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J ordan Krychek ran into the Hostage Rescue Team compound late for the morning briefing.

He was never late.

He’d arrived back in the US after a journey that had been plagued with delays and missed connections.

He’d slept like the dead last night, knocked on his ass by the travel and the seven-hour time difference between Virginia and Harare.

He was eager to get back to a regular routine with the guys.

Running around Africa had been fun for a short time, but when none of the leads had panned out, the last few weeks had been frustrating, especially after Scotty—Dave Monteith—had been killed while performing his duties.

He wanted to hang with the guys. To reconnect.

On arrival, he’d contacted task force leader SSA Reid Armstrong at SIOC at FBI Headquarters where their JTTF was based, checked there were no updates. Armstrong was the former Legal Attaché to Indonesia and intimately acquainted with Hurek. Armstrong had told him to go home.

Instead, he’d gone into the HRT compound and caught HRT Director Daniel Ackers and said “Hi” to some of the guys who were around.

After that he’d gone to see Scotty’s widow.

Grace was still reeling from the loss of the man she loved and had looked visibly aged, probably from grief and the burden of being six-months pregnant.

He knew all about the former and nothing about the latter.

He’d ordered takeout pizza for them all and put the kids to bed while Grace rested.

Afterwards, he hadn’t even had the energy to drive home.

He’d passed out on her couch and been woken by five-year-old Katie staring holes through him at seven a.m. that morning.

She’d wanted to know if he’d seen her daddy anywhere, and then she’d started crying when he said he hadn’t. To distract them both from the terrible reality her daddy wasn’t ever coming home, Jordan had helped her make her mom breakfast, which the little girl had delivered with steely determination.

Now he was late, and he hadn’t even been home yet, but it had been worth it to pay his respects to his friend’s family.

Jordan wasn’t sure where he was being assigned yet.

Kurt had told him confidentially about his likely promotion to Director of HRT.

As Payne Novak was doing a hell of a job as Gold Team leader, Novak would probably take on that role permanently.

With the assaulter and sniper teams at full quota, Jordan was hoping for some sort of assistant role working directly with Kurt, which would be sweet after seven glorious years on Gold Team.

In the short term, if the Hurek task force allowed, he hoped to get seconded to the task force hunting the murdering bastard who’d killed Scotty.

His work cell alerted with a Code Red, and his brain instantly switched to high gear. Had Kurt’s meeting with Bjorn Anders led to actionable intelligence? Would they send HRT or DEVGRU?

He and Kurt had spoken briefly yesterday but the connection had been so awful Jordan had barely been able to discern what Kurt was saying. He nodded to friends and colleagues as he wove between them and quickly found a seat.

Everyone quieted down when Director Ackers walked into the room and took his place at the front. Jordan had a lot of respect for Ackers. The man had served on the teams and understood the ropes in a way no outsider ever could.

The director’s mouth was grim. Eyes downcast. He raised his hand to get everyone’s attention and inhaled a deep, preparatory breath.

“I have some bad news and, considering what happened in Houston, I wanted to be the one to break it to you all. You probably know Kurt Montana was due back from a TDY today.”

Jordan leaned forward. Had Kurt found Hurek? Was HRT going to be the team to bring him in? Even though he’d only just arrived home, he itched to go bring that bastard to justice.

“Twenty minutes ago, I received word from the State Department that the flight from Harare was involved in a catastrophic incident. I’m afraid State believes everyone on board died. There are no known survivors.”

No.

That couldn’t be right.

Jordan’s head rang with an unreal silence as his heart slammed inside his chest. Then his windpipe closed, and he couldn’t swallow.

Ackers held his gaze for a long moment, his brown eyes reddened as if fighting tears.

“We’re obviously going to be searching for more clarity about the situation, and members of Red Team are being deployed to investigate on the ground.

” He cleared his throat. “But to my immense sadness, I have every reason to believe Kurt Montana died on that flight. I’m about to go break the news to his family.

Operators Novak and Angeletti, I’d like you to accompany me, if you don’t mind.

Jordan, I need a quick word in my office. ”

Jordan sat in his chair as everyone else whirled into motion. He felt as if he’d been drained of blood and stuck in a deep freeze.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

Aaron Nash. “You okay?”

Jordan stared at his colleague and friend. He could see the questions burning in Aaron’s eyes, feel curiosity that bordered on suspicion. They wanted to know what he and Kurt had been doing in Africa and if that could have had a bearing on Kurt dying in a plane crash.

Dying .

Dead.

Kurt was dead.

Jordan should have been on that flight. He should be dead too.

He’d grabbed a last-minute cancellation because he was fed up with being jerked around by liars and grifters. He’d doubted Bjorn Anders would have anything useful to tell them, and Jordan had been sick of hitting dead end after dead end while Hurek continued to evade them.

Now he wanted to go back. To turn around and get right back on the next plane to find out what the fuck had happened to Kurt.

“Jordan. You okay?” Aaron repeated.

He shook his head. He wasn’t okay.

Pressure from a dozen pairs of eyes drilled into him.

He needed to go see Ackers. Then talk to the rest of the task force in DC.

Make sure they knew about this and see what the hell was going on.

He wanted permission to share details of their investigation with other members of Gold Team.

He wanted to drown in a bottle of whiskey or fall asleep and never wake up.

This could not be true. Perhaps it was some terrible mistake?

“You’re a hell of a lucky guy, Krychek.” Birdman leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, a twisted expression marring his blunt features.

Jordan stood abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor before he headed out of the room to talk to Ackers and then find somewhere quiet to grieve.

He wasn’t lucky.

He was cursed.

“I hate to say this, but I really need to pee.” Row had been crossing her legs for the last ten miles.

“If I remember correctly, there used to be a famous tea house along this road.” She and her family had visited about a decade ago.

“I don’t know if it’s still open for business, but if it is, could we make a quick pit stop?

Otherwise, I’m gonna have to find a bush. ”

Montana shot her a look and gave a reluctant nod.

She checked his cell to see if the phone service was back yet.

“Still no signal.” The power had been off since they’d left Marondera, and the rain hadn’t let up. Puddles were forming wide stretches across the roads.

Up ahead, a large, white, bulbous-shaped sign with Halfway House painted on it appeared in the distance.

“Oh, that’s the place. You think it’s open?”

“Only one way to find out.” Montana indicated right and pulled down a side road and into a large gravel car park in front of a thatched, white-painted with fresh green trim, Dutch colonial building with the dates 1891-1991 printed above the door.

The lights were off, but there were a couple of other vehicles in the car park.

Row undid her seatbelt and grabbed her bag. “I’ll be quick.”

“Wait. I’ll come with you. Let’s see if they have coffee.”

He’d been quiet since he’d gotten back in the car, and she had the feeling he was distracted about something. That, or he was still suspicious of her, which was hardly surprising as he didn’t know her.

He dug into the backseat and pulled a rain jacket from one of the bags. He snapped off the tags and handed her the coat, which was a dark purple like the favorite trainers she’d had to give up.

“Thanks.” She slipped her arms into the sleeves, which felt cold against her skin. At least the rain had taken the heat out of the day.

He dug into his own rucksack to remove a black Gore-Tex shell which he quickly donned.

They both put up their hoods and, after locking the car, dashed through the puddles into the entrance.

It was cool inside and dark because of the power outage.

But the café was still serving food and drinks, so Rowena touched Montana’s arm and felt his muscles tense in surprise.

She quickly drew away. “I’ll be right back.”

“Tea or coffee?”

“Tea with plenty of milk please. No sugar.”

She used the facilities and washed up. It was cold enough inside the building that gooseflesh formed on her arms. She headed back to the main shop, glad to see there was some fresh fruit and vegetables on sale as well as chocolate bars.

Business seemed to be thriving. She spotted Montana sitting outside beneath a covered area at a large picnic table.

The other people had left. Rain dripped off the edge of the thatched roof and from the leaves of the tree in the center of the large square courtyard.

He’d bought scones with cream and jam which surprised her. Playing the tourist? Or did he have a sweet tooth? She wished she knew more about the guy. She sat and pulled her cup and plate toward her.

“I’m surprised they have hot water.” She sipped the hot tea. Perfect.

“They have a gas burner. Apparently, power outages aren’t uncommon especially in the wet season.”