Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters, dressing them up in MARPAT, and giving them some guns.

Unbeta'd, unedited.

July 4
Deathstalker Terrorist Compound
Somewhere West-Central Somalia, Along the Ethiopian Border

Bella's eyes opened to blinding, white-violet light.

For a moment, chaos reigned and sheer, unadulterated terror whipped through her veins. Her lungs squeezed. Down became up and up became down, and her vision spun at break-neck speed, turning her surroundings into a nauseating, unfocused watercolor. Harsh spasms racked her body and bowed her spine, forcing her to gulp back raspy, sawing breaths that never seemed to stop.

Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours later, a low, steady mechanical hum cut through the madness and found her ears, finally bringing with it some measure of reason. Gradually, the room stopped spinning, and shapes began to take form.

With will power she didn't know she possessed, Bella forced her body to go slack and ordered her heartbeat to stop slamming into her ribcage. Daring not to make another sound, she closed her eyes into narrow slits and started to catalogue her surroundings.

Pungent and unfamiliar, it smelled like a mechanic's garage, metallic and tangy, like motor oil and hot brakes, cut with a heavy dose of diesel exhaust. The air was dusty, too, and when she glanced up into the light, tiny flecks sparkled and danced on the currents from an overhead ventilation system.

Counting back from thirty, Bella exhaled a slow, quiet breath. Eventually, that steady hum morphed into a low-frequency, thrumming reverberation that she could feel all the way in her bones. "Generators," she whispered, piecing together the subtle vibration with the stench of exhaust. "They're running diesel generators."

Curled in a loose fetal position, beneath her left side, the concrete floor felt rough – like it'd been laid by hand. Specks of leftover sand and fragments of sharp debris bit into her skin. It was cold, too, and from the deep chill that permeated through her stiff, aching muscles, Bella realized that she'd been laying there for a long time. Hours, a day, she couldn't tell. When she tried to check her watch, hard, narrow plastic cut into her wrists, where they were pinned together behind her back.

Twisting and tugging against the restraints, those wild bolts of panic threatened to take over once more. Her lids slammed shut, fighting against hot tears of frustration and fear, but as wetness trickled down her cheek to the concrete, she caught the faintest hint of that oh-so-familiar aftershave from where it lingered on her clothes. The low, cool, confident voice that went with it, now buried somewhere deep in her psyche, commanded her to calm down and told her to be smart.

So instead of giving in to the dread that bubbled in the back of her throat and made her tremble, Bella again slowed her breathing and listened.

"No one," she said to herself, detecting none of the usual, telltale sounds of people.

This time, when Bella moved, it was with purpose. Twisting and writhing, scraping her face across the rough concrete, she scooted over toward a banged-up wooden cabinet positioned against a wall. There, she rolled into a slouched sitting position and shoved her back against the cabinet, ignoring the wrenching agony that came with it. Slowly, painfully, she walked her boots inward, pushing and sliding her body into a wall squat that would have made any of her old trainers proud. Mid-way, she stopped, groaning at the cramping muscles in her abdomen and thighs. "Little bit more," she said, panting, and with one last hard huff, Bella repositioned her wrists and then threw her body upward until she was finally standing.

"Shit." Bella's chest heaved. "There's my sit-ups for the day." She blew out a hard breath, trying to force the damp, wild strands of hair that had come out of her ponytail out of her eyes.

Behind her back, she once again yanked her wrists, trying to drive them apart and praying the better leverage would help her break the restraint. The plastic didn't even bend and instead bit into her skin and left it slick. Blinking against the sudden burn, she sucked in a deep ragged lungful of air.

"Okay, okay, we can do this." Calling on every single class of yoga she'd gone to and hated, Bella dropped her shoulders, rolled them forward, curled her body as tight as it would go, and slowly began stepping and squeezing through her bound arms to bring her hands to the front, where maybe – just maybe – she could get them free. Mid-rotation, she stumbled into the cabinet. Her left shoulder popped in protest, but she kept going, and by the time she was through, that slickness had turned into a wet, viscous stream that ran down her wrists to her fingertips and left crimson droplets on the concrete floor.

"Fuck me." Bella clenched her teeth, as another tear leaked down her cheek. Every single muscle and tendon in her body felt like it was on fire, and for a split second, darkness crept along the edges of her vision.

Again, she counted backward from thirty, grasping for the comfort of the captain's voice.

"You're okay…" His voice had been so soft, so quiet and gentle, and so out of place with those three oozing holes and the still-gaping dead man on the floor. "You're fine… I need you to stay with me a little longer, okay? I need you to stay calm and walk outside with me."

It felt like that first firefight had been years ago, not weeks.

"Come on, Bella, get your shit together," she muttered. After another long moment, Bella gave herself a hard, stubborn internal shake. "Be Rosalie."

A small, out of place laugh teased her lips, because there was no doubt that foul-tempered gunnery sergeant would have already kicked down the door and started a fresh body count, weaponless, pissed off, and restraints be damned.

Still not sensing anyone nearby, Bella eyed the room. Devoid of windows, it wasn't a big space, maybe some kind of storage room, no more than 12x12. The tall, unfinished ceiling sported rows of black, cast-iron piping that punched through the thick cinderblock walls near the top and ran parallel across the entire width. A bright commercial-grade fluorescent light buzzed overhead and cast the beige walls a bland, muted gray. Something dry and rust-colored stained the opposite wall in a streaking arc.

A pair of long strides took her to the single heavy metal door in the center of one of the walls. Again, no window, and when she gingerly tested the knob, leaving sticky, glistening red smudges, the thing didn't even rattle. Bella spun on her heels, hoping for something – anything – but a quick, frantic search of the room yielded nothing more than a pair of empty cardboard boxes, a pile of wadded up papers, and an old, cracked 5-gallon bucket.

"Damn it," she said, as she swiped her face across her shoulder, mopping away the sweat, grime, and residual tears. Emmett bellowed in her head. "This fuckin' sucks!"

"Yes, Emmett, yes, it does," she answered back, as she flipped over the lone bucket, positioned it against the far wall, directly across from the single door, and plopped down. "And now I'm talking to ghosts."

At that last word, Bella's heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach, a hard knot formed at the base of her throat, and she blinked back another wave of hot tears. Waiting – for what, she didn't really want to know – her head tilted back against the cinderblock. "Oh, Edward, you're not going to be happy about this."

At some point – an hour, or maybe two later – Bella heard the sound of voices and the scuff of rubber against concrete. Her eyes shot to the bloodied doorknob. Almost as if in slow motion, she watched the knob begin to turn. Every single cell in her body trembled, but she shoved what steel she had left into her spine and rose from the bucket.

The heavy door swung wide with a whine of the hinges, instantly revealing a pair of all-too-familiar soldiers. Each somewhere north of 6 feet, pale-eyed, and light-skinned, and both sporting small arsenals of modern matte-black weaponry, Jasper's Mr. 203 and Mr. Spetsnaz eyed her as if she were nothing more than an annoyance, as they prowled into the room and took up position a few feet on either side of her.

She glanced from her left to her right, just in time to catch the faint smirk on Spetsnaz's face, recalling all too well the high-powered shots strafing the building overhead as he taunted her back in that alley in Mogadishu. That smirk vanished, however, right as a third man filled the empty doorframe.

Tall, lean, and athletic, despite his sixty-odd years, Vladislav Aronović stepped inside the small cinderblock storage room. Unlike the pair of lethal soldiers beside her, the man was weaponless, completely at ease, and wearing the boring white button-up and gray slacks professorial uniform that she would have expected to see on some college campus, not in a deadly terrorist compound in the middle of one of the most dangerous places on the planet.

With sharp, aristocratic features, he was almost handsome – regal, even – until he turned to one of the soldiers, and Bella glimpsed the angry, mottled skin that ran down the entire right side of his face, from his temple all the way down his neck where it disappeared beneath the starched white collar. Chemical burns, she thought, mentally flipping through the profile they'd reviewed in the desert so many days ago.

Intelligent, cunning gray eyes glinted in the bright fluorescent light. Hands clasped, almost cheerful, Dr. Aronović slowly perused her, pausing on her scuffed-up cheek and then a second time on her blood-stained wrists.

"My dear, Dr. Swan," he purred, his accent light, lilting, and sophisticated, and again, Bella was struck by the incongruity of the situation. "What have you done to yourself?"

Bella's chin jutted out, belying the fact that her lungs had seized the moment the knob had turned.

"Captain Walker!" Aronović snapped, abruptly, not breaking eye contact. "Did you do this to her?"

Before she could stop herself, Bella's back smacked into the wall behind her, as a fourth man in camouflage fatigues slid into the room. This one was dirtier, dingier, with stringy blond hair and a strong hawk-bill nose, but he was so utterly silent in his movements and far, far deadlier than the two beside her. Bella barely even noticed the slim, attractive woman with a head full of smooth auburn curls that trailed behind him.

Walker's lips curved into a dark, predatorial smile, and his eyes, black as night, gleamed, as though he were laughing. "Interesting," was all he said, but those eyes – those godawful black eyes – they drilled into her with the promise of untold horror to come.

"James, I specifically told you not to damage her," Aronović bit out.

Eyes not leaving her wide ones, Walker tsked. "That's not damage."

Dr. Aronović made a clucking sound and waved an elegant hand. "As much as I abhor judgement of another man's proclivities, Dr. Swan is to remain unmolested… unless I deem it necessary." Those shrewd silvery-gray eyes narrowed. "I doubt there will be a need for your particular brand of motivation." Shadows danced across his scarred flesh as his lips spread into the proximity of a smile. "No, I have a feeling that Dr. Swan is smarter than her predecessor. I think she will recognize the futility of resistance and realize that her best option is cooperation."

Walker's jaw ticked.

"Do you understand me, Captain?"

Like a switch, a bland, almost congenial mask slid over the former British captain's features, but Bella wasn't fooled. Not when he continued to look at her like a lion tracking its prey. "Of course, Aro."

"Excellent." Aronović smile widened. "Now, Dr. Swan, please forgive me for not properly introducing myself. I am Vladislav Aronović, although I imagine you already knew that." His tone was light, again almost cheerful, as though exchanging pleasantries with a colleague instead of a terrified, tied-up and bleeding prisoner. Pausing, he waited for Bella to nod in acknowledgment. "Ah, yes, certainly, you knew that. But you may call me Professor, or simply Aro, if you'd prefer. Shall I call you Isabella? Or perhaps Bella?"

Bella gulped and fought the tremor that sped down her spine. "Either is fine." Her throat bobbed. "Why am I here?"

Aro moved in closer. "So modest. How delightful." He tapped his chin, as if studying a piece of art. "You don't often see that in our discipline."

Bella didn't respond.

"I've been following your work for years," he said, again nearly purring, and his gaze turned distant. "Your thesis was… utter genius. Your advisor had no idea what you'd created, no concept of the sheer potential of it." Before she could argue, he added, and there was no hiding the bite of judgement. "Frankly, I was stunned when you took the position at DARPA… the government." The words spat out like a vile epithet. "You could have written your own check."

The shudder that rolled down Bella's spine was unstoppable. "My work was meant to be hypothetical," she said, almost to herself. "It was meant to be a springboard for countermeasures and anti-agents."

Aro let out a bone-chilling laugh. "But where's the fun in that?"

Squaring her shoulders, as much as the restraints would allow, tamping down the terror that ballooned with each word the man spoke, she asked him, "Dr. Aronović." She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Why did you kidnap Dr. Biers if you knew the weapon was mine?"

Aro's almost-pleasant expression abruptly turned furious but then, just as quickly as the angry lines appeared, it melted into what she could only describe as mournful. "Dr. Biers was… a mistake."

Bella sucked in a slow, shaky breath.

"We thought he might be more… amenable," Aro went on, gesturing to the red head standing silently behind Walker. The woman smiled. "Especially with Victoria here to help persuade him. He was such a naïve young man."

A split-second of rage blasted away the horror, and with everything in her, Bella wanted to rail against the man in front of her, as well as the smiling woman who'd lured her best friend to his terrible grave. Her fists balled into angry hammers, stretching the broken skin until slickness coated her wrists once more.

"He was more…" Aro mused, eying the crimson seeping down her wrists to the floor. "Stubborn than we anticipated. Of course, Dr. Biers eventually saw the light, but… it took…"

"Torturing him?" Bella's teeth clenched.

"Torture, motivation, call it whatever you'd like." He flicked a wrist, as if bored, but then his aristocratic features suddenly sharpened. "Tell me, Dr. Swan, will you require motivation?"

Be smart.

That knot in the base of Bella's throat felt like it would choke her, and her eyes burned with a potent blend of sorrow, fury, and desperation, but still, she managed a raspy, broken, "What do you want from me?"

"Ah, a woman who gets right down to the heart of the matter." Aro took another long step toward her and once more, studied her as though she were some kind of intriguing laboratory specimen. "Simply, I want your brain."

Confusion made her blink. "I don't understand. You already have your warheads and missile systems. You've already figured it out." Her arms unconsciously shifted, tugging against the zip-ties digging into her now-burning wrists. "What could you possibly want from me?"

Another peel of laughter stopped her heart.

"My dear, Dr. Swan, those…" Aro waved, pointing to the ceiling above their heads and without realizing it, giving away exactly where she was being held. "Those are just a test… a trial, if you will." As if debating with himself, he paused and pursed his lips, before eventually nodding to the two soldiers flanking her. "Come with me."

Without another word, they exited the storage room and turned down the first narrow half-rock, half-concrete corridor. They moved at a clipped, purposeful pace, and with every passageway and turn, a deep, abiding dread threaded through Bella's limbs, making them heavy and sluggish, even as her mind raced. Desperate, her head swiveled as they walked, as she mentally counted their steps and logged each turn and door.

Dozens of soldiers milled around this underground space. A blend of local and European, they were decked out in an array of camouflage patterns and spoke the same wide assortment of inflections and languages. Here and there, Bella caught glimpses of white coats speeding down halls and ducking into hidden chambers.

By the time they descended a long, narrow staircase, cut from the rock and reinforced by thick steel girders and beams, Bella had lost all sense of direction and time. It was darker down here, lit by naked bulbs strung along the walls, and with each step, her heart sank a little more. "At least two levels," she said to herself, recalling the Israelis' assessment.

As quickly as they started, Aro suddenly halted as the latest passageway gave way to the wide mouth of a large, open cavern-like room, cut entirely out of the rock. Beige-gray limestone stalactites hung from the ceiling, and along the walls ran thick, rust-colored bands of deposited iron. A labyrinth of rounded tunnels led to the left and right, each one black and deep.

But none of that truly registered.

The second Bella stepped into the massive space, her bound wrists flew to her mouth. A sharp breath punched out of her lungs. "Where did you get those?"

Back still to her, Aro strode a few feet into the cavern, spread his arms wide, and then spun to face her. Mania – straight up loony bin material, as Black had named it – lit the man's eyes. "Aren't they magnificent?"

Hands falling away, Bella's entire body slumped, as she stared at the pair of olive drab Topol missiles, each 23 meters long and complete with their own 16-wheeled mobile launcher. On each side, she could still see the red stamped block Cyrillic font. "How…"

Aro laughed again, and the sound of it was like razor blades across her frayed nerves. "Where there is will." He gestured at the massive weapons like a besotted lover. "There is a way. Isn't that the expression?"

"But why?" she whispered, nearly hoarse.

In another whiplash mood, Aro glared at everything and nothing. Shoulders thrown back, his fists balled beside him. "Why not?"

"But…"

"They killed my boy. They killed my sister." Rage spilled from his lips. "My wife… Their meddling took everything from me."

Horrified, Bella stared back and forth between Aronović and Walker, unsure which of the two was worse: the scientist's maniacal revenge and delusions of grandeur or the sadistic psychopathy of the former captain.

"You're…" She started, then stopped herself.

"Insane?" Aro's pepper-gray eyebrows climbed his forehead, disappearing beneath matching disheveled hair. "No, no. I'm quite sane, I assure you."

"Why…" she asked. "Why do you want me?"

"As you can see." He moved deeper into the cavern, glancing over his shoulder. "My goals are far more… aspirational." He motioned her to follow. "These require a different touch. You, Dr. Swan, you will make this happen."

Her toe caught on a crack. "No, I ca–"

"You will," he snapped, halting in the very center of the room. Draped across the far wall on either side of a massive, mechanically drilled tunnel – one that could accommodate the heavy machinery in front of her – were a pair of black and red scorpion banners. "Neither of us wants to involve Captain Walker."

Bella sneaked a look behind her, where Walker lurked mere feet away, still staring at her as though she were prey. She flinched, recalling the sickening sensation of his tongue licking the blood from the corner of her mouth in that hood. As if he could read her mind, his lips spread into a wide, vicious smile. The thick tendons running down the sides of his neck rolled and flexed.

Against every instinct, she turned back. "I don't know anything about these."

"Lie." Aro nodded to the man behind her, a subtle, succinct dip of his chin.

Rough, bruising fingers wrapped around her elbow, jerking her sideways, and then a hard fist slammed into her temple. Bella collapsed to the rock floor, and for a moment, all she saw were purple and green spots. Her periphery was nothing but black, and her ears rang with a high-pitched whine. When she tried to push herself back up, those same bruising fingers gripped her elbow again, yanking her back to her feet. Head swimming, she felt more than saw the former captain, as he leaned in close, running his nose along her aching jaw and inhaling.

Past her tipping point, Bella thrashed and jerked away, ignoring the angry throb of her head. "I don't have experience with these, specifically." She coughed and spat a thick, coppery glob. "I'm a biochemist, like you. My knowledge is theoretical, only enough to work the chemicals themselves. I'm not an engineer."

As if he hadn't just watched Walker beat her to the ground, Aro flicked an uncaring hand. "Certainly not. We have others for that. I need you to adjust the formulations and reaction sequencing to account for the… longer flight path."

Bella ran her tongue across her teeth and spat copper again. "How long?" she asked, even though she already knew.

"Let's go with around… 13 thousand kilometers." Aro smiled, once more the besotted lover. "Their range has been extended by our supplier."

Bella's lids squeezed shut. "Your target?"

"Washington, obviously."

It felt like she'd stepped into some kind of Marvel movie, complete with villainous caricatures. This couldn't be real, she told herself. It just… couldn't be. "But why," she asked, incapable of hiding the despair that threatened to choke her. "Why not just go nuclear?" A bitter laugh tumbled out. "They were designed for that anyway."

"So, you do know something, after all." Aro's gaze shifted to the massive floor to ceiling banners decorating the far wall, and he sighed. "Your weapon is… beautiful, stunning in its destruction." His voice went soft, his accent once again lilting and melodious. "The chaos it creates. The pain. The panic and fear. It's… poetry."

Bella's stomach threatened to empty.

"Now," Aro said, with a small clap that once again reminded Bella that she was looking at madness incarnate. "Why don't we get you cleaned up before you get started?" Without warning, the man stepped back toward the corridor, calling over his shoulder, "And once we have you… settled, we'll, of course, want to know exactly what your little friends are planning." His gray eyes darkened and gleamed. "And Dr. Swan? If you have any further memory lapses, as much as it would pain me to witness, I'm sure Captain Walker would be more than happy to assist."

Exhaustion lapped at Bella's senses, only broken by the hard shove when Spetsnaz forced her back into her make-shift prison cell once they'd finally made the trek back through the warren of long corridors and rock-hewn chambers. She spun, expecting the door to slam shut, but instead found a pair of pale green eyes staring back at her.

"What do you want?" Bella asked, wanting nothing more than to beat the other woman with her bare fists.

Without a word, Victoria smiled, pulled an aggressively curved blade from her belt, and in a move that Bella barely tracked – let alone had time to respond to – she flicked the blade between Bella's wrists, slicing her restraint in two. Reaching down to her feet, she picked up a plastic bag and threw it at Bella's chest. "Clean yourself up, Dr. Swan. Someone will come for you shortly."

As the heavy steel door swung shut, Bella's knees finally gave in, and she crumpled to the floor. She caught herself with her palms, and the movement pulled at the raw skin around her wrists. The fear that had invaded her body the moment she came to and swelled into something truly unimaginable when she saw those intercontinental missiles had now morphed into a kind of foggy numbness and despair. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks and with no other outlet, Bella hugged her knees to her chest and screamed a muffled scream into the MARPAT uniform she still wore.

As she repositioned her knees to hug them tighter, her thigh pressed against something small and stiff at the very bottom of her front shirt pocket. "What the…" Bella whispered, reaching in. Her fingertips traced a hard disc-like object, maybe the size of a quarter and with roughly the same thickness.

A deep, rolling voice sounded in her ears.

If at any time you find yourself alone… if for whatever reason…you are separated from Edward or his team, you will activate this. Flip the hinged cap and depress the button… The moment it's activated, I will know it… We will not let you die there alone at the hands of terrorist dogs.

"Oh, shit," she muttered, as she stared at the small emergency locator the gruff Israeli commander had given her weeks ago out in the pre-dawn Negev.

Hope surged, so hard and so fast, it almost made her dizzy.

"Todah rabah, Major," she whispered. Bella closed her eyes, and behind her lids, came images of those enormous, devastating missiles in that subterranean cavern – missiles that neither the Pentagon, the CIA, nor the Mossad had any idea existed. Weapons her team didn't know existed and wouldn't know about until tomorrow night when they attacked.

Steeling her spine, Bella tucked the small device inside her sports bra and slowly rose. "Not yet, Bella… We need to figure out how far they've gotten. We just need to make it a little longer."

July 4
Temporary Forward Base
50 Kilometers Out from Target Compound
Somewhere West-Central Somalia, Along the Ethiopian Border

"What did you find?"

When Jake took in the eerie, almost preternatural calm of the other captain and heard that utterly cool, self-possessed voice, for the first time in their long history of working around and now with each other, ice crawled down his back.

Jacob shook his head and motioned over to Jared.

Like every other member of their combined team, the Delta's face was a hard mask of simmering fury. "We found boot prints near that old wash building in the back." The man swiped a heavy line of sweat and grime off the back of his neck. "They were hers. Don't know what she was doing back there."

Squinting against the blasting sun, Edward stared past the two men, to where an ancient acacia rose high above the thatch roof of that ramshackle building. "Dr. Swan doesn't sleep well," he heard himself say. "She hates being cooped up in small spaces."

The operator nodded and shifted his rifle to a low ready. "There was another set of prints near hers," he said, flat and toneless, as though they were discussing the weather. But Edward didn't miss the stiff, jerky movement in the man's broad shoulders. "It looks like there was a struggle. She didn't go willingly."

"Go on."

"That second set of prints went off into the brush. I tracked them to a dried-out creek bed that doubles as some kind of road 3 miles to the southwest." The man paused, wiped his face, and his voice turned gravelly. "She was dragged at some point."

Edward's fists spasmed. "Unconscious?"

"I think so." Hesitantly, Jared reached deep into one of his vest pockets and then extended his arm, holding out an all-too-familiar sand-colored .45. "He threw this in some bushes. It's hers."

As Edward took the weapon and tucked it into the back of his waistband, the hard, cut from granite line of his jaw rolled. "Did anyone pick her up? Do we know what time he took her?"

Jacob motioned over to his sniper team. "Embry saw her standing outside the hut, maybe around two. He and Paul were doing their rounds. Something spooked some wildlife out front and they went to assess."

Edward glanced over to the other captain. "Diversion?"

Jacob's features hardened and his chin dipped. "Likely."

"So, they were waiting for her."

Neither operator responded.

Slowly, Edward's gaze moved from the ancient tree in the back to the distant horizon, where he could just make out the faint outline of the tall plateaus and jagged mountains. They shimmered in the hot sun, almost like a mirage. Dry, heated air blew across his skin, turning the sheen of sweat tacky. "Give me a minute, and we'll regroup."

The Delta team responded in unison, automatically shifting into an easy, loose formation that did nothing to hide the rippling fury that mirrored the tight, whipping churn in Edward's gut.

As soon as they disappeared behind the hut, Edward leaned against the scorching steel of the closest vehicle – the same black Land Rover they'd picked up at that godforsaken desert lab. Without conscious direction, his palm clapped against the ache that blossomed in his side and slipped inside his shirt and then beneath the soft cotton of his undershirt. His fingertips ghosted down the long, jagged scars, trembling at the throb of recalled pain. His head spun, as a phantom knife pierced his flesh, and once more he felt that old Taliban elder's bare fingers drilling deep into his wounds and making him scream in agony.

For a short moment, their surroundings fell away, and all Edward saw was darkness and shifting shadows. He could smell the stench of his own sweat and vomit. His muscles seized. Somewhere he heard gunfire.

"Emmett," he said softly.

"Yes, sir." The big man's voice came from his right.

"Where are we?"

The Marine stiffened and looked over to Rosalie and then to Alice. "Somalia, sir."

Edward's eyes slid shut, as he tipped his head back against the metal. The steel burned the back of his neck, but he didn't flinch or move away. "Thank you, Staff Sergeant."

"Edward?" Alice asked, stepping closer to lean against the SUV beside him.

He didn't reply at first, but when she called his name again, this time carrying the distinct notes of panic, Edward's fingertips froze against his skin and his eyes blinked open. As quickly as it had appeared, that faraway, distant expression vanished. In its place was one of death and ice-cold rage. "I'm fine, Tinkerbell."

"Ed–"

"It's fine, Al," he said. "We don't have time for this." He called over to his gunnery sergeant, who wore that nail-spitting glare he knew so well. "Rose, I need you to get Eli on the com."

"Yes, sir."

Edward turned back to Alice. "You and I need to go over a few things."

Alice's lips spread in alarm. "What are you talking about?"

Edward looked down at his diminutive, irreverent pilot with a small smile, one that didn't touch the frigid stillness that was as much a part of him as the iridescent lines and scars that marked his body. Red rimmed her bloodshot eyes, and there were translucent tracks running from the corners. "You'll be on point tomorrow night. We'll have to re-coordinate with Black and El'azar."

She balked. "Edward, no, you–"

"Alice, you and I both know the only reason you're not wearing that second bar is branch politics." He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You were a hair away from promotion back in the Air Force. You are more than capable of leading this team."

The lieutenant shrugged off his hand and barreled around. "No fucking shit, but that's not the problem!"

"I don't have a choice," he said, so softly she almost missed it. "I won't leave her to them. You saw Dr. Biers. You know what happened to me. I won't allow that to happen to her." Emerald fire lit his eyes, and she took an involuntary step backward. "Do you understand me?"

"I–"

"The operation may be compromised, but it must move forward," he continued. "We're out of time and we have to stop them, no matter what. But I have to find her." Edward shoved off the vehicle, straightening to his full height. "So, while you and the rest of the team are securing the laboratory and Aro, I will go get Dr. Swan."

Horror made her sputter. "You can't go alone. It's a suicide mission, you know that, right?"

"I can and I will." Again, the captain's gaze turned inward. Low, calm, and with a cool, detached stillness that made Alice shiver, he said, "There is no possible scenario where I won't go after her."

.

.

.

Notes:

Regarding Aro's statement above, "They killed my boy…" recall from Chap 15, El'azar shares some intelligence about Aro's past. His son, Marko, was a member of the Scorpions, a Serbian paramilitary force during the Bosnian War. They were involved in the Srebrenica Massacre in July 1995. The Bosnian War (also Yugoslav Wars in general) was a highly complicated territorial, religious, and ethnic conflict, which much of the world struggled to grasp. NATO eventually stepped in, and in many cases, was operationally led by US forces.

Regarding Edward's moment of dissociation, his capture and 2-month long torture in the White Mountains of Afghanistan back in 2007 has been alluded to in prior chapters. On my profile page, there is an outtake, MISSION: Ghost, that goes into more detail on what all that entailed.

Hebrew (transliterated):

Todah rabah: Thank you, many thanks

Glossary:

Topol: the RT-2PM2 "Topol-M", or NATO SS-27 "Sickle B" is one of the most recent intercontinental ballistic missiles to be deployed by Russia. The Topol-M is a cold-launched, three-stage, solid-propellant intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM). It's a single warhead weapon, with an 800 kT yield. The Topol-M may be deployed either inside a reinforced missile silo or from an APU launcher mounted on the MZKT-79221 "Universal" 16-wheeled transporter-erector-launcher. This mobile launcher is capable of moving through roadless terrain and launching a missile from any point along its route.