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“You tell me.”
His voice sounded strange, something that could only partially be explained by the recent removal of his breathing tube. Beneath the hoarseness was a mix of emotions the former SEAL was normally immune to: anger, disappointment, embarrassment. Kennedy knew that he was questioning his abilities, telling himself that he’d let his team down. It was all complete nonsense, of course, but she’d learned that it was unavoidable nonsense in men like him.
“The doctors tell me it’s going to be a long, difficult process, but that you’re going to make a full recovery.”
Not really a lie, but a statement dressed up with a fair amount of positive spin.
“Did we get the nuke?”
“Yeah,” Nash said. “We even flew it back here and let Craig tear it apart. Got a lot of good intel.”
“Where’s Mitch?”
“He and Mas had to take the warhead back. The Pakistanis were getting their panties bunched up about us having it.”
They would say nothing about Rapp’s current status, the missing fissile material, or the other compromised nukes. Until Coleman was in far better condition, the message was that the operation had been a complete success.
“And the guy who did this to me?” he said, shifting his gaze back to the window.
“We don’t have to talk about that now, buddy. It can wait.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Nash glanced at Kennedy, who nodded subtly. If Coleman felt up to it, they needed his help.
“We’ve been spitballing a few ideas. You want to take a look?”
“Yeah,” came the expected reply.
“Do you remember his face?” Kennedy asked.
Coleman went deathly still for a moment. “I remember.”
Nash pulled a tablet from his briefcase, arranging the photos of nine men on screen before carrying it to his injured friend.
“You think it’s one of them?” Coleman asked.
“Maybe. There aren’t that many choices based on the description of . . .” Nash’s voice faltered for a moment. “You know. Of what happened.”
“You mean me getting my ass kicked like I was from the fucking typing pool?”
Nash let out a long breath. “No one blames you for this, Scott. Not me, not Mas, and most of all, not Mitch.”
Coleman wasn’t buying. “Maybe it would have been different if it had been you out there.”
“Yeah, I’d be dead. Look, Scott. I was a good soldier. But as much as I hate to say it out loud, I wasn’t as good as you. So let’s forget all this bullshit, okay?”
When Coleman didn’t respond, Nash tapped the tablet. “What do you think? All we got from Mitch was white, around six feet, and between thirty and forty years old. Do any of these guys ring a bell?”
“Who are they?”
“Top foreign spec ops guys we’ve lost track of.”
The former SEAL scanned the faces. “The one on the lower right. It doesn’t really look like him, but there’s something familiar. Is it possible I know him from somewhere else?”
“I doubt it,” Nash said, retreating back to his chair. “His name’s Grisha Filipov.”
Coleman just shook his head as Nash went to work on the photo, darkening the hair, smoothing the cheeks, and lifting the eyelids.