Page 31 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

I saw the meeting point through the truck's windshield—a cargo container positioned near the pier's edge, illuminated by a single flood lamp.

We had three approach routes—the main pier access, a service ladder from the water level, and a maintenance catwalk connected to an adjacent loading facility.

Concealment would be easy among the stacked containers. Potential snipers would have clear sightlines from the surrounding warehouse rooftops.

Matthew glanced at me. "Tactical assessment?"

"Defensible if you're expecting trouble. Terrible if someone wants to trap you." I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Perfect for a reunion that could go either way."

Matthew's radio crackled with Marcus's voice: "Over—in posit—. Two heat—on the—" The transmission died completely.

Matthew checked his radio—battery indicator showed red and growled, "Shit. We're flying blind."

We stepped out into the night air. The pier stretched before us like a concrete runway, fog swirling around our ankles as we moved toward the illuminated container.

I kept my right hand loose near the pistol Matthew had given me, while my left maintained contact with his elbow. The bandages beneath my shirt pulled with each step, reminding me that only surgical thread and stubborn determination held me together.

There was no engine noise from the harbor. Not even a distant traffic hum. The water lapped against the pier supports with hushed whispers.

Then—movement.

It was a tall, lean figure walking like someone who'd learned to tiptoe through hostile territory. Hands visible, empty, but positioned where they could reach concealed weapons in half a heartbeat.

I held my breath.

I recognized that walk. He slightly favored his left leg where shrapnel had torn through muscle during an ambush outside Kabul. His shoulders tensed.

Farid.

Alive. Real. Breathing.

He moved closer. I'd last seen him just over two weeks ago, but now he appeared gaunt. More gray threaded through his black hair than I remembered.

Still, it was unmistakably him.

"Zmaa malgari," he called softly—"my friend" in Pashto.

If this were a trick, it would be the cruelest one yet. My heart sprinted before my legs did.

I half-shuffled, half-ran toward him. My coordination was off—weeks of favoring my left side had thrown off my balance. What should have been a jog became an awkward lurch.

Farid opened his arms.

I crashed into him with enough force to stagger us both, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. He felt different—lighter, stiffer, worn down to essential components—but solid. Real. Breathing against my neck while the harbor fog swirled around us.

Pain exploded through my ribs.

I jerked back with a sharp gasp, one hand reaching for my side where fresh stitches had pulled against healing tissue. Farid's hands steadied me.

"Careful," I croaked, breathing through the spike of agony. "I'm stitched together with spite and duct tape."

He offered a half-smile—a ghost of the expressions I remembered. "Some things never change. You always did heal like a wolverine with anger management issues."

I pulled back far enough to study his face properly. He'd lost significant weight, but his eyes remained alert, calculating, and intelligent.

Behind me, I heard Matthew's boots scraping against the concrete as he approached with cautious steps. Farid's attention shifted past my shoulder, and I watched him process what he saw.

I stepped to the side. "This is Matthew McCabe, the medic who—"

"Who held pressure on wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding while I performed my Oscar-worthy death scene"? Farid sighed heavily. "And once my friend."

Matthew stopped just short of comfortable conversational distance. Farid studied him with the intensity he'd reserved for potential threats. Then, moving slowly, he stepped forward and extended his right hand.

"I owe you an apology," Farid said quietly. "For what they made you believe."

Matthew stared at the offered hand. Instead of accepting it, he pushed forward and pulled Farid into a fierce hug.

Farid tensed initially, uncertain how to respond to the unexpected gesture from a man who had every right to hate him. Slowly, his hands came up to rest against Matthew's shoulders.

"I thought I'd failed you," Matthew's voice cracked. "I thought I'd let you die."

"You didn't fail." Farid's response was barely audible. "You kept me alive long enough for Hoyle's extraction team to take over. You did what you were supposed to do."

They stood in the fog-wrapped harbor, holding each other like survivors of the same shipwreck. When they finally separated, both men's eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

Farid cleared his throat. "Well, this is a little awkward. Should we form a support group? Survivors of Hoyle's Manipulative Theatre Company?"

I laughed. Sharp and sudden, the sound escaped before I could contain it.

Some things never change. Even after everything they'd done to him, Farid still deflected profound emotion with perfectly timed sarcasm.

I grinned. "Good to have you back."

"Good to be back." Farid glanced between Matthew and me, noting how we stood close enough for our shoulders to touch. "Though I see I've missed some interesting developments."

Matthew reached for my hand, weaving our fingers together. "A few things have changed."

"Indeed." Farid smiled. "We should talk. All of us. There's much to explain, and not much time to do it."

The fog pressed closer around us, muffling the distant harbor sounds. Three men stood at the intersection of past trauma and an uncertain future.

We found a cluster of abandoned shipping crates stacked near the pier's edge, their corrugated surfaces streaked with rust and salt residue. Farid settled onto an overturned wooden pallet, while Matthew and I claimed adjacent crates that creaked under our weight.

Farid pulled a dented flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a careful sip. His hands trembled. Three years of captivity had left marks deeper than the visible scars.

"Afghanistan first," I said. "The convoy. What really happened?"

"The explosion was real. Vehicle damage, casualties—all genuine. But my injuries?" He gestured toward his torso with a bitter smile. "Theater."

Matthew went rigid beside me. "Theater?"

"Five minutes between blast and your arrival. Enough time for prosthetics, pig's blood, performance briefing." Farid took another sip, longer this time. "Die convincingly but not immediately. Make the medic believe completely."

Matthew's radio crackled. Marcus's voice cut through the fog: "Movement on the perimeter. Two vehicles, government plates, holding position six blocks out."

I felt Matthew tense. "How long do we have?"

"Unknown. They're not advancing yet."

Farid didn't seem surprised. "They're always watching. Part of the game." He stood abruptly, pacing to the pier's edge where harbor water lapped against concrete. "Your grief had to be authentic, Matthew. They study trauma responses like market data."

"Authentic? For what?" Matthew's voice cracked.

"So you could let me go, and I could meet Dorian. Fate made me the guide to bring the two of you together. Dorian needs someone who can see past his defenses. Someone who comforts the broken because—"

"Because someone has to," Matthew finished.

The flask slipped from Farid's fingers, clattering against concrete. Amber whiskey pooled in the cracks between pier sections. "I watched you grieve for me through surveillance feeds. Watched you suffer with guilt that belonged to them, not you."

I stood, my ribs protesting. "You orchestrated our meeting? On the freeway?"

"No, that surprised me, but after the hospital," Farid's voice turned sharp, "You are brilliant, paranoid, and self-destructive. You will get yourself killed rather than surrender. Until you find someone whose welfare matters more than your stubborn pride."

The radio crackled again. "Vehicles are moving. ETA eight minutes."

Matthew was on his feet, his hand instinctively checking his weapon. "We need to wrap this up."

"The hospital," I pressed. "How did you know I was there?"

"Embedded triggers. Injury profiles, behavioral flags.

" Farid retrieved the flask, noting the spilled whiskey with something like regret.

"I didn't expect the bullet on the freeway, but the moment someone matching your patterns appeared in a Seattle ER, my network activated.

I confirmed your identity within an hour. "

He reached into his jacket, producing a small encrypted drive. "Updated. Everything you need to destroy Hoyle's empire. Bank records, personnel files, operational logs." His eyes met mine. "Three years of intelligence gathering for this moment."

Marcus's voice crackling through static: "Five minutes out. You need to move."

"Where will you go?" Matthew asked.

"Away." Farid pressed the drive into my palm, his fingers cold against mine. "Far enough they can't find me. Close enough to testify when the trials begin."

The fog had thickened around us, but in the distance, I heard the faint hum of approaching engines.

"We were all supposed to be dead," Farid said quietly. "Hoyle's greatest mistake was loving theater just a little too much. He feeds on drama."

Farid walked toward the shadows, then stopped. "Take care of him, Matthew. He's worth the manipulation."

"I know," Matthew replied.

Farid disappeared into the fog just as headlights pierced the industrial gloom.

"We are all alive," I said quietly. "The world hasn't taken everything. Not yet."

Matthew squeezed my hand again. "And we won't let it."