Page 14 of Red Line

She pulled her phone from her pocket, and under the cloud of dust, she surreptitiously captured his fingerprints in her app then took pictures of what there was to photograph. She’d look at them later and probably hand them off to one of the Langley teams, which spent their time building understandings of connections. Maybe he was a known entity. She’d send the pictures of Moussa as well. Though, Red didn’t like sending people pictures like this or asking them to focus on the details. There was no framing the target images without capturing severed and charred body parts.

Red couldn’t imagine what studying them did to someone’s mental health.

With her back to the street, Red touched the man’s arm that snaked under his body. Without rolling him, she followed his sleeve under the weight of his unsupported chest. He gripped a phone. She dragged it out from under him, swiped it open, and held the phone to his face, angling it down so the software could register his biometrics, his eyelids half open in death. Once she had access, Red changed the security code and added her own facial recognition information to maintain access, then tucked it into one of her tactical pockets.

People began to move into view, forming the ring she had predicted.

With the dust settling, they’d remember someone taking pictures and patting pockets instead of trying to help.

Crouch walking closer to Moussa, Red thrust her weight into her heels and heaved the table top up with enough of an angle that she could roll it to the side. The thick wood tabletop was heavier than expected—or she was weaker than she was used to.

For Moussa’s sake, Red didn’t know what to hope for as she pressed the table away—not that her hopes had any power here. If he had survived, his life would be forever changed.

Look at this place. Look where he is. Look how he’s lying.

Blinking down, Red saw that Moussa’s face was recognizable. His torso, where his ribs protected vital organs, seemed fine, and his white shirt was still very white.

But he was very clearly dead.

Dead.

Of course, he was.

And she had only survived because she had the shits.

Wasn’t that a strange twist of fate?

Chapter Five

Nomad

Over the last three nights in Ankara’s city center, Nomad’s job, along with his Delta Force team, was to ensure his principals slept safe and sound behind the heavy doors of their hotel rooms.

The modern card-locking systems seemed anachronistic amongst the art and statuary stringing the length of the hall.

The place was pristinely clean, but there was that musty smell endemic to centuries-old buildings.

Nomad had paced up and down this hall enough times that he had a mind map of the squeaky floorboards hidden under the golden design on the red carpet.

For this close protection mission, Delta Force Team Echo was traveling with a bi-partisan delegation of representatives from the House.

It wasn’t typical for a Delta Force team to be involved when members of the legislature went overseas to a non-combat zone.

A number of variables were weighed when deciding how to keep government officials safe. The reason Nomad was in this hall (keeping himself amused and focused by avoiding the squeaking floor planks) boiled down to three issues—the proximity to the Russian war against Ukraine, the current concerns over the Black Sea just to the north, and the fact that Representative Johnstone tweeted a meme that struck a match then held that flame uncomfortably close to the fuel of regional unrest.

His tweet went viral.

Johnstone followed up the tweeted meme by spending his Sunday morning on talk shows “shooting off his mouth,” riling tensions through insults and threats.

In America, Johnstone got what he’d wanted, the pundits opined, suggesting that this tactic made sense from a politically strategic point of view. After all, Johnstone was behind in the polls. Viral outrage was free publicity and nudged his grassroots supporters to take action. With the furor, funds flowed to his coffers.

Nomad didn’t have an opinion on any of that.

Nomad’s concern focused squarely on ramifications and how the present situation might impact the group's safety.

How it played in America was not necessarily how other countries reacted. Türkiye felt the sting of Johnstone’s words and expressed their anger loudly on social media—much more quietly in the halls of government. As a result, the incoming messages were full of vitriol and highly detailed, credible threats.

Usually, the DSS— the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service—would handle the protection of official representatives of the United States government while abroad. But with the ensuing backlash, the FBI got involved. After more hoopla, the protection had upgraded to a CIRG team—the tactical operators in the FBI.

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