Badass, was fresh still. Bajbala was a much needed calming presence.

“Make yourself at home. Just ask Sobel where everything is and he’ll do his, uh,” Donnelley huffed a chuckle, “thing.”

She nodded. Sobel was still strange to her. She remembers the awkward exchange of glances in Alaska, they never spoke further.

"That, I will.'' Bajbala muttered. The scent of bacon was stagnant coming through the screen door. She kicked off her ankle boots and peered around at the tidy abode. A shifting noise caught her attention from another room, presumably Sobel.

"You guys are up early. Not getting started already are we?" She asked.

Sobel looked up from the cooking eggs and smiled at the voice of Bajbala. They hadn’t any time to talk in Alaska, but such was the nature of the Program. You see the same faces every day, but to the world—and to each other—you remained strangers. No telling if either party was engaged in an active operation.

Sobel wiped his hands off on a towel and stepped away from the range, pulling his attention away from the eggs, bacon, and sausage. The other batch of biscuits wouldn’t be ready for another few minutes anyway. He stood opposite Bajbala, but seemed hesitant to offer his hand to her, nodding instead, “Hello, my name is Sobel. I don’t believe we’ve met, but we’ve seen each other.” He cleared his throat, but his eyes remained fixed on Bajbala’s, the smile not quite reaching them, “I would offer you bacon, but if you eat only halal, there’s other things I can get for you. It wouldn’t be much trouble.”

She found his hospitality off-putting. Bacon and eggs would have been great if her appetite wasn't upside down that morning. A symptom of the mode she gets in whenever something big is about to begin.

"Oh, no. I'm not— it's fine. But maybe some tea?" Bajbala asked, somewhat coy. Her intimacy with the Quran bled out during the time she was pawned around Afghanistan. She smirked to one side and peered around for any place she could kick her feet up; in a way to break eye contact with her host.

Sobel’s smile vanished for a moment at Bajbala’s refusal of food. He instead nodded, finally breaking his eye contact to look at the cupboard in thought, “Earl Grey? I also have green tea.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned away from her, “Please, use my home as if it were your own.” He said from the kitchen, “I’m sure you’ll find your way. Do you have any bags to be unloaded? I’m sure Muru and I could handle the heavy lifting.”

"Earl Grey as is, please!" Bajbala pepped up at his departure, she really just wanted some sleep. "And no need. I only have one bag of clothes." Among several containing equipment and weapons.

As if summoned only by name, a small girl stepped down the stairs carefully. Her face looked as empty as Sobel’s, but her eyes held some measure of quiet curiosity as they looked at Bajbala. Once down the stairs, the little girl walked directly up to Bajbala, ignoring everything else. She hadn’t blinked the whole time, yet Sobel was smiling at her from the kitchen like some proud father.

“Are you happy?” The little girl asked Baj in Russian, her staring blue eyes set in her pallid face showing no sign of caring for her answer either way. Just the same quiet curiosity she regarded the rest of the world with. “I had a dream we went to your home. Are you happy?”

Sobel exited the kitchen and offered his hand out, taking Muru’s in his own and smiling at Bajbala. This one was somewhat more sincere than the smiles he gave everyone else.

“She asked about your day.” Sobel lied, knowing Muru had a knack for unnerving people. Even he had found it somewhat unsettling when Muru had told him that she’d had a dream of him in a locked room, flayed open with doctors buzzing around him like an experiment, “This is Muru.”

Bajbala smiled as the girl approached, she had always found children a delight, even when they ask those peculiar prying questions, like they sometimes do. The Russian wasn't even what surprised her, it was different; in the eyes, in her expression. It tilled up memories and she felt a sweltering of sadness, anger and joy all at once beneath a professional exterior, as if never asked that question before. If it were another moment she could cry or snatch the girl in her arms and tell her no, her ill defined understanding of "happiness"— embrace the poor girl like she was her own. Bajbala damned her exhaustion.

"Oh, everyday is a joy, Muru. You have a beautiful name!" She played along. It seemed no one else knew of her developing Russian fluency. Except Muru. "How old are you?" She asked with a hint of excitement, peering between her and Sobel. Two sets of soul-searching eyes.

Muru looked to Sobel as Bajbala spoke, and Sobel gave a half-smile before explaining in Russian, “She is asking how old you are.”

Muru looked away from Sobel, her eyes going to the floor as if Bajbala had asked her to figure out a complex mathematical formula. Thinking in silence for a few moments, Muru looked at Baj and shrugged her shoulders, “vosem’ let?” She answered as if there was a possibility of it being wrong.

Sobel translated for her, “She says eight.” And explained, “She doesn’t speak English. Only Russian. A bit of a barrier. The Program won’t tell me where she came from, or how she got here. But, she is here and she is safe. A small victory for her. Vy by skazali, chto rady byt' pod kryshey?”

Muru only nodded.

The back door banged open a moment later, the sound preceding a sweaty and visibly irritated Ghost. The massive man wore Ranger-panties, boots, and his Oakleys; beyond that only a scowl that cast his knife-twisted face in a savage sneer. Hay dusted his red hair and shoulders, caught in the thick patch of scarlet hair on his chest. A gallon water-jug hung from his right hand, and his battle-belt and Glock were settled around his waist.

“If I have to do one more clean with a haybale I’m going to fucking kill myself,” he growled as he went to the sink to fill his bottle. “We need to hurry up and kill Foster so I can get back to the gym.”

“In time, my friend.” Sobel let go of Muru’s hand and nudged her back towards the stairs, where she went up and to her room, “We still have to wait. We’ve only got the one arrival for now.”

At the sound of Ghost’s entrance, Donnelley entered as well, shutting the front door behind him with his AK in one hand and the bottle of whiskey in the other. He set them both down and fell back into the couch, sighing, “He’s got a point.”

Donnelley looked over from the couch, at Ghost’s vast shoulders taking up almost the entire kitchen on their own and then at Sobel, “Strike while the iron’s hot. We give more time to Foster, we give him more chances to think of ways to fuck us.”

“You wanted me to call everyone here, and I did.” Sobel shook his head, “Rushing off won’t help us any more than being too slow.”

Donnelley simply frowned at Sobel, knowing he too had a point, like a Mexican stand-off of good fucking points, all tickling sharply at each other’s necks. He plodded into the kitchen, flipping the cooking eggs and bacon for Sobel before making a plate for himself. While he did, he spoke to Ghost, “How’s the Kill Teams? They haven’t all killed each other yet have they?” He asked, “Be embarrasin’ for us.”

“Kill Teams are fine,” Ghost said dismissively. “No fights yet. Though that little Jap sniper chick on Ronin’s team pulled her knife on DD when he got handsy. I think he liked it.”

“Marines and Asian chicks. Like dudes fresh out of Basic and Dodge Chargers at fifty-nine percent APR.” Donnelley snorted and bit off a piece of bacon.

Ghost paused and looked over at Bajbala, seeming to notice her for the first time. He’d spotted her when he walked in, of course, but hydration took priority. “Thought you were a temp attachment.”

"Me too, " she snickered, "circumstances change." She had little more business on this assignment than she did sewing up the gash on Ghost's face. Bajbala didn't get the feeling he liked her— or anyone. Yet, they shared some elusive personal stake.

Donnelley exited the kitchen, plate in hand and set it down on the table. He gave Bajbala a once over, his eyes taking in everything and finding there was something amiss. Not that she ever seemed to stray far from the coy and the sarcastic, but she should be acting different, somehow. Angrier, he guessed. After Foster had let them all really know how he felt, he expected everyone to be screaming for vengeance as loud as he was. He found it odd.

“Did anybody tell you why we’re all here?” Donnelley cocked a brow and bit off more bacon from the strip he held, watching her thoughtfully. “‘Cause, as much as I like everyone here, I’d rather be doin’ some other shit.”

Retribution was a vacant concept to Bajbala, snuffed after her failures in Afghanistan. Now, it wasn't hers, even if she was another arm to achieve it. "None of you tell me shit." She said, deadpan. "I know what I need to, right?"

“Get used to it. If only I had shit to let you know about.” Donnelley said, equally deadpan, “Long story short, almost all of us were touched personally by Foster’s heartfelt actions these past few days.”

He let it go unsaid that his daughter was in the hospital, and his ex-wife and her husband were in the trauma center in medically induced comas. That was something he’d worry about later, “So, we’ve all decided to kill him. Director’s blessin’.” Donnelley pulled his lips taut in a forced smile before it disappeared as quick as it’d come, “Somebody tried to murder Ghost. What happened to you? They set your house on fire or somethin’?”

Bajbala pressed her hands deep in her pockets and inhaled the warm air. She could use that tea about now. This was probably Tex's way of asking how her winter had gone. She pointed at Ghost with a tilt of her head, wincing in disbelief. "Right, murder him?" said lowly like he couldn't hear them. Ghost's shaded stare was enough to make her want to join Muru upstairs. "I think I might have had a dream about Foster, but I haven't seen anyone in months," her eyes searched the ceiling briefly then dashed back to Donnelley, "Oh, I got an air fryer."

Ghost cocked his head, giving her a serious look. He was mixing a protein shake he had acquired from one of the other operators, and he stopped mid-shake. “Do you like it?”

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, yes!" She began motioning with her hands as she talked. "You can put anything in it. The other day I just wanted a toasted roll with butter so I tossed it in the pot and a few minutes later," she shook her head in awe and said with serenity, "it was just magical."

Ghost grunted. “Need to get one of those,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Through a window the faded green top of an aged SUV traced the horizon and turned into Sobel’s driveway, announced by the grinding of tire and rock. Inside, Jason was doing his best to distract himself from the zoetrope of thoughts that had now settled on how this convergence would be different from the last time. Like West Virginia, this place’s remoteness held an innate anxiety for the analyst the way one could feel trapped in a social setting, cornered and stagelit by unfamiliarity. But here he was, marooned with strangers yet again.

“Everyone’s a fucking stranger,” Jason muttered to himself. Even he wasn’t excluded from the proclamation. He had been slipping into the abstract in terms of how he saw himself, and it had been going that way for some time. It was exactly why he didn’t want to be in his own head, even now, and it made long drives a menacing affair.

Jason approached the porch with two black duffle bags slouching his shoulders, and he knocked before taking his liberty with the front door. A few cautious steps in and he found Donnelley, Ghost, and Bajbala orbiting the livingroom and kitchen area. Jason regarded Ghost first, the wall of hairy muscle demanding presence.

“Jesus,” He said, snickering. What else was he supposed to expect from the man?

“Don’t mind him. He’s a little eccentric is all.” Donnelley looked Jason over, not expecting any change from when they last spoke, but a part of him was wondering if he was seeing ghosts. With every arrival, he wondered if that one would be the last, and everyone else would either be in Federal custody or the main event at a wake.

“Let me help you with those, man.” Donnelley reached for one of Jason’s duffels.

“How do you like your eggs?” Sobel asked from the kitchen, not sparing Jason a look, but acknowledging some other faceless Government man who technically didn’t exist had shown up in his house. If all the activity around his property bothered him, he made a good show of not being perturbed by it all.

Jason handed the bag over, the ease of the gesture belying its hefty weight. Despite his sunken eyes and thick stubble a boyishness flashed as he regarded his team lead.

“Scrambled,” he called out, a ‘thank you’ fading as he failed to place a face to the voice in the kitchen. “Brought some gear. Everything I had from last time and some toys the government misplaced. Cool thing is—,” he went on, bounding over to Ghost and extending a hand, “—what’s up, killer. Is that hay?”

Without knowing him it would have been hard to spot the manic edge to his voice, each word a bit more eager and quicker than his normal cadence, but anyone close enough could see his dilated pupils.

Ghost took the hand and gave it a single shake, his shark’s gaze locking on Jason’s dilated pupils. While his familiarity with the other man was limited, there was no mistaking the effects of a stimulant at work. Probably cocaine, since Jason didn’t seem like the kind to mess with ice.

“There’s no gym,” he said by way of explanation. “Just a barn.” He released the other man and returned to his post-workout ritual. He threw a scoop of creatine in his mouth dry, washed it back with several heavy pulls from his water bottle, and turned.

“Gonna shower,” he grunted, then looked at Sobel. “Scrambled. Six. I’ll cover what I eat after the op.” Giving their host a pre-emptive nod of thanks he headed for the door.

Sobel regarded Ghost in a way that was unlike any of the others, for a moment the facade faded to nothing, and he simply nodded without hospitality. He knew none was needed, because he knew it didn’t matter. He admired Ghost in a way. He broke the yolk of an egg without effort and it bled across the pan, “Good.”

"He must make up for the lack of charm in the room." Bajbala commented as he left. She over-extended a handshake to the newcomer. He was every bit as wide as Ghost but projected more handsome energy. “I’m Baj.” A more prolific accent on her name.

Jason’s gaze followed Ghost, an amused huff jumping out of him as the man retreated deeper into the house. Sobel teased an appearance but before Jason could divert his attention he regarded Bajbala with a subdued smile.

“Baj,” he said, testing the sound of it. He took her hand, eyes deep and inquisitive, darting around her facial features. “Jason. Boy Scout on paperwork.”

His hand was warm with the faintest flush of moisture, and he held hers just a moment beyond what was expected. A new person was exciting in ways Jason didn’t want to admit, but with it came a lingering dread. Her presence here ensured she wouldn’t leave unscathed, whatever the circumstance. So far UMBRA was riddled with death, let alone the other scars. But it also meant she was capable, and no one here needed any pity or concern. In his wide pupils she could see the workings of the thought, but whatever flashed disappeared as he let go.

“Analyst and field work,” he added, and looked over his shoulder at Donnelley. “Stopped in Boise for some stuff. We’ll talk offline.”

>...///

“Looks different in the daytime, doesn’t it?” Ava said as Dave pulled up the rural driveway to the somewhat familiar abode of Sobel. She scratched Thor between the ears, then went back to securing his walking harness and his leash, while trying to keep her mind from spiraling down an unpleasant path.

Still, she bit her lip and looked at the house before looking to Dave. “Do you…think Donnelley is here already?”

Dave glanced over at her, piloting the big Ford with its deadly cargo. “I think Donnelley’s probably been here for a while,” he said. “This is his show, ain’t like him to show up second, ya know?”

He reached over and put a hand on her thigh, gave it a squeeze. “You alright?”

“...No,” She answered honestly with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see him, Dave. Part of me is so angry at him and the other part is just hurt.” She stroked her hand down Thor’s back, the large cat laying half on her lap and half on the seat; sleeping and purring away. “I’ll either yell at him or just start crying. Maybe both.”

“I know, sugar,” he said, his voice soft. “An’ if you need to yell, or cry, you can do that. An’ I’ll put his ass on the ground, if he raises his voice to you, you know that. But we can’t do this without him. And it’s gotta get done. And then once it’s done, we’re done. So just be strong a little longer, alright?”

Ava looked at the house and took in a deep breath. “Okay,” She turned to him and smiled, placing her hand on top of his and giving it a squeeze. “Thanks Dave.”

“Course.” Seeing her smile he broke into a grin. “We’ll just go in, say hi, an’ try to play nice long enough to get this thing handled.”

He pulled the truck into the drive, his heart fluttering as he dropped it into park. It wasn’t fear. He was excited. And for just a moment, he hated it.

Then he leaned over and gave Ava a kiss. “I love you, sugar. We’re gonna be okay.”

She smiled and reached up to touch his face. “I love you too. I know we’ll get through this.” For a brief moment, Alaska flashed through her mind and her fingers twitched on his cheek. She shut her eyes and pressed their foreheads together. “We’ll get through this.”

Dave rested there for a long moment, letting the truck tick quietly as it cooled in the driveway before kissing Ava firmly on the forehead. Then he sat up, took his Sig from the fold out cup-holder beneath the truck’s stereo, and stuck it in the holster at his hip. He flashed her a grin.

“Alright,” he said. “Happy-face time. Let’s go say hi.”

Ava let out a long breath and took Thor’s leash in her hand. “Right, happy-face.”

>...///

“…We’ll talk offline.” Donnelley heard Jason say, nodding in return and knowing what the other man had in store. His ears picked out the soft whine of brakes among the pops of gravel under rubber tread, and he looked out the window to see Dave’s truck.

“Shit.” Donnelley whispered under his breath.

He looked away as if they could see him through the window. No doubt, Ava was with him. No doubt she had told him about what happened. No doubt Dave had his own feelings about it. He was all at once shamed and indignant, and when he heard the knock at the door his hand seized into a fist for a moment.

“Somebody answer the door.” Sobel’s voice came from the kitchen. When no one else moved, Donnelley knew it was his job.

He sighed, going to the door and opening it. There she was, standing next to Dave. Though she wore a smile, it may as well have been under threat of death with the way it looked. He glanced at Dave, offering nothing but a curt nod and, “Welcome.”

He stepped aside and immediately grabbed up the bottle of whiskey and the AK on the couch, heading back to his room. In his place, and quite in juxtaposition with the other man, Sobel seemed almost in a hurry to greet Ava and Dave. Though the way he looked between them made it apparent that it was mostly Ava he was interested in. It wasn’t much of a hard train of thought to figure out why. The two were different from everyone else, for different reasons. But just one in the case of the two of them.

Sobel greeted Dave first, offering his hand out to him with the faintest of smiles that didn’t have the ability or want to reach his eyes, “Welcome back to my home.”

Dave returned Donnelley’s nod, watching him walk away and biting back a sigh. He took Sobel’s hand in his and gave it a firm shake, returning the smile and ushering Ava in with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Thanks, man,” he said. “I appreciate the hospitality.” As he looked around the room he gave Bajbala a nervous grin and a wave. He wasn’t proud of what she’d seen of him the last time; he had come off as a bloodthirsty maniac, and that wasn’t him. Not really. When he saw Jason his eyes lit up.

“Hey, what’s up?” He said. “Good to see ya!”

Ava had felt her heartbeat quicken when the door open and Donnelley stood there, keeping the smile on her face even as a tide of unpleasant emotions welled up in her chest. But before she could say anything, he gave her a glance, then looked away and walked off with a bottle of alcohol in his hand.

The anger in her chest dimmed as a fresh wave of hurt washed over her. Her smile fell and she looked down, her hand growing tighter on Thor’s leashed as she felt moisture prick at the back of her eyes.

She looked up when Sobel approached, giving him a half smile as she tried to shove the hurt down and away. “Oh, um, hi Sobel.” She said, lifting her hand in a small wave. “I’m sorry but I brought a plus one.” She looked down at Thor as the cat padded cautiously up to Sobel to sniff him. “I kind of left in a hurry and didn’t have anywhere to leave him where he’d be alright.” She crouched down slightly to scratch his head. “I hope that’s okay and your cat won’t mind?”

“Well, you have a place now, for the time being.” Sobel said, his face lit up with a much more sincere picture of hospitality, “Murph has his own space, and lots of it. He can afford to have your plus one borrow some of it.”

He smiled down at Thor, the cat still not sure what to make of him. A spot he’d been in more times than to be offended by. He looked back up to Ava, “I hope you’re alright. As I understand, most everybody had to leave under similar circumstances as yourself.” Sobel said, then gestured to the rest of the interior of his house, “Make yourselves at home, everything’s easy to find. You remember.”

Dave gave Sobel another nod of thanks, squeezed Ava’s shoulder, and then went after Donnelley, giving Jason a pat on the shoulder as he went. “We’ll catch up in a minute, bud. I gotta see the boss about somethin’,” he said, nodding at the bigger man as he passed.

He caught up with Donnelley further down the hall. He didn’t reach out, not sure of the response he would get, and instead took his Cope from his pocket and gave it a few snaps, as much to alert Donnelley to his presence as to give himself something to do.

“Hey, can we talk a minute?” He asked, his voice calm.

Donnelley had the bottle of whiskey half-way to his mouth as he turned around to see none other than Dave. The telltale snaps of his Copenhagen can in hand told him who it was, but in his present state of mind, the only thing on it was escape. It was Sun Tzu who said to never let the field of battle be chosen for you, he remembered. Now here Dave was, choosing.

He took a pull off the bottle and then nodded, capping it again, “Yeah.” He said, looking the other man in the eyes, not fully expecting what was going to happen next, but his nerves were ready for anything. Always were. “What’s up?”

Dave leaned against the wall, opening the can and packing his lip, trying to make it clear he wasn’t looking for a violent confrontation. As he prodded the dip into place with his tongue he put the can away and then looked Donnelley in the eyes.

“Look, I got some stuff to say,” he said. “And I just wanna…Get it out there. I know some shit went down between you and Ava. She told me about. She’s still hurt, you’re gonna have to talk to her about that yourself, but… Look, man, I was pissed when I heard. But you’re my boy. We’ve…Shit, we’ve been through a lot, you know?”

He paused a moment. “I ain’t one to hold a grudge, not against a friend. And I been tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, to think about shit like…Like if I was havin’ to be in charge, and keep my head straight with all this hell that’s been goin’ on. So you talk to Ava, an’ sort things out with her, but right now, you an’ me are good. Okay? I just…Wanted you to know, we’re still in this shit together.”

Donnelley stood and listened, like any other good leader would do. If not for the memory of Avery that still poked and prodded, and stung him every moment like every other failure he’d ever made as a leader, then for his friendship with Dave. He looked over Dave’s shoulder for a moment to see Ava making her way through the living room alone and awkward just to share a roof with the man who’d shaken her. He remembered what he’d said to her before their argument—that whoever would leave a girl like her feeling unwanted was an idiot and a damn fool.

Well, that’s how it felt. He looked back to Dave and then nodded, “Ain’t no sides ‘bout this, partner.” Donnelley said, the Texan coming out in his voice like it always did when he and Dave talked, “I ain’t gonna tell you to tell her anythin’ on my behalf. I’ll be a man about it like anythin’ else needs doin’.”

“It’s just me and her… well, you got told already what happened.” Donnelley said, and occupied his hands with holding the neck of the whiskey bottle while the AK was tucked under his arm, “You just have to know… after it happened, I wished it didn’t.”

“I been there,” Dave said. He flashed back to a run-down barn, a screaming Russian, and a dripping hunting knife. “I’ve done shit I regret, too. But we’re movin’ on, gettin’ shit done.”

He reached out and thumped Donnelley on the chest, grinning at him. “When we got a chance, I’ll show ya the party favors I brought in my truck. Got a few pounds of high-explosive goodness for us to play with, and a few toys if nobody brought their own. And a big one, if we need it.” He nodded at the bottle. “We’ll have a drink later. I’m gonna grab our bags an’ shit, get us moved in. We good, brother?”

Donnelley gave a tired smile and nodded, “Always.” He made to turn back for his room, but hesitated at the last second, “You, uh… You need help with that?”

Dave shrugged. “Sure, if ya want. Once we get the bags in we can take a look in the back of the truck. Show ya the real fun.”

It was still dark, the sun yet to peek over the rugged horizon as the throaty growl of a V-8 engine disrupted the tranquil hour. Dust kicked up, illuminated by the red glow of tail lights on the ‘91 Mustang that ripped up the track towards Sobel’s house. The stereo thumped, faintly audible as the driver’s side window was open, a tattooed arm resting on the frame as the cherry of the cigarette flirted dangerously with flying free and finding a nest of tinder among the trees.

Queen took a drink from the can of Bang that tasted like cotton candy and piss but supplemented the speed and coke still coursing through his veins. He’d been on a run since leaving Florida, then it had been in a 2008 Toyota that he wrecked somewhere outside Lincoln, Nebraska but he had walked away from it, bruised and needing a few bandaids. The Mustang he had picked up somewhere, but he could not think of where at the moment. Only that he had remembered enough to bend the window and to hotwire the old muscle car.

The only thing clear in his mind was her bruised face and the beeping machines.

Queen swung up the drive, slamming on the brakes as he spotted the pickup with camper and drifted the Mustang into a screeching stop that was a hair’s breadth from slapping up against it. He sat for a moment, pausing to give a hazy admiration to his driving skill and then to gather himself, pushing together the scraps of consciousness and thought to appear to have his shit together.

Sure I do, Queen told himself and rolled out of the Mustang and kicked the door closed after picking up his duffel bag. His pale sea blue eyes darted around the house, the heaviness of the gun tucked in his waistband was some assurance. If this was not some elaborate ruse by the Russians, maybe they took them all and had Dave’s truck. Maybe.

He walked with a slightly jerky gate, loose limbed and with a drunk’s practiced ease. He pushed the strands of lank dirty blonde hair under his cap and turned it backward as he approached the front of the cabin. Queen rapped on the door, leaning against the frame with his free hand resting against the grip of the pistol.

The door squeaked open and showed Donnelley standing in the doorway. There was a ready smile on his lips and a droop to his eyes that told of a good buzz going. The smile faded a touch as he regarded his friend, who looked like he was hitting the roads as hard as he was hitting the caffeine and other substances. It felt good to see him, but it didn’t feel good to see him like this. Whatever the Russians did, it made Queen look like hell.

“Howdy, partner.” Donnelley said quietly, then stepped past the doorway and onto the porch, closing the door behind him. It had been quite a while since they last spoke, and what they ended on wasn’t exactly the best of terms. It sure hurt Donnelley.

“What happened?” Donnelley said it outright. There wasn’t any sidestepping and beating around the bush with his old friend.

Queen reached up and scratched at the hatband pressed against his forehead, rubbing it askew. He looked over at Donnelley, catching a hint of whiskey in the air between them. He smiled, squinting in the sunrise that was peeking over the trees now. The smile was more a baring of teeth, his usual ease a thin faltering mask over the tense cords that stood from his neck and forearms.

“Howdy,” he said, then hunted for a cigarette, patting his pockets down and then remembered they were on the passenger seat of the Mustang.

The question turned the forced smile into a real grimace before it melted into a thin hard line. His sea blue eyes danced and jittered, and he clenched his fists then popped his knuckles. “They came after my mom,” he said, his voice low and scratchy. “They put their fucking hands on her, put her in the hospital.”

Queen cleared his throat and spat to the side, his gaze remaining off in the distance as he could not bring himself to look at Donnelley or the whole fragile facade would crash down into a smoking wreck.

“Jesus…” Donnelley breathed. He hunted for his own cigarettes to better results than Queen, opening the pack and offering it to his friend. It wasn’t the Kools he was used to smoking, but Donnelley knew it didn’t matter in times like this, “I’m so sorry, man.”

He knew they left the same note that had been found next to Poker’s dead body. And at the mention of his mother in the hospital, he could see in his mind’s eye the slack face of Holly bathed in the sterile light of a hospital room, barely breathing in beat to a heart rate monitor and the steady drip-drip of a saline bag. Tilly watching her helplessly, wishing she’d done something more and could do anything now, and a brother that would never be.

And a father that wasn’t there, again.

He lit his cigarette and shook his head, what else could they do? He looked at his friend, at Billy, “I promise we’ll get the ones who did this.” Donnelley said, feeling like the promises just kept coming out of his mouth to just pitifully float down to the dirt like the hollow things they were, “I’m sorry, Billy.”

Queen took the cigarette and cupped his hands over it for a light, then inhaled a ragged breath. He blew the smoke out into the pale morning light and nodded silently, swallowing hard as he did not trust himself to speak. After a few more drags, he glanced up at Donnelley, “I don’t know if she’ll make it. She’s the only one that...”

His eyes threatened tears again and he blinked fiercely, “You know, she loved me no matter what a fuck up I became. She...hell, she didn’t know half of what I’ve become. But there were two I could count on in this world and one of them is hanging onto her life.”

Dropping the butt, he ground it out on the porch and blew the last of the smoke from his nostrils. “And I don’t know...”

He jerked his head up, the vertebrae crackling and he looked at Donnelley, “I need to crash for awhile, I been up for three days or so. Four or five...hell I dunno. Been running since I found her.”

“Yeah, you go do that, man. We got everythin’ covered, Sobel’s got a room for you.” Donnelley placed a hand on Queen’s shoulder and looked into Queen’s eyes, “I got you, man, you know I do. With anythin’. Okay?”

Queen glanced up at Donnelley when he touched his shoulder, meeting his eyes with his own blood shot weary gaze. “Sure,” he said simply, his body loosening slightly and he rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the week’s beard growth. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

He pushed himself off the door frame and gave Donnelley a weak smile, a ghost of the usual jovial smirk. Queen opened the door and stepped inside, noticing the difference right away in his disheveled appearance compared to the rest of the team.

His gaze darted to Sobel, the quiet man who watched him as he entered. The exhaustion was now seeping into Queen’s body, his muscles twitched and his joints were starting to ache. He stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes before looking around the room.

Queen forced another smile, “Hey, y’all.”

He turned to Sobel, “Mind if I borrow your shower?”

A shadowed figure loomed behind Queen in the doorway, twice his width.

"I'm gonna need that first."

Croc brushed by him after bellowing and dropped two large briefcases in the foyer. Streaks of soot and grime crossed his body; clumped in with the hair on his bare forearms.

He and Sobel were well acquainted, more so than Donnelley, professionally. He slapped Tex's shoulder as he passed with a heavy dry paw. It was almost like he knew his way around, like his way through the dark shades on his face nearly hidden beneath hair.

"Good to see ya brotha." He said intensely then walked on, not minding another soul, to the shower.

Ava turned on the couch when the door opened, her eyes lighting up when she saw Queen step through before noticing the state he was in and frowning in concern. Her frown turned into a confused scowl when a stranger stomped in past Queen.

She got up from the couch, letting Thor roam around and hide behind furniture away from the crowd of new people. She walked up to Queen with a small smile on her face, holding out her arms to offer him a hug. “Hey Queen, glad to see you. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

Queen registered Croc and clenched his fists, the good nature fleeing his features before he caught himself. He rolled his shoulders and turned his attention from rude intrusion to Ava. Her voice broke through the fog of roiling anger and exhaustion and he looked her over. It took a moment to realize what was different, her wild curls now lay flat. It was almost disappointing but she still looked beautiful.

“Hey, Angel,” he said, referring back to the nickname he gave her months ago. “Same here, but ain’t it always this way?”

A crooked grin flashed and he accepted the offer, hugging her tighter than he meant to as if clinging to a life preserver. He shuddered slightly, holding back all the pent up emotions he had been carrying and gave her a pat on the back before pulling away.

“Been a while since Alaska,” he said, stepping back and crossing his arms across his lean chest. He glanced over her and nodded at Dave before stifling a yawn, rocking on his heels. “Y’all been alright?”

“Uh,” Ava looked over to Dave. “About as alright as we can be.” She said turning back to Queen with a concerned furrow of her brow. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I know we all were affected in some way.” She shifted on her feet. “Are you alright? You don’t have to tell me what happened, but are you okay?”

Queen’s smile melted, then he shook his head slowly, looking down at the floor between them. He muttered it, almost only loud enough for her to hear. “My mom,” he said, “She’s still in the hospital.”

He then rubbed the back of his neck, as if speaking it outloud was some sort of jinx. Queen glanced over Ava’s head towards the hallway Croc had gone down. “If that asshole is taking up the shower, I’m just gonna rack out for a couple hours. I ain’t slept since I don’t know when.”

Ava’s eyes widened with concern and sympathy at the information. Her stomach began to cramp with guilt as by comparison, she got off laughably light. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. The shower isn’t going to go anywhere.” She stepped forward and hugged him again. “I’m sorry about your mom, I’m sure she’ll be okay.” She said softly.

Queen nodded, his head jerking automatically as he returned her hug, pressing her briefly against his lean chest. “You’re probably right,” he said, trying to force cheer into his voice. “I need to rack out or I’ll be asleep on my feet.”

He let her go and gave Dave a nod as he hefted his bag over his shoulder and swayed towards the back where the spare room was. Once inside, he struggled to kick off his boots then gave up, flopping onto the bed.

Bajbala snuck away into the kitchen, disconnected from the team's recent traumas. Even though she lacked an appetite the scent of earl grey pulled her over to the island stool. There was the cup of tea Sobel had promised, steam curling up from the rim to tempt her as he continued sorting things about. Not as if he had forgotten to deliver it, but like he knew she would come; an invitation. "Thanks. " she sat, obliged. "What, may I ask, is your part in all this?"

Sobel continued with his task of pulling yet another batch of biscuits from the oven and setting them down to cool. He let the question hang on the air like the steam of his and Bajbala’s tea for a little longer as he slipped off the oven mitts. Finally, grasped his tea cup with both hands, almost unheeding of the heat and sipped just the same, “I facilitate things. I don’t have a Working Group—a team—of my own, so they let me do what I like, and sometimes, I let them tell me what to do.” He smirked, a little tug at one corner of his mouth, and then continued, “I hear an accent.”

Bajbala's mouth was dry with a curiosity kept at bay by bergamot. It wasn't the answer she was expecting, unsurprisingly. "Afghan." She stirred her tea more than sipped it. The little whirlpool was in cadence with her thoughts as is when she ponders another person. Sobel's still hands seemed to communicate more than his eyes. "No matter how I try I'm stuck with it. So what kind of things do you facilitate?" She asked.

“That thing we do a lot of.” Sobel shrugged, sipping his tea again before putting it down, “Do what needs doing. Kill who needs killing.”

He looked at Bajbala, unheeding of how unbroken eye contact made some people feel. He blinked for her sake and then looked away, down at his tea. He never liked when the conversation strayed towards him. Fancy that, the killer feeling like he’s swimming with sharks, “It’s a dime a dozen story these days, but I’ve been there; Afghanistan. Terrible shape it’s in these days.”

"Terrible shape always, it's part of the culture." She bitterly suggested. When she was a little older than Muru she had facilitated the deaths of her own countrymen. Bajbala wondered if the Program had been using the strange girl like the CIA had used her. She veered in thought and lifted her mug. "So you are babysitting because you want to or you… let them tell you?"

Sobel looked at the stairs, but Muru was not there. She was good at following directions, at least for now. There were the days she’d scream endlessly until she had her headphones, but he was glad today was not one of them. There was a small ache in his chest at the mention of her, but he shrugged, “There’s no place for her other than here. I doubt a healthy little suburban family has the ability or patience to deal with someth-someone like Muru.” He looked at Bajbala, “I guess I have no choice but to have her here.”

"I see." She didn't think too much on what he said, putting it behind the list of other peculiarities laid out by Donnelley. "Must be hard for her." She slugged back some tea, it's temperature perfect. "Is it just you two here, what about when you're on the road?"

“Lucky for her,” Sobel smirked behind the rim of his tea cup and sipped, “I’m not on the road as much as I used to be. She’s safe here, and I was told to keep it that way. As far as I’m concerned, that is my mission, and I will do it.”

“You would think it would be hard for her, yes. She doesn’t speak English, she’s from the Ukraine. How or why she’s here, I’ve no clue.” Sobel frowned faintly, shrugging, “It does get lonely at times out here, even with Murph, but he roams far and he’s almost never home. Can go days without seeing him sometimes.”

“At least with her around, I can pretend I have someone to talk to.” Even still, the dreams she had about Sobel’s past lingered in his mind. He felt defenseless and naked when others knew too much and he knew too little. The disturbance didn’t reach his face as he sipped at his tea and smiled, “She can at least play card games. War, Go-Fish, simple things.”

Lucky in some respects, damned in others. "That's more than I know." She uttered reflectively. She met his eyes finally like she had something for him and stood up. "Here! I know this one." she offered out her fist clenched atop an open palm. Rock-paper-scissors, which she never satisfied the urge to play after being exposed to it a few years ago.

Sobel looked down at Bajbala’s hands and then up to her eyes, those two glib orbs set in her face that seemed every bit as mischievous as her smirking lips. He huffed a chuckle and set his tea down, mirroring her ready posture in this very high culture game of odds. One he hadn’t tested his mettle in for a long while, “Are you sure?” He asked, “I’m quite the master.”

She passed him a quiried look and started. "Rock," her eyes fiery and focused like a cat, "paper, scissors," the sound of their hands smacking their palms echoing into the other room, "shoot!" She smacked her hand down in her palm in the shape of a pistol and her mouth was wide in amused anticipation.

Sobel clutched at his heart, eyes wide with surprise as he slowly looked down to see the wound with his mind’s eye. He chuckled and shook his finger at Bajbala, “Maybe I was too arrogant, you're clearly the better.”

Laine picked up the rental in Boise, a black Jetta with crumbs still wedged in the seat. She drove through the scenic landscape, her mind trying to stay focused on what Donnelley was calling them together for. And Sobel, the man who had probed into their heads to find the truth of their resurrection. Her skin prickled at the thought of looking into his eyes again.

She sipped the lukewarm coffee, her head still pounding after too many shots of the tiny bottles of vodka and rum from the minibar at the hotel. Laine took her time arriving at the cabin, the sun already well up and she saw the number of vehicles already there. A truck that looked like it had to belong to Dave standing out among the cars. Her thoughts turned back to the last few months, to Alaska before that and how it was all leading to the next few days.

Laine stepped out of the car, dressed casually in black jeans and an off shoulder Joan Jett and the Blackhearts t-shirt, her professional suit packed away. She looked at the house and lit a clove cigarette, her lipstick staining the black filter. Her gaze hunted for signs of Donnelley, he would be there of course but she had not idea what she would say to him.

She ran her hand through her hair, it had grown out some, her bobbed style now just above her shoulders. Finally she tossed aside the half smoked cigarette, and ground it out against the walkway with the toe of her Doc Marten boot before stepping up to the front porch and knocking.

Laine waited, her sunglasses still in place against the morning glare. She could hear people on the other side and a low murmur of voices. Maybe she should just try the door but paused, it was Sobel’s home after all. Maybe he knew she was there.

Sobel looked over at the knocking at the door, his smile fading slightly. It was the last one who needed to arrive. Or it could be a Russian kill team primed to enter his house and kill all of them. “Donnelley, could you get the door?”

Donnelley looked away from the conversation he was having with Jason and Dave in the corner of the room. Sobel knew Donnelley knew. It was in his eyes. Donnelley knew Sobel knew that he knew. It was in his eyes. With a whispered curse leaving his lips, Donnelley moved to the door with the same trepidation as if he was a newly minted Ranger in Afghanistan stacking on the door to a hut filled with Taliban.

To him, the danger was not dissimilar. He opened it anyway, and no one but the person he knew it’d be was standing in front of him. He didn’t exactly know what to say except, “Hey.”

"Hey."

Laine replied back after the door had swung open and the air was sucked out between them. Donnelley. Of course, he would be there to greet her as he had when she went to the cabin in West Virginia. That history hung now in the stillness of the short greeting.

She pushed back her sunglasses, her green eyes lined neat in black but slightly bloodshot.

"Am I fashionably late?" Laine asked, then gestured towards the house behind him. Her gaze traced his features, the shape of the usually smirking mouth, the burns, and the deep blue of his eyes. The want to forget what happened tugged at her, to make up and move on but now wasn't the time.

The scent of clove smoke like faint perfume followed her as Laine moved past him to enter the house. She paused in surprise at the sight of a broad figure she had not seen in sometime.

"Jason?" She blinked, and smiled a little at the pleasant surprise.

Laine caught sight of the diminutive redhead and gave Ava a little wave. There was Dave, sturdy and trusty and the newest member, the Afghani woman. She gave her a nod of recognition before her gaze fell on Sobel. Those eyes.

She glanced away and shifted her luggage, then spoke to Donnelley, "It's going to be a tight fit if we're staying long."

Ava’s eyes brightened as the door opened to reveal Laine and she got up to rush over and give the taller woman a hug. She hadn’t seen her since their little girls' day out, guilt gnawing at her for not using all that party stuff they bought but she shoved it to the side. “Hey Laine, I’m glad you’re here and okay.”

Laine warmed when Ava hugged her, giving her a one armed response and gave a genuine smile that faded some as she spoke. “I’m alright, I suppose. Better than most I’m sure.”

She held her tongue on the accident at her father’s work site and the trouble with her boss that was still brewing and had not got better when she had to excuse herself again when called by Donnelley to meet in Idaho. Laine brushed her hand over the straight red hair, “I’m glad to see you too, and Dave. And everyone seems to have made it back.”

“Yeah,” Ava glanced over at Donnelley and looked away again, taking a step back from Laine, playing with a strand of hair that fell over her shoulder. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but with everyone here now I’m sure we’ll all know soon.” She smiled at Laine again. “It’s nice to see you again, but I should make sure Thor doesn’t claw up Sobel’s furniture.” She threw another uncomfortable look at Donnelley and stepped away to hunt down her cat.

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE, CIA HQ
>13SEP2019
>1200…///

Some places look exactly as they appear. An office, a home, dull endless dwellings meeting every expectation from first glance. They were forgettable visual clutter fading from memory the moment it’s witnessed. No tricks of the eye, no subconscious biases of color or shape filtered out of our daily experience. Much of life is this way, especially the space it occupies. And then there are places that fool you. Bungalow houses inexplicably hiding extra floors, twisted knots of corridors and rooms obscuring a bedroom or study; forgettable spaces that cloister impressive amounts of space within. They were the liminal becoming reality, or had always been some version of reality, but were undetermined until seen before you.

Jason remembered his grandparents house in Galveston before it was sold off in his teenage years, subsequently now ruined from the next hurricane that had slammed against the Texas coast. There were twin Magnolia trees flanked by old oaks that boxed in the front yard and obscured its Georgian style porch pillars, the house close enough to catch the brine filled air of the ocean but far away enough to drown out the call of the waves. It was painted bone white and seemed quaint and diminutive to him even despite living in nothing but apartments during his then short life.

Back then his memory was patchwork the way a kid’s could be, the brain still developing too rapidly for experience to keep up. He had been to his grandparent’s house before he truly remembered it, had even seen holiday polaroids of him smiling gleefully, no doubt pausing between loud gallops across its wooden floors. But for a span of a few years the house was a shapeshifter, a cozy but unknown place that hid much from the boy that was Jason. He’d discover a new room here during the summer, or a closet there later at Thanksgiving. It took him a year to figure out there was a split third story, his older cousin using the furnished attic room as a reprieve from the holidays and the younger kids, himself included. It never occurred to him where she could be when she disappeared, only that she was doing ‘teenager stuff.’

Every time he visited he found more space, and what was once a small house took on a near mystical nature as a mansion oddity. There was more space than what was suggested from its frame, and each subsequent visit held the mystery of the unexplored, the unknown. Ever since then Jason held particular interest in the moments where space surprised him, revealed more than what was expected. And if there was any place he should have expected that sensation and awareness, the George Bush Center was one of them. But despite this, when he first stepped from the elevator to the Black Floors he was reminded of that sensation, of the Galveston home, and of all the in-between spaces nestled away from the world.

The corridors meeting the elevators were forgettable, painted a two tone cream white and navy blue like so many other sterile government buildings. Stock landscape art and vaguely patriotic paintings broke up the monotony, but the true entrance of the Black Floors was markedly different. Glass panel doors opened into a lobby facing a reception desk boxed in with reinforced glass. Jason handed over his ID to an attendant through a metal deposit tray he could only recall from two places--Intelligence skiffs and corner stores in the hood.

“Looks like we have some expedited paperwork for your clearance, Mr. Jimenez,” the clerk said, thumbing through a manila folder with intelligence labeling stamped all over it. She pulled a few sheets of paper and slid them back through the bin for his signing. She waited until a colleague could man the chair and came out to take his picture for his access badge. He was no stranger to the process but expected to be waiting at least a day to process access. They had him ready to enter in a mere hour.

The skiff itself was massive, modular metal shelves lining a slightly depressed ground floor. Several computer terminals flanked the shelves and half way through the floor was a hallway that led into an identical conjoined room. It took several more minutes of processing his login credentials before the clerk asked for any specific requests.

“Case files for Donnelley, Joseph,” Jason said. “Anything you have.”

The clerk returned half an hour later with several bound folders she plopped on his desk nestled deep within the shelves.

“Use the same labeling for digital queries,” she said dully. “Any time you walk in or out, even to tinkle, you log it for the clerks. Otherwise, you can camp here all night if you want.”

Now alone, the question became where to start. He supposed he could from the first files in Donnelley’s folder, but who knew how far that went back and what was pertinent. If anything, Donnelley was prolific in his operations and the stack before him only confirmed it. Jason fumbled in his pocket for an adderall pill and felt it stick in his throat as he tried swallowing it with nothing to drink. It didn’t matter. He went to work.

* * *

More and more Jason was in the company of ghosts. He followed them through featureless paths on paper, faceless reports shrouded in the shadows of redacted details. At his cluttered desk in the archive skiff he trailed Donnelley through the files, and when his face emerged in his mind’s eye Jason paused and committed it to memory. The wounded stare, the past like chasms lining the valleys and plains of his face. These things would fade in time. They would leave Jason alone in the abstract of what was, what had occurred. His memories would eventually be filled with blurry specters, caricatures restaging imperfect moments. Even now he couldn’t recall every face on TF-11; only those burned into his memory from the night that everything changed, from what he now understood was a ritual. The why and what was still very much a mystery.

In all of this he was at least spared the visage of UMBRA’s death. Of their stilled expressions, bullet marred bodies, their faces echoing the final moments. That he wouldn’t allow to break the surface. For Donnelley, Jason relied on that same imagination to fill in the gaps the reports couldn’t provide. There had to be an answer somewhere, some sort of beginning whose roots were deep in the soil of the past.

The team lead’s work had been messy from the start and disproportionately leaned toward HVT hits; coordinated search and destroy missions, asset termination, raids. Each black box littered report fell like matching pieces into what Jason knew of the man. After days of searching something had caught his attention; Operation ABLE HARVEST. It was the first mission on paper for Donnelley after the Chechnya fiasco, and of that Jason knew next to nothing.

Donnelley had survived it, this Operation IRONWALL, though it seemed he had returned in a peculiar state. At least one worth noting in the reports. Seeking post-op medicals had been a dead end, and whatever state Donnelley had been in would remain a mystery. The events of the operation, what was accessible anyway, seemed to be a pivot point, a turn into ABLE HARVEST. First, Donnelley’s bizarre recovery, and second, the GRU-SV8 compromise in Libya. First Chechnya, then a long history of Russian interference there after. Rot from within, allowed to fester for years.

Jason had laid awake at night, hotel lights casting him in a nauseating yellow glow, and he fought the developing bias he was forming against his dead team lead. Donnelley was the common denominator ever since Chechnya. That was the only common link he was finding. Was Donnelley casting pitfalls before the path? Had he led UMBRA, hand in hand, to their demise? And why hadn’t he taken out Jason in Iraq or had him on the Alaska job? On paper it seemed clear, but every moment he had spent with the man said otherwise, implored him to ignore the simple logic before him: Donnelley was compromised.

It wasn’t until the early hours of his second day that UMBRA emerged in the case files, and by then a mental fatigue had washed over the analyst. Jason was surprised he had waited so long to finally read it over, but he knew he couldn’t admit he was hiding from it. Especially after studying Donnelley’s history, he couldn’t come to terms that he may have led UMBRA into this. Above all, he didn’t want to know the details, even knowing it was likely absent the report. It would be clinical, harsh. Uncaring. But how did it go down? Did Donnelley pull the trigger? Had they fought back? No, Jason thought. He had died too, like the rest of them. Whether it was the brain addled by the early hours or his fierce denial, Jason rejected the notion it was Donnelley’s fault. But that led to an impasse.

So he left again to his hotel with its forgettable liminal space. Its empty halls and hollow rooms, its vacancy of the mind. Jason roamed until he was too tired to continue, his mind an exhausted void.Like the halls, his room, it remained empty and longed to be occupied. He was afraid UMBRA was already beginning to fade, and he fell asleep clinging to the memory of their faces.


* * *

“You’re looking at this all from the wrong point of view.”

At the beginning of the third day Jason’s solitude in the archives was breached. A man of waning middle age, leathered from decades of sun, shuffled to Jason’s table and matter-of-factly pressed his palms on the surface, looming in towards the analyst. Jason didn’t look up.

“And you know what I’m looking at?” Jason mouthed, trying to avoid meeting the stranger’s gaze.

“By what you’re pulling, yeah,” the man said. He dropped a bulging manila folder on the table and slid it towards Jason who picked it up and flipped through the papers without a greeting. He was too annoyed for pleasantries now. Foster’s name revealed itself in each paper he briefly scanned. Foster. Umbra’s case handler. The boss of the boss.

“You’re an old chair force guy, right?” The man asked as Jason flipped through the folder’s contents.

Jason finally glared up at the man, who seemed either oblivious or absolutely apathetic at the jab.

“Scope limit,” the man went on. “Radar can only see to a certain distance. It could see the target, it just doesn’t have the range. I guess they don’t teach that to every flyboy, huh?”

Jason glanced down both sides of their row, as if the reason for this non-sequitur would reveal itself. “...um—”

“The name’s Sam. I’m here to pull your head out of the sand. You’re wasting time chasing Donnelley’s tail.”

“Hey who the fuck are you to tell me anything,” Jason barked. “This cryptic bullshit is wasting my time.”

“Who do you think led Donnelley along, smart guy?” Sam replied. “Who was putting together missions, connecting the dots and feeding the working groups actionable intel? Foster. He ain’t never going to show up in after actions, why would he? He’s a god damn ghost if you’re looking at it from Donnelley’s angle. He worked the process to hide himself. Why haven’t you heard from him, huh? Wouldn’t he contact the remaining members of UMBRA?”

“Member. It’s just me.”

Sam chuckled. “Wrong, boyo. Dave made it out.”

“McCready?”

Sam leaned back to stand upright and nodded in affirmation. “Another familiar face too. Ghost from THUNDER. One other team member you haven’t met on account of you being bogged down by DIA. The point is, pretty strange he ain’t even talk to you. Haven’t thought about that at all?”

“Why would I,” he said. “The Program doesn’t have a set pattern. Sure, Donnelley called but he’s dead, so I assume whoever was available showed up.”

Sam chuckled again, one amused huff swaying his chest. “Foster can’t be found. Went dark after UMBRA was terminated. Can’t say more here, and I won’t.”

Jason paused, studied the open folder in his hands without actually committing to reading the words. Intuition said there was a link between Donnelley and SV8, but it also insisted he was innocent of the betrayals therein. Jason was still missing a vital piece of the puzzle.

“10:30. Run a cold shower, turn on the TV. Keep the door cracked,” Sam said. He leaned back over the table and flipped the contents of the folder to the back where a sticky note lay pressed against the last page. It simply read <i>Artemis</i>. Sam tapped it twice with his index finger then began walking away from Jason. “10:30, boyo.”

* * *

Jason had done what was asked, the shower running with the door open to help fill the room with noise. A tacky Discovery channel reality show was blaring from the TV, and Jason sat at the desk around the corner from the entrance walkway to catch whoever might show up off guard. That is if he could have heard anyone enter. He stared at the entryway for a good forty five minutes, pistol in hand, and at exactly 10:30 at night Sam emerged from the hallway and shut the door, a brand new gym bag sagging in his hand and outlining an object within.

“Any luck on Artemis?” Sam asked, Jason barely able to hear him. He shook his head, and Sam went on, “Figured as much. Several of the redacted groups you’ve seen may be them. Group’s sealed up tighter than a preacher’s wife. This,” he said while handing over the bag, “is for you. To help put things in perspective.”

It took more than a few minutes to sift through what was a collection of intel documents and several micro SD cards he didn’t spend the time to watch, but there were photographs that belied the stashes intent. IMINT photos of Foster, some sort of live drop. A classification at the top of Foster’s dossier raised an eyebrow as well.

“MAJIC?” Jason thought aloud. “What classification is this?”

“Top of the pyramid,” Sam said. “This was gifted to Donnelley, you could say. This is what he was working on. What you have to work on. Foster’s dirty, got your team killed. Sold them out to Ivan.”

Jason leaned back, shook his head while studying the deflated gym bag on his lap. “What do I do now?” he asked.

“Read it,” Sam said. “Connect the dots. Might open a door, steer you somewhere.”

“So why give me this? What are you in all of it?” Jason asked.

“Invested benefactor, one of the only few you may have left. Most importantly trusted by Donnelley. Everything else is irrelevant.” Sam turned the corner and Jason followed. At the door he turned to face Jason, a grim thoughtfulness stopping the analyst from pressing any issue further. “I wish I could help you more, Jimenez. I truly wish I could. I can’t say anything gets easier.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Jason in the wash of overbearing sound and silence.

* * *

Chase another Sunrise. Magic Valley Regional Airport, Twinfalls, Idaho. 08NOV2019

The message had come from an unknown number in early hours when Jason’s thoughts expanded into abstracts, exhaustion stretching his mind’s eye into flashing images and fleeting sensations filling the hotel’s emptiness. The date gave him a small window, but with carte blanche to extend his research indefinitely he had the time. He considered the risks the next morning and it only took two hours for him to book a flight and hotel. His only deviation was not flying into Twin Falls but instead Boise. He’d give himself the time for the boring drive down and to scout out the airport, which overall seemed safer. If he’d die on the trip it would be the most idiotic decision he would ever make. A fine line between impulsivity and intuition, but that phrase; Chase another sunrise. He knew he had no choice but to show up.

Besides, maybe it would give him some free time to find some trouble in Boise. Before the notion would be tantalizing, the promise of an altered state and with any luck a nice fuck, but the edge was dulled. If he didn’t feel like complete ass before his drive he’d try regardless, otherwise it would be another night occupying an empty room, reading through the chaff of self-published paranormal investigation books trying to glean any semblance of understanding. It reminded him of that scene in the movie M.I.B. when Tommy Lee Jones elaborated on finding tips in whacky tabloids, the type that circulated JFK theories twice a year and at this point were running out of celebrities and global elites to expose as the alien cabal they were. Jason’s variety was dredged out of amazon and reddit, the content no less “Coast to Coast A.M.” but now more widely consumable and entertained.

On the flight over he began reading on the prevailing figureheads to frequent the both, the C.I.A. By now his leisure reading had made him aware of the agency’s remote viewing programs, the spoon bending parties with Berkley academics and convoluted ties to cartel death cults. This next foray into the fringe was MK Ultra. By the time he was landing in Boise he wished he had bought more books on the subject, and ordered his food delivered while he scanned the internet for any worthwhile epubs. Jason even forgot he had idly sent out a call looking for a drug connect in Boise and almost missed a message back. Almost.

>Magic Valley Regional Airport, Twin Falls, Idaho
>13NOV2019
>1200…///

He was feeling a bit sluggish at the trip’s beginning but after some greasy food and an interesting audiobook on MK Ultra Jason felt he had shrugged off the sleepless jaunt of the night before. He arrived at the airport having missed two of the five inbound flights of the day, but wasn’t tip-top enough to give a care. He spent the rest of afternoon parked in his car between arrivals, feigning bathroom trips inside and the occasional snack machine purchase. Whoever was waiting knew him, or at least enough to spot him out when they arrived. He kept himself armed just in case, and was thankful the airport was small enough to not get hassled with a concealed carry.

A man walked across Jason’s view with a face that prodded Jason’s memory, but somehow off. It wasn’t until the man stopped and gave Jason a double-take full of the same fuzzy recognition as his own. It was the blonde hair, the long beard distracting from the scar that had been so prominent and openly displayed just months ago. A ghost of a small smile crossed Donnelley’s lips, like the ones that spread across them by reflex when you saw an old friend. Or at least one of the only friends you had left.

Donnelley stopped where he was, smothering his smile to match the boring ballcap and shades he was wearing. He crossed the street only after looking around for anyone who was looking around for him, making it out like he was some husband keeping an eye out for his wife returning from a trip. He made a show of crumpling a piece of paper in his fist, dropping it in the ashtray of a garbage can next to him and walking away into the crowds.

Jason was sitting in an uncomfortable rounded plastic seat feigning interest in his cell phone when Donnelley bled into his vision. At first he dismissed the man as any other background actor, but something caught his attention and he followed his motions until the paper was dropped. That was it. Jason gave a show of checking the time, scanned the periphery, and made for the note after downing a bottle of water and dropping it in the bin. In his hands was his wallet, which he dropped and subsequently retrieved with the note crumbled within its fold. It wasn’t until he was back in his car that he uncrumpled the paper and read its contents.

124 motel 6, look for blue thumbtack, means safe, a room Donnelley had paid for in cash. He hoped Jason would believe it was him, news of his fate—his real fate—probably never made it out of the small circles he swam in, the shallow waters that got more and more suffocating in the darkness as each day passed. He waited inside the room, not knowing whether it would be Jason or FBI Special Agent Mark Garcia and a US Marshal SOG team coming through the door. Or one of the Program’s killers.

It smelled of stale tobacco and alcohol, and not all of it was him. He’d tried to stay as sober as he could, but a man never really can get away from his devils. When he saw the shadow pass by the window, his hand tightened around the flashbang grenade and his muscles readied himself to sprint towards the bathroom window.

There wasn’t any clever, crafty way into the room. No way to convince the cleaning crew to bring a change of sheets, nor key cards to spoof or scam out of the front desk. The place was too old and it wore its age in its sun bleached pine shingles slumping over its walls. Jason gathered himself for a few moments, took a few deep breathes as he curled his fingers open an closed. When the shaking stopped he double-checked his pistol and began to stroll past the doors scanning each one.

A blue thumb tack protruded from a peeling door frame, light escaping the corners of the drapes in the window, and there was no sound within. Jason peered around him,pulled out his pistol, and slowly worked the door handle. The end of his gun poked through the door and opened it slowly, Jason scanning from left to right as he side stepped inside. And there he was, Donnelley; an aura of grisled resolve permeating the room in the form of whiskey and smoke. Jason was too astonished at first to train his weapon on the stranger before him, but then recognition froze him in place. His face betrayed his thoughts.

“Donnelley?”

Donnelley shoved the flashbang’s pin back in, heaving in a breath as he set the unarmed grenade beside him and slumped in the chair at his back. He looked at Jason, giving him a once over. He was skinnier than he remembered, leaner, but not quite as thin as Queen had been getting. Like the Program was sucking his very life force away from him. Donnelley just stared at Jason for a few long moments, wondering if that gun in his hand was meant for him. If Oakes and Mannen didn’t believe him, or someone in the Program had fed Jason something to make Jason believe that he was the true mole, or that he was just too close to getting Foster and that was something they couldn’t have him doing.

When the shot never came, he just nodded at Jason, “Yeah.” He said, none of the bravado or brashness he was usually known for, “Yeah, it’s me.”

The door shut with a manic quickness and Jason fingered the blinds, disbelief exuding from every angle. He looked back at Donnelley, pistol hanging limply in his hand threatening only the carpet below.

“What the fuck,” Jason muttered, studying his team lead. Former team lead? It was apparent he was trying to work it all out before asking questions and the moment extended beyond comfort.

“Foster,” he mouthed. It escaped his mouth the way a secret sprang from a kid’s mouth against his will, sudden and without control. What else could he say? What other loose end hadn’t converged in this hotel room; Foster.

“Foster is a fuckin’ traitor, is what he is.” Donnelley said, “He’s been doin’ everythin’ he can to make sure UMBRA doesn’t connect the dots in West Virginia. He’s been compromised for a long time.”

“I was startin’ to think…” Donnelley watched Jason, carefully at first, because he just didn’t know who to trust anymore. Jason was the only other one who’d been cleared Delta Green with him in Mosul and the prison. He was the only other one with tangible leads on ISIS and close to Abna al’Harb and Anzor.

And he’d been gone while all of this happened to UMBRA. Then he softened a bit, but he still felt the weight of his handgun in his waistband, “I was startin’ to think they’d got to you, like they got to all of us.”

The hours flashed like a zeotrope in Jason’s thoughts, the files he had poured over again and again. All for one declaration spat bitterly from a dead man. Donnelley had held on to this for a while. It was the only way he could have ended up here. How long had he been suspicious and how much of that time was with UMBRA? That revelation alone had a winding trail of questions. Jason was beginning to feel light headed.

“No, but…,” Jason scanned the floor, eyes darting around. “Maybe they suspected. Maybe that was the heat I was getting out of nowhere.” He paced a few steps towards the door, turned, and seeing no other place to go besides the window side of the bed and closer to Donnelley, stood still. “Files said you were killed in Alaska. How the fuck did you get out?”

Donnelley swallowed, and shook his head. He’d known for a long time since Afghanistan and the mission with the CIA Spook—the Program spook—that a darkness older than man hid at the edges of the tiny fires they all huddled around on this insignificant planet. How could Jason understand, or believe him. He could hardly believe himself.

“We didn’t.” He said, looking away from Jason, “One second, I was shootin’ the team that was supposed to be watchin’ our backs. I took one to the plate, another in my neck.”

He looked at Jason, his eyes almost like a mad believer, fevered and hounded by a revelation that all those stories were real after all. “I remember it. I remember dyin’. And then I remember wakin’ up.”

“I was in someone else’s clothes, in someone else’s car, and…” He swallowed again, his breath shaking, “The mission in Alaska was FUBAR from the start. We found a man named Ipiktok Irniq. He said he was from the future. I thought he was talkin’ shit at first. He said he dreamed all of this before it happened, and we needed to follow whatever happened in his dream, and I needed to shoot the guy next to me. I thought he was batshit.”

“Until I died.” He said, “And then I woke up.”

It couldn’t have been a coincidence. The sudden betrayal in the field, madness skirting the edge of what shouldn’t be seen. The planet turned and in its revolution another insignificant tremor on the fault line of the real, the horrible. There was a reason such synchronicities were repeating. Jason could feel it now tethering them both. In this moment they were meant to be here, this solitary rock upon that same fault line. He was so confused but so sure of his place now.

“You telling me you died? I mean,” Jason paused. “Induced coma, I-C-U. You could have been patched up, man. Who knows how—” No, it didn’t make sense. The timeline was off. No way Donnelley could have recovered given the date of his death. “What are you telling me? There’s some 12 Monkeys shit and he brought you back to life?”

It sounded insane, certifiably was insane, but Jason couldn’t shake that deep recognition that maybe some truth was in it. They had already seen things that couldn’t be explained, things that blew down the facade of normalcy constructed all around them. Why shouldn’t it be true?

“I know what happened, Jason!” Donnelley stood with a quickness as if he was a zealot offended at the mention of heresies. He knew what happened to him, and to Laine, and the rest of them. “They handed me the clothes I was wearing when I was killed and it was my blood. I… I can’t understand how, or why, but I know what happened.”

“I get it. Sometimes, when I try to sleep, I’m fucking terrified. I’m terrified, man. That when I close my eyes they won’t ever open again,” Donnelley stroked at his beard and ran his hands through his lengthening hair, down to his shoulders almost, “Fuckin’ so scared that this is all a dream, and I’m really just dead. That this is just some leftover sensory hallucinations from the last synapses firing off before it all just…”

And Donnelley made a gesture with his hands, pantomiming all the somethings and everythings around them just blowing away with a swipe of time and death’s hands, like swiping dirt off of your desk. “But then I wake up.” He frowned, and thought of Poker dying, thought of his daughter sobbing through the phone and telling him to just be there with her, stop chasing danger right to her doorstep, “And I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

“If this is all fake, maybe I should just fuckin’ play along,” Donnelley huffed a ghost of a chuckle through a fleeting smile, “Right?”

It’s what Jason would do. He’d convince himself the same thing, to live in the dream until it frayed and split. It reminded him of the Bardo Thodol, how after death the confused soul would relive and replay its life still bound by its attachments. But Donnelley wasn’t dead because Jason wasn’t. It was too pretentious to say aloud but had its grounding effect on the analyst.

“And everyone else? Are they…”

“Dead?” Donnelley finished, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. A small twitch of his head, “I don’t know. But, Foster has a list. The Russians have a list.”

Donnelley folded his arms, lowered his head, grounding himself in the moment like he was in danger of floating off like he thought he would sometimes, “They’ve been goin’ down that list. Poker’s dead. They tried to kill Ghost, but… well, you can guess how that went.” He snorted, starting to get back that humor, “Last I heard, Dave and Ava are still out there somewhere, layin’ low, movin’ careful. I sent out an activation message through the channels, see who turns up.”

Donnelley shrugged, “So far, it’s only you and Ghost.”

“And Laine?”

Jason wished he could have taken back the question but had no power other than to ask it. His gut sank but he didn’t understand why, only that he wished Donnelley would have just mentioned her name among the living.

“Last time I saw her was the end of last month.” Donnelley said, a hope in his eyes and voice when he spoke again, “She’s alive.”

“Fuck man,” Jason spat, and sank on the bed studying the floor. “Program is acting like you’re KIA. Whatever friend you have seems to want to keep it that way. And I don’t know how deep this goes, I feel like they’ve put me in a closet.”

The relief was bittersweet. He wasn’t alone, that was immeasurably soothing, but now he didn’t feel safe. He didn’t even know how deep in the web he was, especially now being the only overtly living member of UMBRA. So naturally the next topic of their reunion, or the one his mind was leap frogging to, was West Virginia.

“What the hell did we stumble into in West Virginia? What would terminate two fucking teams, I mean they had to play their cards to do it. What’s worth that?” It sounded cold but he couldn’t help it; his curiosity reigned over the relief, the sorrow, every other emotion emulsified into his current demeanor.

“I think they found somethin’ there. Somethin’ that’s been there since before they dug into those mountains.” Donnelley shook his head, staring over Jason’s shoulder, eyes looking at something in the fog of memory, “Whatever it is, maybe it wanted to be found. And whoever found it, they think it’s worth killin’ over.”

He looked back to Jason, the only other man besides Queen who had gone off the path with him. Who had dared ask the questions no one else thought to, or no one else would, “Somethin’s in Blackriver, man. Just like somethin’ was in Mosul. You were there, we saw what happened in that place.” Donnelley frowned, “This is bigger than just some fuckin’ backwoods old minin’ family in a county no one’s ever heard about.”

“Okay…” Jason said to himself. He was practically hanging of the side of the bed, and shifted back to his feet as he faced Donnelley. “This whole time thinking I’ve missed it all. Some sort of door that opened but only for a moment and it closed when my back was turned. I don’t want to be on the wrong side of that door ever again, even if that means I don’t get to wake up. So whatever the fuck you’re doing now I’m part of it, and I don’t think it could be any other way, Donnelley.”

Donnelley had that same resolve in his eyes that was there when they were fighting for their lives in the prison in Mosul. They went in together. They came out together. He nodded slowly, “Good.”

Schaft’s Parade of the Damned

::CLEARANCE REQUIRED- DELTA GREEN::
::MAY ONLY BE VIEWED BY CLEARED PERSONNEL::
((TS/SCI/DG/X1//NOFORN))

(U//FOUO)

Dossier: Donnelley, Joseph

Name: Joseph Donnelley, Joseph Blaine, Jonas Blaine

First-Name/Last-Name Alias (CIA): Joseph(/Jonas) Blaine

Past Aliases: Sr Special Agent John Davidson, FBI CCRSB
Vasily Isaev

Age/DOB: 44/12MAR1976

Gender: Male

Height/Weight: 6’/193

Appearance:

Hider

Not what most think of when they hear the word 'international spy for the CIA.' Perhaps that's the point all along. Not dashing, not suave, but dark in his way, he stands at an even 6', 180lbs of lean muscle, and always moves deliberately until it's time for action. Two bullet wounds can be seen, paler than the rest of his skin, just under his ribs on his left side. He walks with the slightest limp and grimace whenever signs of rain start to show. His voice has traces of Texan in the words when he isn't trying to mask it and he always speaks in a measured tone. This coupled with his natural deliberate demeanor as well as resting sad-smile'd, kind-eye'd face gives the impression of a stern man, stern but fair.

His blue eyes are nothing if not a little disarming and only adds to the calm air about him. He has had years and years of practice to keep a straight face even when his thoughts are screaming and heart is racing, after all, in the games of life and death that are so common in his line of work, it's at least good if you can fake it until you make it. A team leader should be the last one to tuck tail and panic. A gaunt face with a burn scar that descends down his neck from an accident where his vehicle had been caught on fire somewhere in Chechnya lends a sort of sad air to the man that the endless war against the inevitable has created. Under the sad smile, the bonds he creates, everything, he knows one day this life will come to a nasty end for him. It doesn't mean he'll make it easy for the bastards. Like a street dog bearing its teeth at falling bombs.

Profession: CIA Directorate of Operations, Paramilitary Operations Officer, SAC/SOG Ground Branch

The Program(Officially, Security Studies Group), Office of Operations, Team Lead - Working Group UMBRA

Education: A sum of 20 years in the military; the US Army Rangers, SFAS, then SFQC to earn a place in the Green Berets. 8 years in the CIA.

Background: Joseph Donnelley joined the Army when he was eighteen, a young whippersnapper and son of a motorcycle mechanic, out of Texas with a need to prove to himself that he could be more than what he was. He always figured that the Army would be his only way out of the shithole town he'd lived in in rural West Texas. Being one of only a very small group of kids that liked skateboarding and angry music instead of standing around and listening to country in a parking lot had seen him getting into a fair few scraps in his time, only serving to toughen him up even moreso when his father wasn't around to do it himself. It was because of his father's alcoholism and uncontrolled PTSD from his tours in Vietnam that had seen Joseph embarking on his early life of drugs, crime, and rotten debauchery rather than stay home. Eventually this all culminated into him joining a Hardcore Crew, what amounted to the Hardcore Punk scene's motorcycle clubs and street gangs. It would take him the loss of his best friend to a drive-by shooting in Dallas and his girlfriend overdosing on heroin that had him finally realizing his plans of joining the military.

His initial four-year contract being up, in which he attended the US Army Airborne School, he returned to his small Texas town to become a Sheriff's deputy with a hard head and an even harder ass, apparently. It was around this time that he became known endearingly as Robocop among the town kids, with which he always tried to maintain a rapport with. He was famous in his little Texas town for being Sherriff Gracy's golden boy, trying to clean up the county on his lonesome. Around this time he'd met a girl named Holly French, and as they say, the rest is history. Though, his reputation as a risk-taking, motivated individual was obviously not what a small town Sheriff's department needed, and so after only two years as a Deputy he re-enlisted at the behest of Sheriff Gracy and a couple of his friends, promising to Holly that he would stay safe.

This time around, Joseph had an easier go of things, but Joseph had a reputation for proving to himself that he could be more than he was. He attended RIP, the Ranger Indoctrination Program, and passed with colors. He spent these four years as a US Army Ranger and was deployed to Afghanistan following the War on Terror, in which he knew that the promise made to Holly was now out of his hands and right into God's own. He took part in fifty raids over the course of two combat rotations, assisting Green Beret ODAs, SEAL teams and Delta Force. He reenlisted directly after his four years were up and requested a slot in SFAS, in which he again struggled through the grueling two-year selection process and spent the following 4 years in Washington, his new home, with the 5th Special Forces Group deployed to Afghanistan.

On one fateful day, CIA spook William Long would arrive at his isolated FOB nestled in the Afghan mountains. The briefing told him that his ODA and the indigenous fighters they'd gathered around themselves would be helping William carry out his mission of making contact with one Bazir al-Khalwadi, a tribal leader among the reclusive Wadi clan. The specifics of this mission were not told to Special Forces Intelligence Sergeant Joseph Donnely, but like any good soldier, he did what needed doing. The section of Joseph Donnely's dossier dealing with this operation is highly classified, but Donnely knew they had illegally crossed the Pakistani border by the time they had found their target. Nestled in the tribal areas of northern Pakistan, they found the village and the asset. From his binoculars, he saw them dancing around him, heard the faint sounds of their singing and chanting and screaming, the cacophony somehow making his head hurt even from such a distance. What was worse was he felt like he was starting to understand it more the longer they watched through their binoculars.

He saw the Pakistani chief tied down to a block of stone so black almost as to be made of void itself. He saw them put the knife to Bazir's throat and saw the man's neck open. He saw them butcher his corpse and paint with his blood. Long read off coordinates and a glint in the sky showed the speck high above them, a predator drone. Two missiles leveled that tiny village and made a crater of the mountainside it was on. They trekked back to the FOB, not speaking of what they saw. He couldn't sleep though, he could've swore he saw that block of stone start to change shape, bending and warping just enough to be noticed before dust and rocks and carnage flew up from the initial impact of that first JDAM. Ask Joseph about his time in Afghanistan and he will harden up, wishing they didn't stop at just two of the big bombs. “If it were up to me, those mountains would be bombed to sand.”

He came back to Washington a changed man. The Army may have made him more serious, more “mature”, but that operation in the Pakistani mountains made him distant and cold. At least, that's the way Holly put it to him. He began to grow increasingly violent with each night where sleep was somewhere far off and away. Holly put it in no uncertain terms that she was leaving after an incident at their daughters' school led to him having to be escorted off the premises by school security. He came under fire from his NCOIC and was told that if he didn't shape up, he would no longer find any place among the ODAs. He said the promise, the words left his mouth, but they were hollow. With Holly gone, he turned to the bottle most nights.

In 2010, his enlistment would be up. He wasn't as bothered now by what he saw in the Pakistani mountains those years ago, chocking it up to the stresses of the long march and witnessing the brutal display before him. Even so, he still has to take his medication some nights, and he still might drink and think and fool himself one more time. Those gibbering chants and screams would haunt his dreams, and on those nights, he refused to sleep. Dreams brought him back there, and back there was a place he never wanted to go. Even so, a quiet and peaceful life was not what he was searching for either. He was approached by CIA recruiters and has been involved with clandestine operations in Eastern Europe, North Africa and Central Asia- with a very specific personal request that he stay away from operations that would take him to Pakistan. In 2017, his home a dingy apartment in Turkey and office-space a warehouse being used as a CIA blacksite for less-than-legal interrogations, he was called back stateside for the first time in seven years, where he was told he would once again be working with Case Officer Steve Foster for the first time since Somalia- his first one of two prior operation under the cases with clearance level “DELTA GREEN.” The prospect did not delight him.

After the events of the West Virginia Case, officially Operation FLUID REACH, he was recommended to a Case Officer position, but turned it down. Recently, Donnelley has once again gotten the call from Delta Green to stand up his old team, Working Group UMBRA. Like any dutiful agent, he answered. How he feels about it might be another story.

Personality: Joseph grew up in the good ol' countryside of West Texas to an alcoholic, 'Nam vet father and a mother too scared to leave but too timid to defend herself. Joseph vowed that he would make something of himself and not end up like his Vietnam-vet father. That thick shell of spite and anger propelled him like a bullet through a life of hard partying and, later on, high-risk careers.

Now though, at the creaky age of 44, he's starting to feel the years in his joints. The mind is still there, albeit tempered by years of experience in the Rangers and the Green Berets, but the mind wanders to old places at times. He's still ready and able to kick doors or interrogate targets, and has never had qualms with bending the rules to get the right guy or achieve the objective. The way he sees it, you can't ask a man to live with the pigs and then expect him to not get muddy. The law smiles on means, he smiles on results. With his time in the CIA to foster an even darker and unfettered side of this rule-bending he so loved to justify, he no longer attaches any pretense of a “just war.” With the things he's seen, he knows there is only one right thing and one wrong thing in this war; it is right to win and it is wrong to lose.

After witnessing the bureaucracy and yellow tape hinder so many operations and kill good men just trying to serve their country in the field, he has grown thoroughly disillusioned with the images of grandeur and hyper-competent shadow killers that dust terrorists and cult leaders as easy as breathing. In his words, “We were wrong to think we could shoulder everything. We thought we were supermen. Delta Green, four agents could replace an entire army. How fucking wrong.”

Despite this, so to speak, he imagines Sisyphus happy. He knows that if it isn't him doing this dirty work to keep humanity living blissfully ignorant to the truth of just how close to doom they are, it would just be somebody else. That just wouldn't do any good, though, he doesn't trust anybody else with this burden.

When nervous situations arise, he may respond by trying at bits of odd humor. It was always a good practice to try to laugh before an operation and he keeps that as a tradition to this day. After a very long time both in the service and the agency, the man behind the shell of spite and anger has been starting to peek through the cracks and gouges. He shakes hands with rebel leaders and crooked generals, he wears smiles in the boardrooms as easily as frowns in the interrogation rooms. The world may need bad men, but the side of him that isn't devoted to the agency wished he made friends more and yearns for the old days of the ODAs and the Ranger Battalions. Wished he was a better father, wished he was a better husband. Wished he would've punched his father and hugged his mother more. Anyhow, he's here now, nothing to do but the mission.

Bonds: Holly and Tilly Grier, formerly Donnelley; Ex-wife and child. Divorced and re-married to some pencil pusher in a cubicle. Only contact is through email following up on child support payments. Estranged from daughter. (Bond 7)

Hank Gracy, Former Sheriff of Donnelley’s hometown and the surrounding county, as well as former colleague when Joseph was a Deputy. Still send emails to each other every now and then and he attended Gracy’s wife’s funeral. The closest thing he had to a good father for years. (Bond 7)

His motorcycle, an Indian Chief Cruiser given to him by his father in an effort to make up for a childhood of abuse. One of the few things he was allowed to keep after his divorce. (Bond 7)

His DG Team. (Bond 7)

His Uncle Ted, one of the only true father figures he’s had in his life, and the man that raised him. (Bond 7)

Motivations: Never letting Tilly, his daughter, down
Diplomacy between him and his ex-wife’s new family
Survival of humanity at all costs
Doing what no one else should have to

Fears: Joseph's only family he knows now are the teams he's placed with. No matter how long it takes, he will bond with them over something, and they will start to like each other at best or have a grudging respect at worst. Either way, his biggest fear is the day he fails them. Walks them into an ambush, causes their death due to his incompetence, watches them being swallowed slowly by the maddening things some cruel universe permits or is helpless in letting exist.

He also fears going mad himself, a bullet kept in a safe place just for that day. He knows it will come for him one day, if the things he fights don't get to him first. He's seen it happen to many in his line of work, but seeing it so many times hasn't dulled the sharp pain from each one.

He knows that his daughter is out there somewhere, his wife with a better man. Both of them part of a family he will never get to see and with smiles he now can only get from them in memories. He has access to the world's most advanced database and every mean on the planet to find them. But seeing them happy, no, letting them see him as he is now. It would kill him just as cruelly as the things he's put down.

He’s also existentially terrified of the day that Delta Green fails. The one defeat snuffing out a line of victories, and that’s all they’ll need. He wishes he could be an atheist, wishes he could pray to a God. But he knows God is real. He’s coming back. And Joseph is going to be waiting for him with a gun.

The last bullet kept for himself.

HITPOINTS: 42
STRENGTH: 15 (Muscular)
DEXTERITY: 10 (Average)
STAMINA: 17 (Tireless)
BUREAUCRACY: 4
INTELLIGENCE: 15 (Perceptive)
WILLPOWER: 14 (Strong-Willed)
SAN: 70 | 56

Skills:
Gifted(80): Awareness 80 | Marksmanship 80 | Spycraft 84
Adept(60-79): SERE 66 | Hand-to-Hand 77 | Interrogation 69 | Military Science - Land 69 | HUMINT 70
Average(30-59): Tactical Driving 43 | Military Science - Sea 40 | Breaking-and-Entering 49 | Subterfuge 53
Novice(10-29): Engine Mechanics 22 | Artillery 13 | SIGINT 26 | Computer Science 25 | Unnatural 14

Languages:(Arranged from Fluent - Rudimentary) Pashto 50, Urdu 40, Turkish 30

Special Training:
Deep Knowledge of Subculture - Jihadism (INT)
Deep Knowledge of Subculture - Gunrunners and Illegal Arms (INT)
Ride - Horse (DEX)
Military Freefall HALO/HAHO (DEX)

Weaknesses: Unscrupulous – Once on the job, his personality makes him almost single-minded in completing the mission, no matter the lengths to which he must go. This has put him at ends with higher-ups multiple times, as well as many a missed meal and sleepless night.

Insomnia – He has night terrors some nights if he goes to bed without taking his medication.

Slight depression/PTSD - His experiences in life have left something of an impression upon him. Because of this, some nights he drinks and thinks until he sleeps. If he sleeps. An acute episode is triggered by reminders of past traumas he has suffered or inflicted.
In an acute episode, the Handler chooses one effect: He either reacts violently to threats only the he perceives, or suffers an acute depressive episode.

Aches & Pains – He lost a small bit of flexibility in his left ankle, as well as right shoulder from breakage. He won't be running six minute miles anytime or lifting logs over his head, but he can still pull a trigger and push a sewing needle under someone's fingernails when kind gestures don't work. (-10 to DEX tests)

Addiction (Alcohol) - Going 24 hours without becoming at least slightly intoxicated incurs a loss of 1d6 WP, every 24 hours without feeding the addiction. At 2 or fewer WP, will do irrational, self destructive things to feed the addiction. Losing 2+ SAN in any single roll triggers an acute episode, an overwhelming need. Feeding it usually imparts a −20% penalty to stats and skills for a few hours due to intoxication or distraction.

ADAPTATIONS:
Violence: ADAPTED
Helplessness:

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: Band t-shirt or shirt of neutral color and zip-up or pullover hoodie, jeans, sneakers. May or may not don his Thrasher cap.
Weapons: He carries a folding knife (1d4+1) and an FN FNH40. (1d10, 10% Lethality)
Tools/Equipment: A wallet with fabricated ID and/or legal identification if his possession of that doesn’t breach OpSec. 500 dollars in the local currency. A leatherman multi-tool. Pen light. Notepad and pen. Ziptie handcuffs, 4.
Misc.: His medication, a pack of cigarettes, 3 lighters, a seemingly neverending flask of bourbon, communications earpiece, bluetooth headset connected to his encrypted team smartphone.

Operational Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing: In urban areas, he dons a black or band t-shirt with jeans and low-profile tactical shoes or simple sneakers. Black Mechanix gloves, balaclava, plate carrier w/ Lvl lV plates w/ “NIGHT TIME IS THE RIGHT TIME” morale patch (5 Armor)

lightweight high-cut ballistic helmet (+1 to existing Armor) or a Thrasher cap depending on where the current outing falls on the sliding scale of stakeout to shitshow. Black pullover hoodie if things get chilly. Wouldn't be complete without a sleek pair of shades.

In non-urban environments, he wears clothing with tiger-stripe camo patterns befitting the environment in accordance with Ground Branch uniform.

Weapons: An AAC Honey Badger with a canted foregrip, Aimpoint micro and a PEQ infrared laser sight, suppressor attached when needed, single-point sling, PDW or assault rifle length barrel depending on expected distance of engagements. (1d10DMG, 10% Lethality)

Serbu Super Shorty 12 gauge shotgun, ‘DYNAMIC ENTRY’ scratched into the barrel, loaded with slugs. (2d10 at 1-10m, 1d10 10m+, 10% Lethality)

An FN FNH40. (1d10DMG, 10% Lethality)

Fixed blade knife (1d6+1)
4 flashbang grenades (STUN, 10m radius)
4 fragmentation grenades(15% Lethality, 10m kill radius).
Tools/Equipment: NVGs, flashlight, pen flares, and chemlights for when night time is the right time. Leatherman multi-tool, ziptie handcuffs, 10.
Misc.: Maps of the area, a compass, markers, pens, first aid equipment, a pack of cigarettes, two-way comm headset/earpro. Laptop or tablet cleared for TS/SCI/DG. MBITR radio with 5590 battery for longer range and power.

::CLEARANCE REQUIRED - DELTA GREEN::
::MAY ONLY BE VIEWED BY CLEARED PERSONNEL::
((TS/SCI/DG/X1//NOFORN))

Schaft’s Parade of the Damned

Name: Dusty Kennedy
CALLSIGN: Mag, short for both Magellan and Cro-Mag. Two different stories.

Age/DOB: 33/12AUG1987

Gender: Male

Ht/Wt: 6’6”/235lbs

Appearance

There isn’t a lot to Dusty. If you took him at face value, you’d be almost dead-on. Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see why he was nicknamed Cro-Mag. With a face like a slab of tough meat, a neck thick as a bull’s, and shoulders broad enough to brush both sides of the doorway, he has an impressive figure and demeanor that is intimidating to some.

Contrasted with Lindsey, they’re polar opposites in almost every way. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, you might be a little taken aback by his voice. Not squeaky, but almost the same tenor as Lindsey, something he used to be a little insecure about. Because of this insecurity, he’s cultivated the image of a massive brute. Which, almost backfires the moment he opens his mouth.

Like most in his line of work, he saves his energy for when the real things need doing. You’ll usually find him endlessly looking at his phone at something no one’s ever really sure about. Some say it’s pictures of the terrorists, cultists, and anybody else he’s killed. It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch. He’s protective about it though.

Profession: US Army, Special Forces, 3rd SFG(A)

Central Intelligence Agency, Global Response Staff

Security Studies Group (the Program), Office of Operations, Working Group UMBRA

Education: GED

Psych Eval: Aggressive personality
Diagnosed w/ Depression
Otherwise polite
Slightly introverted

Background: Born in Oklahoma to a drug addict mother and an absent father.
Expelled from High School at 15, instigated fight with other student. Cited other students’ homophobia as the reason.
Mother dies from drug overdose at 17.
Gets GED, joins Army, 18x contract.
Serves 8 years, Afghanistan.
Transitions to Africa in 2015, operations against Boko Haram.
Program picks his file up after an incident in Somalia.
Developed anxiety around mirrors after a Program operation looking into a black site gone dark.
Taken out of field operations temporarily, given job as close protection to Case Officer Lindsey Childers.

Bonds: His phone (8)
His sister, Lt. Ashley, US Army (8)
Zach, his friend and “Principal” (8)

Motivations: Making sure the Program succeeds
Protecting his friend, Zach the Spook
Anything for a sense of control

Fears: Is the world just doomed?
Seeing Zach die, or worse, being responsible for it
Losing control of his life, ending up like his mother

HIT POINTS: 47
STRENGTH: 17 (Huge)
DEXTERITY: 13 (Nimble)
STAMINA: 17 (Tireless)
BUREAUCRACY: 2
INTELLIGENCE: 10 (Average)
WILLPOWER: 16 (Strong-willed)
SAN/BREAKING POINT: 80/64
POWER: 80

Skills:
Gifted(70-80): Marksmanship 77 | Hand to Hand 76 | Awareness 74
Adept(50-69): Military Science, Sea 67 | SERE 67 | Military Science, Land 60 | Interrogation 56 | Spycraft 56 | Stealth 66 | Demolitions/EOD 53 | Artillery 50
Average(30-49): Tactical Driving 40 | HUMINT 40 | SIGINT 40 | Craft - Engine Mechanics 40 | First Aid 40 | Subterfuge 48
Novice(20-29):

Languages: Arabic 50

Special Training:
Black Markets - Drug Culture (INT)
Military Freefall HALO/HAHO (DEX)
Combat Diver Qualification Course (STAM)

Weaknesses: Short-tempered - Prone to moods of anger or seclusion, highly argumentative, somewhat impulsive

Totemic revulsion - Mirrors

ADAPTATIONS:
Violence: Adapted
Helplessness:

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment: Because you're not going to be walking around in door-kicking gear all day, every day on a clandestine op.
Clothing: Tees in neutral tones, or band tees, mostly hardcore or metal bands. Jeans, bdu pants, or sweatpants. Moccasin shoes, or Converse.
Weapons: Glock 19 9mm, folding knife, fixed blade knife
Tools/Equipment:

Operational Clothing/Equipment: Nothing that would remove all doubt that you are part of the US military/Law Enforcement/Intelligence Community. NATO weaponry is fine, but not required.
Clothing: Tees, jeans or bdu pants, Converse or combat boots
Crye JPC plate carrier
Team Wendy EXFIL helmet or ball cap
Weapons: AK or AR platform rifles
SIG MPX SMG 9mm
Glock or HK pistols
Tools/Equipment: See TOOLS OF THE TRADE-SPECIAL OPERATOR

Schaft’s Parade of the Damned

Name: Lindsey Childers
CIA Alias: Zach

Age/DOB: 32/23FEB1988

Gender: Male

Ht/Wt: 5’9”/146lbs

Appearance

Lindsey, or Zach as he’s mostly known to everyone he meets outside of his small section of cubicles outside of Langley, is a run-of-the-mill Operations Officer. Hell, he’s kind of just a run-of-the-mill human. Not too handsome, not too tall, not too musclebound. A typical nerd you could pass by on the street and think nothing of. That’s precisely why he’s taken part in many intelligence operations in the most sensitive parts of Europe and South America.

He speaks with a medium voice, that sweet-spot between baritone and castrato, a youthful sound emanating somewhat nervously out of his mouth. His eyes are shifty, as if constantly scanning for danger and looking for entries and exits, just in case. He keeps his hand in his pockets, and if they aren’t, they’re usually fidgeting with something.

Profession: Central Intelligence Agency, Directorate of Intelligence, Intelligence Analyst

Security Studies Group (the Program), Office of Operations, Case Officer, Working Group UMBRA

Education: Major in Anthropology, Minor in Political Science, WSU, Washington

Psych Eval: Nervous
Aspergers/High-Functioning Autism
Exceptionally intelligent, recognizes patterns quickly
Slow temper, though not cowardly

Background: Born in Spokane, WA. Straight A Student in High School.
Often bullied in school for his aspergers.
Junior Year, cut a deal with some other kids to do their homework in return for a dollar per assignment, and protection.
Stopped getting bullied, social status heightened. Never had a girlfriend.
Went to WSU, never partied, active in extracurricular clubs devoted to anthropology and foreign relations.
Approached by CIA recruiters.
Once out of school, recruited by CIA and earned a place in Directorate of Intelligence after six months of interviews and vetting.
Met his fiancée, Seth Andersen, in CIA Directorate of Science & Technology.
Picked up by Program after stumbling into raw intelligence dealing with Operation FLUID REACH in West Virginia.
Offered money, pressganged into Program CO for Working Group UMBRA.

Bonds: Parents, Dianne and Robert Childers, still don’t know he’s gay (9)
Fiancée, Seth Andersen (9)
Dusty Kennedy, his friend and part-time bodyguard (9)

Motivations: Being a good analyst
Protecting the public
Protecting his team

Fears: Fear and anxiety of failure
Being responsible for the deaths of civilians
Being responsible for the deaths or failure of his team, and their mission

(73 points to spread out within these attributes)

HIT POINTS: 38
STRENGTH: 11 (Average)
DEXTERITY: 12 (Average)
STAMINA: 15 (Perfect Health)
BUREAUCRACY: 4 (Up to Major Expense)
INTELLIGENCE: 18 (Brilliant)
WILLPOWER: 17 (Indomitable)
SAN/BREAKING POINT: 85 | BrkPnt: 68
POWER: 85

BUR 4 = (Major) $6000-$30,000 - A big-ticket item such as a heavy weapon, a professional-level forgery, or a new vehicle is an option only in a high-priority mission or for very wealthy Agents. This is also the level of expense for exceptional or rare items like a stay in a private villa for a week, or access to an exclusive charity event.

Skills:
Gifted(70-80): SIGINT 76
Adept(50-69): HUMINT 64 | Marksmanship 54 | Hand to Hand 54 | Spycraft 67 | Awareness 50 | Anthropology 65 | History 51
Average(30-49): Subterfuge 40 | Computer Science 40 | Criminology 49 | SERE 40 |
Novice(20-29):

Languages: Russian 50
Spanish 50
Portuguese 40

Special Training:
Demolitions/EOD - Blast Forensics (INT)
Deep Knowledge - Human Trafficking (INT)
Deep Knowledge - Weapons Proliferation/Counterproliferation (INT)

Weaknesses: Aspergers - While he is highly intelligent and very good at noticing patterns in raw intelligence, his placement on the Autism Spectrum makes it hard for him to recognize social cues

ADAPTATIONS:
Violence:
Helplessness:

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment: Because you're not going to be walking around in door-kicking gear all day, every day on a clandestine op.
Clothing: While it may look like he wears the same clothes every day, he actually has a rotating set of the same few outfits. His sensory issues make it hard for him to shop for clothing, so when he finds what works, he buys plenty.

When he absolutely has to, he can stuff himself into anything, but he sure as hell does not like it.
Weapons: As long as it does not break his cover, he carries a Glock 19 9mm and a folding knife
Tools/Equipment:

Operational Clothing/Equipment: Nothing that would remove all doubt that you are part of the US military/Law Enforcement/Intelligence Community. NATO weaponry is fine, but not required.
Clothing: If he can find a way to just throw on a plate carrier over his street clothes, he will. He’s gotten used to Crye combat clothing, but it is never his first choice.
Weapons: In addition to his Glock 19 and folding knife, he also carries a B&T TP9 9mm submachine gun
Tools/Equipment:

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

Last One Out…

Turn off the lights…

>SOMEWHERE IN EASTERN OREGON
>TUE.12.NOV.2019

”If I’m goin’ to do this for you and Mannen, I need you to promise me somethin’.”

“What?”

“In writing.”

“Okay.”

Donnelley sat on the edge of the bed, hair dyed blonde and his dyed beard long, looking through colored contacts as he busied himself with assembling the VP9 after cleaning it. He also had his Steyr handgun sitting next to him. That one was already cleaned and ready, just like always. The serial number was scratched off, took it off a Program man he and Ghost had caught up to in an alleyway back when he was still THUNDER. Still just Tex. It wasn’t the guy’s lucky day, and he learned what it was to make an enemy of the Program. Like Donnelley always knew, like he’d said, you don’t get out of this alive.

”I want you to promise me that, and send me the documents.”

“I will. You’ll have them.” Oakes paused, “But you know you’ll have to do something for me.”

“What is it?”

Donnelley looked at the window just as they lit up bright white from the headlights of a silver 2012 Toyota Corolla. The vehicle he was told his partner- his new guy- was meeting him in. He stood, slipping the Steyr into his holster and tugging the coat he was wearing over it. The VP9, he kept in his book bag. No need to rush for it. Not this time. He pulled one slat of the blinds down and saw the silhouette of a man sitting in the driver seat, framed by the darkening sky.

He took his finger away from the blinds and took a breath. He undid the locks and rested his hand on the doorknob. He looked at the motel room, nothing of his left behind. In a few hours, after he and the other man had left the motel, a cleaner hired by the Program would come to clean up and make sure no one would ever know Joseph Donnelley was ever here. Funny. They’d do the same thing when it was time for him to retire too.

He didn’t smile at that, just opened the door and stepped outside.

”His name’s William Walker. Bill Walker. Did a lot of dirt for the Office of Security, kept away from the real deal Program as much as possible.”

“So, what’s the deal?”

“He still knows too much. He can still be placed on every Op we’ve sent him on, and he’s been refusing calls.”

“How rude.”

“Very. I don’t like being ignored, and neither does the Program.”

“What about the new guy?”

“What about [i]the new guy?”

“What’s his name?”

“Call him-“

“Bob.” Donnelley said, closing the passenger door of the Corolla and buckling in while they backed out of the parking space.

“Jonas.” Bob nodded at him. He was very new. Not as new as some, but still new enough to be nervous. Seasoned enough to hide it, but not from Donnelley. Donnelley could see it hiding in the corners of his eyes, the same look he had his first operation. A regular day at the races, as they called it when you were vetting a new Agent.

“So, they said you’d tell me about the job.” Bob said, merging onto the country road stretching off into nothing.

“My job is making sure the dinner guest’s retirement party goes smoothly,” Donnelley spoke, looking out at the passing hills and tall grass, “Your job can be shutting the fuck up unless I ask you something.”

And so he did. No music, no conversation, just the tires singing across the dusty back road until they finally got to the place.

”What can I expect?”

“A tough as nails old killer ready to make sure he doesn’t go out alone.”

“Par for the course.”

“Exactly. Nothing you haven’t done before. I’ll send you a picture, make sure it’s a Pos ID”

“Consider it done. You’ll know when.”

“Make it quiet.”

“Always.”

Donnelley stepped out of the Corolla and his boots scraped into the dirt. He closed the door, looking at Bob as he too got out of the car. Bob took a step forward and Donnelley called his name, “Bob. The fuck are you doing?”

“The job, right?”

“Your job was to meet me, pick me up, and bring me here. That’s enough lessons for a fuckin’ new guy, now keep the engine runnin’.” Donnelley spat off to the side, hooking his gaze into Bob’s with something sharp. “Won’t be long.”

Bob looked back at Donnelley, not exactly wanting to test his luck, or ruin his chances at being whatever he thought he’d be in the Program. Truth be told, he wouldn’t be much. No one ever really is. But that was between Bill Walker and him, let Bob be blissfully stupid for a little bit longer.

Donnelley walked up the driveway, noting any vehicles. Two, a Harley Sportster that reminded him of Queen, though this one was black and white. The other was a rusty Ford pickup. He knew how to approach this, especially now that they hadn’t taken fire the second they rolled onto the driveway. The lights of the house were on downstairs, but he couldn’t see a thing. The TV was on, playing some kid’s show. That made him quirk a brow and almost stop in his tracks. Was this the right place? Had Bob unsurprisingly fucked up?

Or was this perhaps some elaborate trap Oakes had rigged, and he was just stumbling into it like the idiot he was. He stood in front of the door, still hesitating. He wanted to turn around and ask Bob himself if he’d fucked up with the directions. But he knew Bob really wasn’t that stupid. So he knocked. And then he heard the door open, not even locked in the first place, and standing there was a little girl. Six, maybe. But young, was all he knew.

“Hi.” She smiled at him, and gave a little wave.

“Um…”

“Who is it, Frankie?” William stepped into view from the kitchen, looking just like the picture he’d gotten from Oakes, but smiling. He was an old man with graying hair, receding up and away from his forehead, but otherwise kept trim and neat. His eyes were kind, in that way some men who’d done lots of unkind things had, “Oh, Harry, you’re here!”

Donnelley quirked a brow, but he was too taken aback to even mutter anything. Instead, he just stood there and nodded. William chuckled, “Well, don’t just stand there, come on in.”

Now he was really starting to feel like something was wrong about this. Donnelley looked from the girl and then at William. And he stepped inside. He doubted William would try anything with his granddaughter so close. The granddaughter Oakes said absolutely fucking nothing about. William pointed at the dinner table, “Don’t be shy, Harry, sit down. You want anything to drink?”

“No, I’m…” Donnelley just shook his head and swallowed, feeling his Steyr in one holster and the VP9 in the inner pocket of his coat. “I’m… fine.”

“You sure? Got red wine, goes good with pasta.” William clapped Donnelley on the shoulder, and then watched Frankie skip back into the living room to resume her show. It was then that William squeezed Donnelley’s shoulder, hard. But there was no anger in his eyes, “Not here. Not now. Not in front of her.”

William nodded outside, “Your friend want any dinner?”

“He can wait.” Donnelley felt a bit of relief, as strange as that was to feel. It was just a normal job, as strange as killing a man was normal. But normal wasn’t something Donnelley knew anymore, not for a long time. “We can eat first. I’ll be your Harry.”

“Good.”

“You poison it, or the wine?”

“And have you vomit your bloody stomach lining onto the table my granddaughter’s eating at?” William had a point, and Donnelley just nodded in agreement, “It’s just pasta. It’s just wine. It’s just dinner.”

Except it wasn’t just dinner, but Frankie didn’t need to know that. William turned and walked into the living room and smiled at Frankie, who smiled back at him, and then at Donnelley, “How do you know my grampa?”

“We worked together. Well, not together-together, but doing the same thing as each other. Janitors, cleaning things up that need cleaning.” William looked at Donnelley, “Right, Harry?”

Donnelley looked from William and then to Frankie, forcing that very sincere smile to grow across his lips, “Sure did!” Donnelley said, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Frankie. Your grandpa talks about you a lot.”

Frankie just giggled and looked back at her show, but William had the remote in his hand and shut the TV off. Frankie groaned, looking at her grandpa, “But-“

“It’ll be there when we’re done. Dinner time, our favorite!” William picked Frankie up and tickled her stomach, making her squeal and thrash about in his arms as he chuckled along.

Even that made Donnelley’s smile just a bit too sincere for his liking. William looked at him, but if he thought he could charm his way out of this, using his granddaughter as a ward, he was out of luck. But Donnelley knew that William was just enjoying his last few moments with Frankie. It was the same thing Donnelley would’ve done, had William come calling after him. Donnelley’s smile faltered just a bit as he turned away from them and sat at the table.

Dinner was normal, if not still a bit awkward with the elephant in the room. Donnelley barely touched his plate, every move he made, no matter how small let him feel the pistols he had on him. When the dishes were put up, and Frankie was put to bed, Donnelley and William were left standing in the kitchen. They were quiet, both looking away from each other, but keeping each other in their peripherals out of instinct and habit.

“I’m tired.” William spoke, “Tired of doing work for the Program. Tired of looking people in the eyes and only seeing confusion. It’s always confusion, like they didn’t expect it to happen when it did.”

William shook his head, “At least I do.” William took a breath, “I’m not going to fight you. Not with Frankie here. Don’t even know if I would if she wasn’t. I’m tired.” He said again.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Donnelley said, not interested in waxing poetic with an old man about to be dead.

William just nodded and then waved Donnelley to come walk with him. They went out the back, shutting the door. William took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered one to Donnelley. He took one, placing it between his lips, but leaving it unlit. “Well,” William said, “Ready as I’ll ever be. You got a knife, or a gun?”

“Gun.”

“Suppressed?”

“Very.” Donnelley reached into his coat and pulled the VP9 free.

“Had one like that.” William nodded, “I’ll look you right in the eyes. Wouldn’t have it any other way, I ain’t a lame horse.”

Donnelley said nothing, just raised the pistol and sighted up on William’s T-box. Quick, clean, quiet. That was the job. Do this, and he could walk away knowing his favor would be done. Just this job, and he could go back to the real work. The work he could at least try to justify. Just a few pounds of pressure. A few pounds that wouldn’t come. Donnelley lowered the pistol, just a hair at first, and then lowered his arm back to his side, grimacing.

“You know what they’ll do if you don’t follow through.” William said, his voice almost disappointed.

“Yeah.” Donnelley muttered. “Maybe I’m tired too.”

“They won’t care.” William shook his head, “You’re not doing anyone a favor with this, friend.”

“Maybe.” Donnelley swallowed.

William took one last puff, “Okay-“

And then William’s face splattered onto the dirt in wet chunks after a loud pop like a hose breaking, the rest of him following after, dropping in no way that could be described as romantic or dramatic. Just his legs going out from under him, folding in on himself to lay fetal in the dust. Motionless. Dead. Lots of blood.

“Well, job’s done.” Bob lowered his pistol and then holstered it inside his coat, “Why didn’t you shoot?”

Donnelley just looked at William’s body. His hand was gripping his pistol tight, white knuckles and shaking hand. He holstered his VP9, but his eyes were still on William’s faceless corpse dumping blood into the earth.

“Okay, anyone else in the house?” Bob urged, not getting answers out of Donnelley. He grumbled, “I’ll go check.”

Bob walked over to the sliding glass door, but before he could open it, Donnelley spoke, “Hey, Bob.”

“Yeah?”

Donnelley unholstered his VP9, picking out Bob’s T-box as easily as he’d pick out the side of a house. Bob raised his hands, then Tex smiled that wolf’s grin of his and let the pistol dangle from his forefinger, still in the trigger guard. Just a little joke, “Take it.” Tex said, “It’s just the kid inside.”

“I…” Bob seemed shocked, looking at the pistol and then back to Tex.

“Can’t?” Tex asked, raising a brow. “They said no witnesses. You wanna do this right, right?”

Bob swallowed. Tex knew he wouldn’t take it, so he spun it back in his hand and put it back in the holster, “Clean up the house. Kitchen, dining room.”

After Bob left to do as he was told, Donnelley stepped over William’s corpse as he slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and shouldered past Bob. Bob took his time with the house, making sure every trace of his and Tex’s being there wouldn’t ever be found out. A couple hours, maybe. The Program would send another cleaner here, just to be sure. As for Tex, he slowly went up the stairs, one by one. The door to the master bedroom was open, so was the bathroom at the end of the hallway. That left the only closed door to be Frankie’s, a bunch of flowers and vines painstakingly painted by William long before he was a brainless corpse leaking the memory of doing it into the soil.

He lay a hand on the girl’s door and opened it. Frankie was laying in bed with a stuffed bear held tight in her arms, snoring softly. For a moment, he saw Tilly in that bed. He pushed it aside and stepped into her room. No witnesses, Oakes had told him. No witnesses, Tex had said to Bob. Frankie’s eyes fluttered open and she looked at Tex, rubbing the sleep from her eyes to replace it with no small amount of confusion, “Where’s grampa?”

>…///

Tex and Bob were driving to an abandoned house somewhere further east, towards Idaho. William’s body was in the trunk, and the scene was cleaned enough that it would take an actual crime scene investigation team to piece together what happened, not whatever first responder would come to the house when the time came. Bob didn’t say anything, just gave Tex some wary glances after what had gone down. “It’s done?”

Tex nodded, just once. That was enough for Bob, who muttered a very soft Jesus Christ under his breath, just loud enough to tickle at the edges of Tex’s hearing. You want something done right, you want Tex. He didn’t spend years doing what he did to leave things half-done. Everyone on THUNDER knew. Ghost and Tex for when the real low things needed doing. They pulled up, and the abandoned house and the barn next to it was illuminated by the headlights of the Corolla. Time to get to work, take the last picture of William’s face and then chop him up, leave him for the Program cleaner to spread across as much of the West Coast he could cover in a couple days.

It took about an hour, fast work for practiced hands. When they’d gotten it all bagged and sealed, Tex and Bob sat inside the barn, the lanterns still shining wet across the PPE they’d donned from the trunk of the Corolla. Bob still wouldn’t look at him. Tex couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror sometimes when he woke up and stumbled into the bathroom. But that was the price. Anything for another sunrise. Do what no one else can, or should have to.

“You really did it?” Bob asked. Maybe he didn’t believe Tex. Maybe he didn’t want to.

But, Tex looked back at him with those flat predator eyes of his and just frowned, “You saying I’m a pussy?” Tex asked, “How many years you think I’ve been doin’ this shit?”

“I dunno.” Bob shook his head, mouth hanging open and dumb.

Tex snorted, shaking his head with a smirk as he looked at the bags of William piled up in the corner, “You don’t start toughin’ up, maybe you see me again.” Tex looked back at Bob, “But good job with tonight.”

“Yeah.” Bob almost choked on the words, hands still shaking as he put the cigarette to his lips.

“We should get out of here.” Tex stood up.

“Yeah.” Bob said again, and then stood too.

They shed the PPE and left it with the sealed bags. The cleaner would know what to with them. Their part was done and over. Tex was sitting on the hood of the Corolla, waiting for Bob to get the last of his PPE off and begin his slow zombie walk toward the Toyota. “Hey, Bob.”

“What?”

“How do you feel?” Tex asked.

“Huh?”

“You feel good?” Tex asked further, “Killing someone you don’t even know?”

“I… don’t really know.” Bob admitted.

Tex stood from his seat on the hood, the Toyota creaking as the suspension righted itself, and Tex laid a hand on Bob’s shoulder, his nitrile gloves still on. He squeezed a bit, “Maybe you should feel like shit.”

Bob furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t quite make their way past the Benchmade punch dagger Tex shoved through his windpipe. Bob gagged on his own blood as Tex caught his weight, stumbling back. Quick as a few claps, Tex brought the dagger out and in, out and in, making sure his arteries were wide open. So much blood, on his hands, on Bob’s chin and neck, and chest. Tex slipped the dagger back in the sheath and hauled Bob’s body to the barn, dumping him next to William.

Frankie would give the description of a man who looked different enough from Donnelley that he’d never be caught when the police came and found her in her closet clutching her grandpa’s phone, just like the times before. The case would go cold, and there wouldn’t ever be closure for Frankie, but Donnelley was too tired of it all to think about that. He took off his bloody gloves, found his phone in his pocket, next to his lighter. He dialed the number, and gave the simple phrase when he heard the other end pick up, “Done.”

“New guy?”

“Didn’t make it.”

Oakes paused, then continued, unbothered, “Alright.”

He hung up, lit the cigarette William had given him. He slipped into the Corolla, shutting the door and turning the engine over, driving off into the night to leave the car in a long-term parking lot of an airport and be gone before anyone knew he was even here. He hoped Frankie would be alright.

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>LEXINGTON, VA
>THUR.07.NOV.2019
>0737…///

Whatever sleep Donnelley had got was fitful and restless, and after the call from Tilly, he’d packed all his shit. He’d thrown his combat boots on, laced them right, and carried everything he had all the way back to Frank Gamble’s goddaughter’s house. Clyde Baughman’s daughter’s house, the man who had started what Donnelley was trying to finish for good. At least, that was the idea. In reality, a County Sheriff Deputy had taken him for some transient and picked him up. Donnelley still had the bruises, but then Frank Gamble showed up in the nick of time somehow and slipped the Deputy a brick of cash. They drove back, and Frank had told him that trick was starting lose its effectiveness as the years went on.

And that Donnelley smelled like shit and cigarettes. But nothing more. Donnelley knew Frank had days like this. So they rode in his truck all the way back to the outskirts of Lexington to his goddaughter’s house so Donnelley could shower, and Frank kept him well away from the liquor cabinet. Donnelley told him what happened, and Frank looked at him like he knew everything he was going to say already while they stood on his porch and smoked cigarettes after he was done packing all his things away in the Mazda truck.

After that, there was really nothing left to say. The time for action was now. Nothing else would be worth anything. Nothing else would make this all right. Donnelley’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he hoped it was Tilly before he remembered Tilly’s number was nowhere near his work phone. He answered, “Sam.”

“They read it.”

“They read all of the dossiers?”

“No, but what they have read, they don’t like.” Sam paused, hauling in a breath, and Donnelley knew what was coming, “I’m on my way to Frank’s.”

And Sam hung up. Donnelley slipped his phone in his pocket and sighed. Frank spoke, eyes fixed on the horizon, “Maybe this time, they’ll fuckin’ listen.”

Donnelley nodded, eyes fixed on the same thing as Frank, “Maybe.”

It was another half hour before they saw Sam in the not-so-subtly blacked out SUV. For all the secrecy the Program had, they really liked their blacked out SUVs. Frank snorted at that, but Donnelley just stared at it as it ambled up the road and stopped. The driver door of the SUV opened and Sam stepped out, a storm brewing in his eyes and heavy frown as he marched up to the porch with fists balled.

Not even a hello as Sam cleared the couple steps of the porch and grabbed Donnelley’s collar, forcing him back into the wall, “Donnelley, what the fuck did you do!?”

“I did what was right!” Donnelley growled back through gritted teeth, sending flecks of spit over Sam’s shoulder.

“Right? What you thought was right?” Sam’s voice rose almost to a screech as he throttled Donnelley against the wall, murder in his eyes, “Do you have any idea how far this goes? How many dead and hospitalized?”

“Poker’s dead-“

“Poker doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface, motherfucker!” Sam let Donnelley go, quite uncharacteristic until Donnelley noticed why.

Frank was on his feet and had his .45 jammed into Sam’s ribs. Sam carefully rose his hands, all the while staring daggers at Donnelley. Frank spoke first, “Best be careful. You shake him too much, that tiny pea brain of his might get broken, and then where’d we be, huh?”

“You remember what I said would happen if you ever pointed a gun at me again, Frank.” Sam said, but still not doing anything.

“Well, I’m pointin’ one now.” Frank had a vicious smile on his face, “Why don’t you remind me, you fuckin’ traitor.”

“I had my reasons for coming in from the cold.” Sam left it at that, and Frank stepped away to sit again. The fury of old men may have burned twice as hot, but it damn sure only lasted half as long. Bum knees and arthritis’ll do that. Sam lowered his hands, though Donnelley could tell they were still aching for violence, “It’s a lot more than Poker, Donnelley. Directors want to meet at Sobel’s.”

“When?” Donnelley asked, stepping away from the wall.

“Yesterday. Get the fuck in the truck.” Sam turned away from him and walked back to the SUV, slamming his door shut.

Donnelley looked back at Frank, still had his Colt on his lap, but his finger off the trigger. Frank wasn’t looking at Donnelley, but Donnelley still spoke, “I thought we weren’t friends.”

“We’re not.” Frank said simply, “You’re just the only guy I got for this now.”

Donnelley nodded as he looked away and stepped off the porch, “Alright.”

>FAIRFIELD, ID
>SOBEL’S HOMESTEAD
>FRI.08.NOV.2019
>1445…///

Miles and hours. No sleep. They needed to get to Fairfield quick, the Directors wouldn’t wait. There were scant few words exchanged between Sam and Donnelley, no matter how they’d become friends over the course of Sam taking a stupid fucking alcoholic with a death wish and training him back up to be the soul snatching killer the Program needed him to be. Now, as the miles had drained to just the few last drops and they had stopped at the last gas station out of the town of Fairfield, and Sobel’s place beyond it, Donnelley had to wonder.

“Why did Foster do it?” Donnelley asked, shaking his head as Sam was filling up his tank while Donnelley left his truck doing the same.

“That’s what we have to find out.” Sam said, “Did you forget what this was about? You’re the one who called me, Donnelley-“

“No.” Donnelley shook his head again, looking at Sam, “Why me? He could’ve gone to anybody else in the Company, sheepdipped some fuckin’ JSOC asshole or somethin’.”

Donnelley frowned, “Why me, and why then? When I was…”

“When you were what? About to take the easy way? When you’d lost everything and would grasp onto the first thing that would have you?” Sam said, glancing sidelong at Donnelley, “When you wouldn’t think too hard about the why? When you were nothing and easy to make into whatever he wanted?”

“He could’ve killed me in Chechnya.”

“I heard about Chechnya. You were the only one who got out. Always wondered how, I figured something was up.” Sam said, “I trained you best I could, but I knew either you were just unkillable or… someone else was responsible.”

“He could have done it then.” Donnelley shook his head, “Why didn’t he do it?”

“I don’t fucking know, but we can make sure he really fucking regrets not.” Sam’s voice rose, “So, stop moping around and get your fucking head in the game, asshole. This isn’t just about you.”

They were pulling away from Fairfield and out into the countryside where Sobel’s house lay. They drove up the long driveway and into Sobel’s gravel lot. Donnelley got out and retrieved his pack from the back of Sam’s SUV, walking to the porch where a tabby cat sat and watched him. He wasn’t a stranger to cats, but this one. It was like the eyes knew something, something more than a cat should. Something about Donnelley, and anyone it stared at. Sobel’s door opened and there stood the man himself, just staring at Donnelley like the cat was. Blank, as if he was expecting something. Blank, as if you were just meat, and blood, and bone.

“Sobel.” Donnelley nodded.

“Joseph.” Sobel nodded back, his face suddenly full of emotion like he was greeting a friend he hadn’t seen for years, “I’m glad you came. It’s been a long time. Come in, the Directors are on the way, but they’re busy as always. Oakes really wants to meet you.”

“Flattered.” Donnelley mumbled as he followed Sobel inside, but had to stop. Something was off. It was like the air didn’t quite sit right, the angles somewhat askew, the geometry just wrong enough to notice. He wondered who and why this house was built, and when. He shrugged it off quick enough and followed Sobel to a guest room that he still felt shouldn’t even be where it was, and dropped his bags in a corner.

“I have dinner on the stove. Venison, fresh. You’ll like it, like last time we were together.” Last time they were together, they were waterboarding ISIS in Mosul and the places around it, and Donnelley would never forget the screams one particularly tough nut to crack made when they had to bring in Sobel to make some progress. But Sobel was just smiling in the doorway.

“Okay.” Was all Donnelley said though.

Sobel gave another nod, “You can do whatever you need to freshen up.”

“You’re not goin’ to show me around?” Donnelley asked.

“No need. You know where everything is.” Sobel still had his smile as he turned away from Donnelley to go back to the kitchen. It was the funniest thing, or most unnerving more like, but as Donnelley walked straight to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, he had to admit he did know where everything was in the house.

He swallowed, shook his head and sighed. He rested his hands on the sink, then turned it on to the coldest water it could give him before splashing and rubbing his face almost to the bone. Just to try to get himself back, get that single-mindedness back to the forefront. Get Tex back, the man with nothing to lose and no care in the world except for the next shithead to kill in the next shithole war zone.

Sobel’s friendly voice came from the kitchen down the hall, “Dinner’s ready!”

>1824…///

Donnelley was at the back porch, just staring out at the country and trying to forget everything except for the cigarette in his hand. There was a whiskey bottle at his feet. Sobel didn’t drink, but he kept it around for any guests, so he let Donnelley have the thing to himself. Whether or not Sobel knew that it was as much a mistake as it was, or if he just didn’t care, Donnelley couldn’t tell and didn’t ask. He took another drag, and he heard the door open and close, footsteps.

“I see you’re brooding again.” Sobel’s voice. The man himself took his moment before siding up with him. He had a rifle in his hands, an M110 CSASS.

“What kinda varmints you get around here?” Donnelley quirked a brow at Sobel’s gun.

“Hopefully none on two legs.” Sobel said, “Yet.”

The two of them stood there for a while. Sobel closed his eyes as he sniffed at the air, then opened them again, “Had to get away from all of it. At least as far as I could. You never really get to get away from it.”

“The city?”

“You know what I mean.” Sobel shook his head. “It was only a matter of time with Foster. Some just don’t let it go. They all see the consequences for it sooner or later.”

“Let it go?” Donnelley asked, “What?”

“Majestic.” Sobel sighed softly, “Sore losers. I’ve known a few. Never lasted long.”

Donnelley looked at Sobel, younger than him. What did Sobel know about the ones who came in from the cold, about the Program’s roots that Donnelley didn’t? He decided not to ask. “You know, I was with Foster in Chechnya.” Donnelley sighed, “They killed everyone. Made me forget all about it, and whatever they were doing there.”

“GRANTOR. We all heard about Chechnya, the ones who needed to know.” Sobel nodded, “I was there. The debriefing.”

“I don’t know why Foster came to get me in Eastern Washington. Why he wouldn’t just let me kill myself after Libya.” Donnelley shook his head as if he didn’t even hear Sobel talk, “Why I keep getting pulled in, and coming back. Why I’m still here after all that.”

“I knew you were telling everything you could after Chechnya. No matter what they did to you, Joseph…” Sobel frowned, shaking his head, “At least you can still feel human after that. At least you don’t remember. Way back, when Oakes told me to suit up after I’d disappeared, not to mention how she even found me… It gave me purpose again.”

“I was selling the only skills I had to whoever would have me. I thought I’d end up doing what all the others did and just retiring myself, but,” Sobel winced a bit, “When Oakes told me what was coming back then, that I could make them pay for what they did to me? I didn’t need any more convincing.” Sobel nodded, silent for a few long moments. “I don’t ask why. Never have. Stopped caring, because the answer never really mattered to me. Maybe I don’t want it. But, I know what my purpose is, and that’s the most victory I’ll ever have.”

“What’s your purpose?” Donnelley asked, not really understanding why he was waxing poetic with a sociopath killer, but not turning down the company of someone he knew and trusted.

“Whatever I decide it is.” Sobel frowned, “And what I’ve decided it is since Oh-One, is killing everything Majestic ever touched before it kills me.”

Donnelley looked at Sobel, not quite understanding how the man fit into the world, but knowing that somehow, he’d jammed himself into it and wouldn’t be pulled free until he said so. The world didn’t make sense before to Donnelley before the Program, and it made even less sense after. But he did know that a good rifle and a hard enemy helped make sense of the chaos for just a bit. You had to find purpose wherever you could. At least Sobel did. Donnelley just nodded, and took another hard drag off his cigarette, still not quite content with anything.

“What did they do to me?” Donnelley asked, getting the obvious sense that they’d done something to Sobel too. “Majestic, March Tech? Foster?”

Sobel frowned, and stayed painfully silent as Donnelley could see Sobel working at the answer, and not quite finding one he would like, “Gave you a purpose.” Sobel looked at Donnelley, “Didn’t they? Seeing everything you’ve done to be here now?”

Donnelley swallowed, looking away from Sobel’s eyes to the horizon. “Sure.” Donnelley stayed silent and took the last drag off his cigarette, before pinching out the cherry and pocketing the filter. “Send a message to UMBRA and what’s left of THUNDER while I’m here. They’re activated, get their asses to Fairfield.”

“I don’t think I have enough room for all of them.” Sobel looked at Donnelley with his brow quirked.

“They can get a hotel if they have to. Pitch a fuckin’ tent outside, just as long as they’re here.” Donnelley growled. “We have a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it before Foster disappears. Maybe he already has.”

“We’ll find him.” Sobel nodded.

“I know we will.” Donnelley grabbed up the bottle and stepped back inside, going straight for the guest room he was staying in.

>SEVEN MILES FROM FAIRFIELD, ID
>SAT.09.NOV.2019
>1827

The air was dead and still. The sound of crickets filtered in from everywhere as the sun began to dip below the hills. Coyotes yelping and hollering in the distance perked Donnelley’s ears as he dragged off his cigarette. It was just him and Sam standing a few hundred meters from the packed dirt road, like two men come to the crossroads to bargain with the devil. He could smell the heat in the air, baking dirt and brush stirred up by the winds sweeping across the vast countryside.

“You’re sure-”

“Yes.” Donnelley answered Sam, not turning to him to answer. Deep down, he had that fear. If they could get Poker, he wondered if they could get to Ghost. He pushed it aside, “He’ll be here.”

“We’re running out of only-hopes here.” Sam grumbled.

“You want me to do this, you’ll want THUNDER.” Donnelley said, then mumbled, “Or what’s left of it.”

The shocks of the 2011 Jeep Cherokee handled the ruts in the road with ease, providing a smooth, comfortable ride. It was a surprisingly pleasant vehicle; Ghost had long been suspicious of Jeep products after owning a lemon of a Wrangler during high school, but the Grand Cherokee was winning him over.

He glanced again at the GPS unit he’d bought at a gas station, matching it with the coordinates Tex had given him in their brief phone call since he’d left Vegas. He was close. He pulled over to the side of the road and slipped out of the vehicle, closing the door quietly and shedding the jacket that he’d worn over his tactical vest for the last ten miles. He put on his helmet, pulled up his mask, and brass-checked his rifle, then stepped into the woods, fading into the growing shadows.

Donnelley felt a breeze waft through the sparse trees of whatever passed as a forest this side of the Cascades. He could smell something beneath the dirt and grass, subtle notes. He lay a hand on the butt of his FN and depressed the thumb brake, pulling it free. Sam looked over at Donnelley and followed suit, similarly sniffing the air, and putting a hand to his ear to amplify whatever noise he could hear that wasn’t the wildlife.

With the weight of his gun in his hand, Donnelley scanned the darkness around them with his handgun at low ready, “Is that fuckin’ Armani?”

Ghost stepped from the trees, mentally cursing both his lack of success and their lack of cultural knowledge.

“It’s Creed Aventus,” he growled, lowering his rifle. “Armani is for posers. I actually have money.”

He’d picked up more than just gear from his stash outside of Henderson, Nevada. His party clothes had been replaced by his usual grays and dark blues, his vest settled over one of the hundreds of dark hoodies he preferred during urban operations. He tracked from Tex to the stranger and back, then reached up and pulled down his skull-emblazed mask.

“Well? I’m here.”

“Yeah, your fucking cologne introduced you.” Sam grumbled, “Shit’s like an air horn for the olfactory senses.”

Donnelley glanced at Sam, standing beside him and slapping his gun back into its holster. He sighed, “We’re wanted. There’s a meeting of important people at Sobel’s house.” Donnelley spoke, replacing his own handgun and slipping the retention back over his gun. “Catch a ride with us?”

“There’s a shower at Sobel’s.” Sam gave Ghost a once over, “Maybe you can try again after.”

Ghost ignored Sam, save for giving him a hard glare before looking back over his shoulder. He actually liked his new Jeep. Still, it was hot. There were bodies on it, thanks to his hasty escape.

“I guess,” he grumbled. “I’m parked down the road, about two klicks. But everything I need is in my pack. We can leave it, the cops will find it sooner or later.”

“They gonna be lookin’ for you this far north?” Donnelley quirked a brow, wondering just what Ghost had to do to get out of Vegas. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, “Then get in the car, let’s go.”

>…///

As they ambled up the road, Donnelley could see the black SUVs and the security detail for the bigwigs. They were here, and it was real now. Sam wasn’t talking out of his ass then, and Foster really was as grave of a threat as Donnelley was getting the feeling for. “Should we bow?”

“Funny.” Sam said, deadpan.

The GMC Yukon came to a stop behind the other clones of it. One of the security detail eyed them from the porch as Donnelley dismounted from the passenger seat. The inner circle could talk freely. The three of them converged in front of the Yukon, “Don’t waste their time. This might be personal for you, but they need to know you can pull the trigger when it comes to it.” Sam looked at both Donnelley and Ghost, “Can you?”

Ghost gave Sam a genuinely confused look, his gaze going from Tex to the old man and back. He seemed at a loss for words. It had been decades since anyone had doubted that he could kill a man.

“...Motherfucker, I’m Ghost,” he finally said, shaking his head. “I can kill anyone. Let’s go.”

Donnelley and Ghost made for the door, but Sam grabbed hold of Donnelley’s shoulder, halting him with a strong grip. It eased when he stopped and looked at him, murder in his eyes at the touch, or maybe the insinuation that he still felt anything friendly for Foster. Sam inclined his head, as if stating the question again. Donnelley’s brows knitted together and he shrugged Sam’s hand off of his shoulder as he followed Ghost. Sam followed after. One of the security detail reached over and opened the door for Ghost and the rest as they stepped onto the porch and then through the door.

Inside, the house was just a bit more spacey than outside, and Ghost might’ve felt a slight sense of vertigo stepping inside. Donnelley did. The dimensions seemed… off, and it wasn’t just creative use of space. His eyes going about the rafters and stairs brought him to looking into the kitchen at an assortment of men- and a token pair of women- standing and sitting in the kitchen and dining room. Donnelley caught eyes with one, and he could recognize that look in his eyes.

It made Tex rip himself to the surface, his shoulders beginning to pin back, and the only thing he’d left to do was bare his teeth. The feeling of two packs of wolves meeting. There was an emptiness in those eyes, and Tex knew that he’d seen and done the same things he had. And he never liked meeting people who understood. They’d convinced him to do things he couldn’t get away from no matter the years he’d put between himself and them. He nodded. The man nodded back. He saw one face he recognized at a dinner table, no matter the lines of age now set in his face that’d been carved there by the years eroding away at him.

They’d met in Somalia, and Donnelley had helped stab his best friend twenty times each before throwing him overboard. His best friend had been dead for twenty minutes before he started moving again. After Somalia, Tex knew however he thought the world worked was wrong. The Marine Raider stood and walked up to Tex, his team turning to stare at Tex and Ghost. He stood a head taller than Tex, but he looked up at him impassively as the Raider’s deep voice rumbled, “Is it true?”

DD, that was his callsign, Tex remembered. Dead Dave. Tex nodded. That was all that was needed, and DD turned away from him after clapping his shoulder and walking back to his comrades to continue whatever card game they were playing on Sobel’s dinner table as if Tex and Ghost weren’t there.

The sense of spatial discomfort passed quickly for Ghost. He noted it, grimaced, and shoved it into a dark hole in the back of his brain like he did everything else that bothered him. Once he’d made the decision to accept that physics wasn’t behaving he simply moved on.

The faces around the room were mostly strangers, though Ghost recognized a few old dogs he’d worked with throughout his nearly 20 years of Program service. Weathered, scarred, suspicious. He understood. Unlike Tex, these were Ghost’s people. A number of them probably met the same clinical qualifications he did, and none of them felt the need to pretend to be anything other than what they were; killers. He found it refreshing.

“Ghost.” The baritone voice drew the operator’s attention and he turned, spotting a familiar face coming his way. Five-five, compact, packing practical gear over civilian clothing, Ghost nodded a greeting.

“Ronin,” he said. He extended a hand and the two shook. Ghost knew very little about Ronin; he was some sort of Asian, with an accent that Ghost now associated with Laine and probably meant he was from somewhere in Southern California. He looked to be between 35 and 50, Ghost could never tell with Asians.

“Good to see you,” Ronin said, releasing his grip and giving him a sympathetic look. “Sorry about all this.”

“Happens,” Ghost grunted. “You here as backup?”

“Me and the rest of the boys.” Ronin jerked his head to where Working Group KAIJU sat. Ghost knew very little about Ronin, just like he knew very little about any of the other operators outside of THUNDER. What he did know was what mattered; Ronin was a Tier 1 shooter, fluent in Tagalog, and was one of the only men Ghost would hesitate to knife fight. That was all he cared about.

“Glad to have you,” Ghost said truthfully. He wanted Foster for himself, but he was a realist; there would be a lot of guns around the traitorous bastard, and Ghost wasn’t in the game to lose just because he went in under-gunned.

“Living room.” Sam called out to the two making friends with the guns in the house.

Tex turned away from the kitchen and walked down the hall and into the living room, where a man with quite the belly who looked more suited to briefing rooms than the football field now that he was in his older age sat. Across the room was a woman in her forties, looking like her intense aura was what was repelling the man all the way to the other corner of the room. Out of the two, Tex had to say he had a better impression of the woman. She was leaned against the wall, a good five-ten, and her build spoke of being honed by hard training and hard fights in a hard life. Her hair was cropped short, so it couldn’t be grabbed, and was fading from blonde to gray. She squinted at them, her lips pursed.

“So,” the woman looked between Ghost and Tex, “This is all of what’s left of THUNDER. Where’s the junkie?”

While the woman was busy looking as severe as possible, the man nodded. He had pallid skin, and a tired, professional smile that didn’t quite reach his bagged eyes. His hair was black, but thinned and graying. He held his hand up to the two other men, “Gentlemen, my name is Abraham Mannen, Director of Operations.”

The woman made no such gesture, simply turning her chin up at them, “Katherine Oakes. Director of Security.”

Ghost watched Ronin settle in his with team, noting the presence of a slim Asian female among them before returning his attention to the duo at the front of the room. He narrowed his eyes at the woman’s tone, but kept his mouth shut. If they really were Directors, then things had moved well beyond his domain. It was best to shut up, kill who he was told to kill, and hope he was the one who got to eat Foster’s eyes when they caught the cocksucker.

“Foster’s gone off the rails.” Katherine said, frowning, “And I understand that you two were the closest men he had at his side. There’s a delicate balance that the Program likes and needs to keep. Foster is upsetting that balance.”

“I’d say.” Tex nodded.

Abraham snorted softly, nodding in agreement, “The Director doesn’t like this. This is starting to bleed over into the public eye.”

“Your friend, Kin Dang. I think you call him something like Thumper, Cruncher…”

“Poker.” Tex enunciated, his eyes narrowing. No matter his opinions of the man, he was the closest thing he had to a friend or family after GRANTOR. He’d have Poker’s name remembered.

“Poker, sure. He wasn’t the only one. We’ve had several agents put into the ICU, put under investigation, and put into the fucking morgue, with the same note.” Katherine paused, eyes boring into Donnelley, “Tell you to stop. What were you doing that got Foster so upset, I wonder.”

“Calling him on his bullshit. Foster is ex-Maj-“

“Majestic.” Katherine Oakes cut in, nodding, “Foster isn’t working alone. He’s a Case Officer, whoever gave him the case files he stole and then traded to whoever he traded it to… is higher up than him, and is very much my concern.”

“We’re not asking you to stop, Joseph.” Abraham spoke up, “We want you, The Director wants you to find Foster, and find Foster’s friends, and find Foster’s contacts.”

“And we’re promoting you to Case Officer. You’ll have UMBRA, you’ll have THUNDER, and the rest of those swinging dicks in there,” Katherine nodded over to the kitchen full of butchers, “And you’ll have a blank check. To do whatever you need to do to fix all of this.”

“You’re sure?” Tex quirked a brow, searching the two of their faces, “Me?”

“We need people who can go to dark places, Donnelley.” Abraham spoke.

Tex’s brows furrowed, “Ghost is my second.”

“Done.” Katherine nodded.

“And I put whoever else I need on the team.” Tex said, “Whoever.”

“Whoever.” Echoed Abraham, “Just get this done. You and your task force answer to no one but me, Katherine, and The Director.”

“And when you find Foster-“

“He’s dead.” Tex cut in. “And everyone else who ever even smiled at him.”

“I’m glad you understand.” Katherine smiled for the first time since they’d began, just the smallest upward curve of the corner of her lip, and Tex felt like those were to be prized as something rare. “We’ll be returning to Virginia now that we’ve reached an understanding and you know what we need from you.”

They stood, walking past Tex and Ghost until they both heard the front door open and shut again. And then the sound of a GMC Yukon turning over, and its wheels rolling over a gravel parking lot to fade away into the night.

Tex drew in a breath and looked to Ghost, “Me and you.”

Ghost grunted an affirmative, watching Oakes leave. After a moment he turned his shark's gaze on Tex.

"I wasn't sure, until now," he admitted. His empty eyes hinted at the meaning behind his words. "But they wouldn't have scrambled a response like this over bullshit."

He nodded his head and extended a fist. "Alright, Tex. Let's go kill Foster."

Tex knocked his fist against Ghost’s, and just like that, it was like he was back in Libya. Back in THUNDER. Back to being the man who’d bleed the whole world dry and scream for more. He had a purpose, and a goal again. Kill.

“Make sure everyone’s as ready as they look. I’m goin’ to make some house calls.” He said, looking over all the stoney-eyed killers assembled just for him to set loose upon their enemies, “And then we head south.”

>Blue house on Whiteville
>Ash, North Carolina
>MON.11.NOV.2019
>1103...///

A head of slick long hair over squared dark shades leaned from the window of a glued together ‘89 Chevy Baja. Hair-metal wailed from the vehicle as it reversed into the carport, screeching clear of a kayak strewn on its side against the attached shed.

The modest blue house was barebones, smelling of ocean and mud and a quarter mile deep from the main road. It was the smallest of his three properties, the one he typically spends time alone in to relax and be a slob. Even in Montana he deals with the friendly local riff raff and friends from service who come to stay on part of his land at a retreat. It was part of some non-profit veteran recovery program. All bullshit, but an excuse to build funds for shooting parties with the boys. Helped grow the network with fewer additional expenses.

Holt cut the engine and footed the door open with a creek of old paint and steel. He wore a light linen button up and swim trunks, barefoot after kicking them off in the truck. The cooler air this time of year didn’t bother him. He grabbed two bags in one hand and in the other a half-through beer. He touched down in North Carolina that morning and was making his rounds. Drop off the bags, grab three months of mail, drop by his favorite bar to see “Tits” Tiffany as she opens, then grab grub and a six pack for the night.

In one swift chug Croc finished the beer and dropped the bottle off the side of the stoop in a trash bin and unlocked his door. He belched then froze in the entryway. A man sat on a stool at the kitchen bar. A burning sensation spread through his body like he should sub-second-draw a north-coast brew and lob it at the intruder's face. He didn’t express it on his shaded stone-face, as he realized—

“Motha fucker.”

Rough hands cracked open another pistachio from the bowl on the counter and popped them into a smiling set of lips. Long hair kept out of his face by a set of aviators pushed up to his forehead, heavy-bearded, and a big scar on the cheek if you took the time to look deep enough. The stranger was still smiling even as he swigged off of one of Croc’s many, many beers in the fridge. You’d have thought that’s all the man put into his body besides protein powder. Maybe he even mixed the two.

“Howdy, fucker.” Donnelley said, now that he knew he wasn’t going to be greeted by a bullet through his face for going through all the trouble of surprising an old acquaintance in the spookiest of ways. Past the small greeting, he shut up so Croc could take in the ghost in his bar stool.

"Fuck. Tex?" Croc let the screen door slam shut behind him. The nerve agency folk had always fascinated him. He pulled his shades off and tucked them in his shirt pocket, carrying a dumbfounded smirk as he approached Donnelley, reaching in a solid brotherly shake.

"You ain't dead yet?"

“Nothin’ kills me.” Donnelley smirked that old bravado, voice full of West Texas drawl, but let it go unsaid that as the years went by, he could do without so many of the things trying. He returned the shake, and gave the other man a once over, “Lucky you showed up. I was worried I’d slipped into the wrong house and one of these rednecks over here’d bury me in his backyard.”

He chuckled, knowing he was a hair’s breadth away from Croc doing just the same if he took a little while longer recognizing him, “How you livin’, man?”

Croc pulled a cold case of beer out of the bag along with several gourmet sandwiches and snacks, setting them out for them. He cracked open a bottle. "It's been fair, man. Retired a few years back and now it's payday." He winked over his delight in two years of bank-rolls and took a swig.

After separating from the Army he took to contracting, landing a permanent gig with some fellow 160th pilots. If he wasn't treading over the Congo canopy he was taxiing sheikhs around the Persian Gulf. Then, there were the DG calls. Dealing with Tex meant the latter. People like them were all business, they didn't have time to visit old acquaintances.

"What about you my man, the fuck you doing in my house? Nobody s'posed to know I even come here. " He chuckled coarsely.

“I’ve got my ways.” Donnelley said, a cryptic reminder that Delta Green could find anyone and drag them back when they needed. Even when they didn’t want to go, “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”

He smirked, though he knew that Croc knew as well as anyone that there were very few reasons Donnelley quietly breaks into your house to surprise you in your living room. Lucky for Croc that there was no reason DG had to throw him a retirement party. A cute nickname for something far from it, “And I need a favor.” He said, his smirk fading away, “I pulled you out of the wreckage of that bird, you saved me from those militants in Mosul.”

He clucked his tongue, the way he always did before getting to the point of things, “That debt’s settled, but I figure there’s been enough time passed I can start rackin’ up new ones from you.” He looked at Croc, “I figure you already know what I’m about to ask a former Night Stalker.”

"C'mon now. I ain't Moosama Bin Jacko like you're dealing in Panjshir, askin' favors." He remembers vividly the time in Mosul. Texs' sort were the company he kept. Keeps his blood flowing and his mind off health problems and an empty 401k. He selected a tightly wrapped sandwich.

"Capitalism baby, debts what I do. You need something," Croc said, more uppity than usual. Then he slapped the sandwich to his chest several times, gesturing to himself, until it was now visibly deformed, "you come to me. You know, if I can do it." He tore open the wrapper and took a big bite, compensating for the mess he made of it.

“I’d hope you could do it.” Donnelley snorted, taking another long pull from the beer he’d stolen. Add that into the debt too, “I need a pilot still flies, got a clearance, and ain’t a pussy.”

He chuckled, sipping from the bottle again, getting low, “It’s important. Way more important than whatever company’s payin’ you to be a sky-chauffeur to rich assholes or bush pilotin’.” Donnelley explained, treading closer still to the meat of it, “And it ain’t exactly… legal. No sanction. This is just us. THUNDER, few others.”

“And as good of pay as I can get you.” Donnelley quirked a brow, “How ‘bout it?”

Croc grimaced through another sip of beer. It was a solid team he’d be working with. “I just get home for some leave, now you’re hittin’ me with talk at all the right angles.” The exclusivity reeling in his interest. Operahouse pay was competitive to the UAE premium rates, he didn’t have a reason to say no. “I’m flattered man, but what kind of op are we talking about? Takes some time to get things together— especially if this goes international.”

Donnelley kept himself from smiling. Croc was edging closer to saying yes, even with the details coming piecemeal and dropping on his shoulders from high up. He raised his brows when Croc talked about international, “It is. I need someone with contacts that can get us undocumented out of the US.” He downed the rest of the beer and looked at Croc, “And back into The Shit. I’m huntin’ someone.”

"Always a hunt, brotha." Croc said straight, chasing down another big bite.

He thought back, visually struggling to let go of opportunities to blow money this time stateside. As if Tex was challenging him, no wasn't even an option. "Destination? Timeline?”

“It’s all up in the air for now.” Donnelley shrugged, “Just do your best to get everythin’ ready. Worst can happen is you do and you’re early.”

Donnelley gulped down the last of the beer bottle and set it down wobbling to a stillness on the counter, “The Program gave me a blank check for this one, Croc.” He smirked, though his eyes held a weight, an edge, like Tex was peeking out through his pupils.

The same Tex that had had a couple little children staring down his barrel and a Ghost breathing down his neck in Libya. The same Tex who had brutalized a helpless man in the woods under the thin pretense of getting him talking. The same Tex that had run amok in West Virginia and set it all quietly ablaze, the same Tex who’d come back from Afghanistan years ago with a hunger for blood and not much else, who took the first hand outstretched that would let him wade in it. The same Tex who wouldn’t just bite the same hand, but chomp it off with a frothing mouth, “You don’t want to know how desperate they have to be to give a man like me a sanction to do whatever the fuck I need to make sure we’re still behind the curtain.”

Croc chewed around his mouth for leftover bits. He slammed his bottle then dropped it and his guest’s empty in the trash, pulling out two fresh ones. He cracked them open on some fixture beneath the counter simultaneously and passed one over. “Sounds serious alright.” He said, figuring the meaning behind this personal visit.

Few men dealt their cards like Tex in Crocs experience. Even among the hardcore soldiers and spies, no better blend. He’d have been pleased to work with him more in the past, but good pilots in this scene were a commodity spread thin. Operations fluctuate with the climate of international relations; could be in Columbia one week, the next it's off to Turkmenistan to fly one mission where there are no assets. Other issues, like air interdiction, meant retention was low— likely half those recruited are in foreign prisons, shot down, or worse. The ones that perform, survive, and evade like Croc are put on special order by teams like THUNDER.

“Must be an exceptionally grave threat, “ he quoted, mocking clearance ratings, “kind where they can’t afford failure. If I learned anything back then, man, “ His lip curled at one side as he took a heavy swig. “You’re no risk, you get it done. Collateral be damned.”

Donnelley leaned his bottle Croc’s way and they clinked the necks of them. Nothing like sharing drinks while discussing how to make the world burn. More like setting a controlled blaze so the fire couldn’t eat the houses. It remained to be said, the fire they’d be setting would be in everyone’s front yards. But when the time comes, what Foster said to Donnelley when he asked, and what Donnelley said to UMBRA when they were too deep in it to ever turn back again- We do the horrific to stop the apocalyptic.

But that could wait a little while longer, far as Donnelley was concerned, “All that big talk set aside,” he shrugged, “No reason we should rush to the fight. Let’s just sit back and get drunk, got a lot of years worth of it to catch up on, ain’t we?”

Croc chuckled. “Sure thing, my man. Get me the accounting code, then uh… Three weeks and a day. I’ll have us ready for almost anywhere. Extra day’s for the reeling hangover you owe me.” He slid his sunglasses back on and grabbed his stuff, beckoning Donnelly to follow with his sandwich hand.

“Oh, I gotta show yah. Remember that hentai mural? Got a rifle in the back cerakoted in it. Fucking art, homie.”

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>SEATTLE, WA
>MONDAY.04.NOV.2019
>1824…///

Thankfully, the streets weren’t packed at this hour in Seattle on a Monday. Holly had seen Mark when the streets were choking on traffic, and in those moments, Mark seemed to be such an angry misanthrope. Mark didn’t usually swear, but in those times, Mark wasn’t usually Mark. He smiled over at Holly in the passenger seat as they stopped at a red light. He’d made everyone save their appetites for dinner, but in the end he’d let them have a quick snack before leaving to stoke their appetites… and make sure Holly didn’t get too snappy at him or Tilly. Her stomach was growing still, and if he thought there was no hiding it when Joseph came over for dinner, there was really no hiding it now.

He reached over and lay a hand over Holly’s while it rested on her own stomach. They still hadn’t decided on a name, and Mark wanted to name their child Hudson, after his uncle who’d passed away when he was younger. One of the only people who’d told him to do what Mark wanted, and damn the world- and his father- if they didn’t like it.

“I love you, baby.” He said to Holly, smile growing wider as she looked at him.

Holly was feeling the movement of their unborn child when Mark put her hand over hers and she smiled at him, quipping back, “Me or the baby baby?”

The teasing tone was light, the yogurt had done the trick of keeping the hangry beast at bay. Mark snorted and shook his head at Holly, eyeing the road for a second as he said, “Both.” He glanced at Holly again with a smile before looking in the rearview mirror at Tilly, “How about you? How are you doing back there?”

Tilly lifted her head from her phone and popped out one ear bud, “Oh what? I’m good.”

Holly glanced at the rearview mirror, “What are you watching?”

“Just some skate stuff on Tik-Tok,” the girl replied, going back to flipping through her phone, then sent one of the short video of a guy wiping out in a hilariously painful way on a guard rail after trying to show off all set to an old JFA song to Joe Dad with a laughing emoji.

“Well, make sure you put that up when we get to the restaurant,” Holly said after a moment, “I don’t want you texting the whole time while we eat.”

Tilly huffed a breath, blowing a strand of blond hair from her face, “Yeah, yeah. I can only stand so much talk about your stupid clients.”

Holly tried not to laugh but failed, “Fine, no work talk. I promise.”

“Yes,” Mark smiled into the rearview mirror at his daughter, “No work talk. We’ve got plenty more we can talk about. Like how you’ve got straight-A’s, how you aced that test, how all those extracurriculars are paying off and all those applications to Universities might just come back as acceptance letters.”

Mark glanced at Holly as he flicked on the turn signal and turned onto another street, “Can you imagine? Our Doctor Grier, exploring the ocean, or treating cancer, or… doing some other stuff that doctors do.”

Tilly rolled her eyes but her cheeks turned pink with embarrassed pride. She went back to her phone to see if her text had been responded to but it was still unread. She flicked through her app again, then finally asked, “I got invited to a party this Saturday, can I go?”

Her voice was that of a child trying to sound casual but clearly it was not. “It’s not a big deal, just some people I know hanging out.”

“Have I met these people hanging out?” Mark quirked a brow in the rearview.

Tilly paused and shrugged, “I think you met a couple of them. Max and Lacey, they go to school with me. Mom, you know Lacey’s mom, she’s the one that always does the gluten-free snacks and makes sure everyone knows about it.”

She avoided mentioning that most of the people there were friends of Max’s older sister who was a sophomore at University of Washington and other former high school friends of the young woman who were rumored to be bringing kegs and a local band was already booked. Max’s parents had a big house and they had drained their pool for the winter which was going to now be perfect for skating.

“You know Max’s family,” she said, glancing at the rearview mirror. “They have that big house on Pine Bluff Street, at the cul-de-sac. His dad works for Boeing or something. Some engineer.”

Mark opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. After these years, he knew when his daughter was biting her explanations just short. Even so, he shrugged, “Yeah,” he said, “I know his dad. Mick’s a good guy.”

He pursed his lips and then looked at Holly, “What do you say?”

Holly glanced up at the rearview mirror, noticing how Tilly kept her head down and at her phone, the same she had asked her to put away. “I know Lacy’s mother and Max’s mom, she really likes her wine. Are his parents going to actually be there for this party?”

Tilly looked aside, out the window as they drove, the gray hue of the city would get no better as autumn turned to winter. “I dunno, I assume so. It’s their house.”

“Uh, huh,” Holly replied, raising an eyebrow. “Then you wouldn’t mind me calling them and asking.”

Tilly rolled her eyes then looked up, “Yeah if you have to, whatever. You never trust me even though I don’t do anything to make you not trust me. But sure, call them and ask.”

She threw her hands up in an exaggerated shrug and then shook her head, not wanting to fight with her mom before dinner. Tilly put her earbuds in and went to her playlist.

“Young lady,” Holly said, turning around to look at her, “Don’t pull that attitude. I have every right to know who my sixteen year old daughter is going to be hanging around.”

Tilly rolled her eyes again, this time hidden behind the fall of pale blonde hair as she bent her head over her phone in her hands. “Fine.”

Holly turned back and looked at Mark as he drove. “We’ll talk about this at home.”

Tilly sent a text to her biological dad, following up the video he still had not responded to. “Hey Joe-Dad, did you and mom ever go to parties when you were my age? Like real parties, not like cake and ice cream bullshit. Or was she always this fun?”

Mark looked at Tilly in the rearview, just a glance, but he knew that posture. After riding that high of knowing his daughter would be a benefit to any university that would accept her, he did feel a bit of pity for that face in that backseat. He cleared his throat, looking at the road as he slowed to a halt at a red light. No cars were around at this part of the city, which wasn’t too weird for a Monday. He glanced at Holly, “If we say yes, and that’s an if,” Mark said, his voice a bit projected so Tilly could hear him over that loud rock music, “You’ll text us about what you’re doing, and you’ll answer when we call. Just to check in. Am I understood?”

Holly looked at Mark and gave a minute nod of acknowledgement to what he said. She could see Tilly’s eyes light up and her heart clenched. She was nearly an adult and she would have to let go soon. But they had another on the way, maybe the mistakes she made would not happen again. At least she knew Mark would not be the force of natural disaster in their lives as Joseph had been.

“And it’s not you I don’t trust,” Holly said, glancing back at her daughter.

“Yeah, I know, Mom,” Tilly replied, “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Tilly pulled the ear buds out and wrapped them around her hand, “I get that. But I’m careful and yeah, I would text you and check in, I know the drill.”

“Just stay safe and stay out of trouble.” Mark chimed in with that caring dad-voice, “We love you, Tilly.”

She brushed her hair back from her face, the bright blue Donnelley eyes looking back at Mark and Holly, “I know, I love you, too. And I don’t want to get in trouble...not like real trouble anyway.”

Tilly spoke before Holly could, “I get it.”

Holly sighed then smirked, shaking her head “Alright smarty-pants. It’s fine by me as long as you do what your dad just told you.”

“Our little girl,” Mark teased in a song-song voice, “Growing up so fast.”

Mark peeked at the GPS. Shouldn’t be long now, he thought. A string of green lights down the street made him feel just a tad dangerous, and he sped up only a couple miles per hour just to get every green light he could. They were making good time to the fancy steak house, and he began to hum along to the song coming through on the radio. He couldn’t help but to smile at Tilly in the rearview, until he saw her double-take to the window to her left. Mark looked too, and it was too quick.

He saw headlights, then he saw nothing.

>LEES LICK, VA…///

Donnelley opened his eyes and the world rushed back in with a torrent of silence and memory. The panic was still gripping his chest, he’d sat straight up on the tiny couch he’d crawled into in the tiny house he was living in while the world mounted against him. He stood, rushing steps into the kitchen, not that it took many steps to cross the tiny house. He grabbed up the bottle of whiskey and took a swig, and then another, and he wiped at his mouth and growled, before taking another. He bent double and grabbed his hair as he painted almost helplessly, a tight fistful of it and growled, “Fuck. Fuck.”

He fell back onto the floor with a grunt, fishing out his pack of cigarettes, and lighting one up, staring at the floor. He dragged in a breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it go. A few more of those, a few more drags, and a couple more swigs had him right enough to stand up again. Here he was, he thought, in another empty house. Another bottle of whiskey, and two women who wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t help but laugh, bitterly. There was a joke in there somewhere.

His ears perked up at the sound of his phone buzzing on the floor. He staggered to his feet and then dropped to his knees in front of his phone. It wasn’t even daylight out, he noticed, and he wondered why Tilly was calling him. Fuck, he was drunk. What would she say? That mom was right? No, he wouldn’t disappoint her. This was it, this was the last time. This girl was one of the only things he’d ever kept living for. He swallowed and then picked up his phone and answered the call in a very well-honed sober voice, “How you doin’, lil’ girl?” He asked with a smile.

The voice on the other end was not that bright sassy young woman but one of a scared girl, “I’m not doing that great. There was an accident.”

Her breath hitched and she sighed into the receiver, “Mom and Dad are ok, but we’re all in the hospital.”

There was a hesitancy there and she said even softer, “They’re not really ok, but they’re alive.”

Donnelley’s smile died, and he swallowed. He stared at the wall for a few moments, the panic starting to reach back in. He let out a quivering breath, “What?” He said lamely, hardly the confident leader that knew where to go. The past few days proved him otherwise, anyway, “What do you mean? It’s okay, just tell me what happened, sweetie.”

Tilly hesitated then spoke up, her voice more firm and normal as she recited what had happened, as she had told the police who took the report and how she kept playing it over in her mind, a torture but one she kept doing to herself so she would not forget any details. Her father was involved, that much she knew but how much and why was a mystery.

“We were driving to go out to eat, that steak place, Jak’s Grill...” she trailed off for a moment, then came back, “We were almost there I think, there wasn’t much traffic and that song was playing, Montero. I looked up and saw a truck just coming at us, nothing but headlights. They were set up high, even if it was pitch black outside I know it was a big ass truck. Two white guys, I could see just that from their console lights and the glare. It was so fast, but I remember that. I remember, Dad. I didn’t hear brakes, the cop asked me that. I don’t remember any brakes and I heard them say there were no skid marks on the road like they tried to stop.”

A breathless pause on the other end as she caught herself, a soft wheeze of pain could be heard. “We’re all hurt but they got the worst of it. My arm and some ribs are broken, it hurts but they said it should heal just fine. Got a bump on the head.”

There was a tension in her voice and a catch, she paused again before speaking. “Mom lost the baby. He would have been my little brother.”

It was then she broke down, Tilly unable to keep the sobs hidden even under the press of her hand. Donnelley could only listen, his grip on his phone growing tighter the more Tilly recited the same deadpan lines she gave the cops like some sort of badly rehearsed movie lines, flat and void of emotion. Or like someone whose mind was still reeling with fresh trauma. When he heard Tilly choking on sobs, and knowing that he couldn’t be there right now, in an instant, he almost started with his own tears.

He’d been hoping it was just some kind of elaborate prank, but when Tilly said that Holly had lost her baby, and that there was no screech of tires or screaming brakes… Probably just drunk drivers. Probably, he kept telling himself.

“Baby,” Donnelley’s voice was shaking and breathy, “Baby, I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I’m so sorry, I wish I could be there right now.”

“Is…” Donnelley swallowed, not wanting to pile on another person asking her to remember what she wanted to forget, but he had to know. There was a voice in the back of his head, a quiet, little fear, “Is there anythin’ else? Anythin’? What did they look like, the drivers?”

Tilly stopped crying but her voice sounded raw and it rose in pitch with the simmering anger. “You can’t be, I get it. Nothing ever changes.”

There was silence and she finally said, “It was about you. I found a note, one of them put it in my jacket pocket while I was knocked out...I didn’t show it to the cops or even mom and dad. It said ‘tell Joseph Donnelley to stop’.”

Her voice quivered and she sniffled, “I can’t...Mom had to be sedated. A medical coma they call it. She’s hurt real bad, she doesn’t know...”

Tilly broke down again and held the phone away, but her sobs were still audible. Donnelley bit back the hurt at Tilly’s outburst. Her justified anger at him for not being there. Off chasing conspiracies and murderers, too busy for his own daughter. And now look what it did to her. That little fear in the back of his head grew louder, and sharper, and then it grew into an anger of its own. A knife stabbing into his chest. How dare they hurt his daughter, instead of coming to him and locking eyes, and seeing who made it out.

He clamped his jaw shut, thinking up a few swears and dragged in a breath, held it, and then let it go. “I’m sorry that this happened.” He said, “I’m goin’ to make this…”

Right? Right wouldn’t be the word. Not for any of this. There was nothing about this that he could make right, not for Tilly, not for Holly, not for Mark. They were all just stuck between him and Foster, Nikolai Gorochev and his Bratva, and the GRU. In danger, and not even knowing it until it smashed into them. He breathed, “I’m goin’ to fix this. I promise you, Tilly, I’m fixin’ this.” He had a frown, but it softened, “Please, belie-… just, please, have some faith in me that I’m never lettin’ this happen again.”

His breath caught, “And I promise I’ll be there in person with you when this is all over.” He swallowed, “If you’ll still want me.”

Tilly was quiet as he spoke, the tension almost palatable. “Just stop, stop whatever it is you’re doing that’s pissed them off this much. I’m scared.”

She sniffed the repeated, “I’m scared, Daddy. What if they come back when you’re trying to fix everything?”

He swallowed again, dry and hoarse, burning. He couldn’t stop this. Not to him. Whatever Foster was doing, whatever the Bratva was doing… he was one of the only people he trusted to end it. Not just burying his head to the girls already lost, and the girls waiting to be, but ending that cycle forever. But the shaking in Tilly’s voice, he couldn’t help but to spare a thought towards booking a plane ticket, but then even the Feds would know where he was and where he was going.

He shook his head, even though Tilly couldn’t see it, “They won’t ever get to you again, baby.” He said, “I’ll be with you again soon.”

He paused, his lips moving but without words, and then he said it. What he should’ve said while he could. What he should say… just in case this would be his last service to the world, “I love you, Tilly.”

“I love you too, Joe-Dad,” she said, her voice not trembling as much. “Please... this all really sucks, I hate it. I just want to wake up but then I remember it’s not a dream.”

Tilly sighed heavily and said, “I gotta go. Please, please don’t do anything to...you know. I want to see you again, like we talked about. Bye, Dad.”

Donnelley nodded unseen, closing his eyes, “I know, you’ll see me again, and we’ll go on that ride on my bike.” Donnelley didn’t have to try hard to force a smile on his face, hoping it’d at least take an ounce of the pain and fear away from his daughter, “I’ll see you, bye, Tilly.”

He hung up the phone and stood, taking it from his face and just staring at the screen. That picture of him and his little girl, not so little anymore. He thought about Holly, and Mark. Holly in a coma, and her baby lost. He swallowed rising bile, and then his grip crushed around the neck of the whiskey bottle and the cigarette between his fingers, still smoldering.

He hauled in a breath, but it hitched before it had any hope of filling his lungs as he choked on the guilt, and the fear, and the anger. And then chased it all with a long pull of whiskey. He cocked back his arm and sent the whiskey bottle flying across the room to smack into the wall, leaving a good crack in it. He turned and flipped the small coffee table in a fury he hadn’t felt for so long, and that felt so trapping, and so futile, but so lacking in alternatives. If he could, he’d sprout wings and fly to Washington. If he could, he’d burn all of this like an Angel drunk on righteous fury if there was only a hair of a chance the sun would rise one more time and whoever came after wouldn’t be as evil as man, or make the same mistakes. Or just burn this house down, hug the flames, and hope the same for whoever came after him.

By the end of it all, chairs were toppled, tables were on their side or overturned, and he sat on his knees with his face in his hands. With nothing else to break, maybe even Frank Gamble could hear him all the way back in Lexington when he screamed in desperation.