Trent grinned. “Took you long enough.”
Then they were back to work, no time wasted on sentiment. Omar joined them at the table, and within seconds he was caught up: the Potomac extraction team was trapped in the Marseille safe house, and they were going to get them out.
A door at the back of the hangar opened, and a wiry man walked in carrying four beers by their necks. A scar ran through his left eyebrow and silver stubble covered his jaw. He wore faded jeans and a t-shirt with the French tricolor on it.
Frank “Squirrel” Weller earned his Air Force call sign thanks to his habit of eating peanuts during missions and constantly leaving shells everywhere in the cockpit.
He set the beers on the workbench and nodded at Omar. “Saw you pull up, Khan. Didn’t know you were the third man.”
“Neither did we,” Jake said dryly.
Unperturbed, Squirrel twisted the cap off his beer and took a long pull.
Jake eyed him. “You sure you’re still up for this, Squirrel? We could use a pilot, I won’t lie. But with Omar, I could fly the bird, and he and Trent could go inside.”
Squirrel nodded once. “Three men inside is better than two. Not to mention, I’m a better pilot than you.”
Jake nodded. “I owe you.”
“Not even close.”
A look passed between the two old Air Force friends.
Omar knew the broad strokes of their history. Jake had saved Squirrel’s life in Afghanistan during a mission to rescue French soldiers pinned down by heavy fire in the Korengal Valley. Their chopper took an RPG hit on approach. Squirrel was wounded, shrapnel in his shoulder, blood running down his flight suit.
Jake had climbed into the cockpit, kept pressure on the wound with one hand while helping Squirrel work the controls with the other, and talked him through the landing. They’d crashed hard but walked away. Saved the French soldiers, too.
Both received medals from the French government. A Croix de Guerre for Jake. The Médaille Militaire for Squirrel.
After Squirrel retired from the Air Force, he resettled in France—partly for his connection to the country, partly for a fresh start from his three ex-wives. He ran the aviation school mostly as a hobby and as cover to help out his old buddies when they needed off-the-books air support.
When Jake called, Squirrel answered.
They drank their beers, and Omar devoured several slices of cold pizza while Jake laid out the mission to get past the takeout and get their people out of the apartment where they were trapped.
Jake spread the intel on the workbench and went over each piece one by one. Satellite imagery. Building schematics. Street maps. Photographs of the safe house from multiple angles.
“Someone,” Jake said, his voice tight, “put our team on a terrorist watch list. Ryan convinced the French authorities not to act on it, but they also aren’t going to do anything about the operatives staking out the building.
“How many?”
Trent tapped the satellite photo. “Four positions we can confirm. Probably more we can’t.”
“The moment our guys try to leave,” Jake continued, “they’ll get grabbed.”
Omar studied the setup. It was elegant in its simplicity. The team couldn’t stay—they’d starve or be raided eventually. And they couldn’t leave—they’d be arrested or disappeared the moment they stepped outside.
“Did Ryan find out which agency is running the stakeout?” he asked.
Jake’s face went grim. “Every avenue’s been shut down. He hit walls everywhere. Called in every favor he had, got nowhere.”
“The commandos at the inn?”
“Same. No intel. No leads. Nothing.”
“Oof.” Squirrel made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut.
Someone with real power was behind this. Someone with the juice to shut down inquiries, erase digital trails, and mobilize assets across international borders.