Langley, Virginia — May 4, 2014 | 3:27 AM | Dylan Travers' Apartment
The clock read 3:27 AM when Dylan Travers finished zipping up his black backpack. No visible weapons those would come through side channels. Inside: civilian clothes for dry, warm weather, a shielded laptop with the CIA's own encryption system, a fake wallet with Covert Identities-issued documents, and an old photo of him and Amanda no faces, just silhouettes at dusk on some beach he couldn't remember the name of.
Amanda, half-awake, sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only Dylan's gray T-shirt, which looked like a loose dress on her. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, the other holding a coffee mug with the faded CIA logo.
"You really didn't have to go at three in the morning," she muttered. "The flight doesn't leave until six forty."
"I need to stop by Tysons. Pick up something from Branch's warehouse."
She watched him for a few seconds. She knew he hated long goodbyes. His combat time had taught him to leave quickly, dryly, without carrying feelings—at least not on the surface. But she also knew how to read Dylan Travers's silences as if they were JSOC reports.
"It'll be a standard RECCE, right?"
"Initially." He paused. "But the boss wants more than visual confirmation. There are people higher up pushing for a kinetic strike."
"Ramstein, then?"
"If it goes wrong, yes. I need to prepare the groundwork."
She nodded slowly. She stood up, walked over to him, and hugged him.
"Come back in one piece," she said, pressed against his chest.
Dylan didn't answer. He just kissed the top of her head. It was all he could give. All he had.
Washington Dulles International Airport — 5:55 AM
The terminal still seemed to be waking up when Dylan went through the diplomatic channel. His passport said he was Ethan Wallace, an employee of the U.S. Department of Commerce. The DHS agent checked the seal, stamped it, and let him through.
At the gate, he encountered Grant Benner, another Ground Branch operator with whom he had served in Somalia in 2012. Grant was 38 years old, with blue eyes and a well-groomed beard that clashed with his methodical demeanor.
"You seem more grumpy than I remember," Grant said with a half-smile, extending his hand.
"It's the time zone. And the meetings with the agency's legal security lawyer."
"These guys are worse than the insurgents."
They both boarded without attracting attention. Economy class. No luxury, no military protocol. Civilians with work backpacks. The route would include a stopover in Lisbon, then Nouakchott (Mauritania), and finally a local flight to Bamako—where a small Ground Branch detachment had already been operating for five weeks under diplomatic cover at the embassy.
Bamako-Sénou International Airport—May 5, 2014 | 9:04 PM (local time)
The humidity hit like a hot wall as soon as the terminal doors opened. The smell of the city was a mixture of wet earth, diesel fuel, sweat, and local spices. Bamako's lights flickered irregularly, and the traffic was a choreographed chaos.
Outside, a Land Cruiser waited. The windows were tinted. It was driven by a man in a navy blue polo shirt and a simple cap, his eyes intently fixed on the rearview mirror. He didn't introduce himself. He simply said:
"Good evening, gentlemen. Follow me. We have a safe house at ACI 2000."
The journey took twenty-five minutes, passing through alleys, dimly lit avenues, and two makeshift Malian army checkpoints. Upon arriving at the safehouse—a nondescript three-story building with an iron gate and its own generator—they were greeted by Mike Daugherty, a veteran Ground Branch operator who had been in the area for a month.
"Dylan fucking Travers," Mike said, laughing and extending his hand. "I thought you'd retired to Hawaii or become a pastor in Montana."
"Both were good ideas. But the CIA pays better."
Grant Benner laughed.
Mike led them to the second floor, where the makeshift command center was set up. Surveillance monitors, satellite antennas, heat maps, and drone footage covered the walls.
— "We've had eyes on Husseini for three days. He shows up almost every afternoon at what we call the 'Moroccan House.' In the Sogoniko neighborhood. Old building, no internet, no cell phone—he's smart. But we have a visual on every entrance and exit."
Dylan approached the main screen. A frozen image showed Khalid al-Husseini entering a narrow alley, gray beard, traditional Tuareg hat, eyes hidden by cheap Ray-Bans.
— "Is this image from today?"
— "2:47 p.m. Puma drone. No change in course."
— "And you didn't try a direct approach?"
— "We tried. But there are too many civilians on the perimeter. Two armed men stand guard at the back entrance. They're locals, ex-rebels, but well paid."
Dylan crossed his arms.
— "I want to see the surroundings. Neighborhood location, escape routes, any underground access."
Mike had expected this. He showed the 3D rendered satellite images.
"We have a front entrance, a narrow side entrance, and a backyard. Water drainage in the alley, but too narrow for escape. The best option would be to infiltrate from above, via the adjacent building."
Dylan nodded.
"Tomorrow morning, we'll do a visual reconnaissance of the block. I need to get a feel for the terrain. Benner, you cover with me. Mike, continue with drone surveillance."
Grant Benner simply nodded. It was protocol: first step, eyes on the target; then, eyes on the environment; finally, contact.
May 6, 2014 | 5:42 AM | Sogoniko Neighborhood
The sunrise tinged the buildings of Bamako with a soft gold. Dylan and Benner walked calmly through the neighborhood, pretending to be two French engineers. Their clothes were deliberately dirty, their technical backpacks filled with observation equipment camouflaged as geological sensors.
They sat in a small, makeshift café. Dylan took out a notebook and pretended to write numbers while using a micro-camera built into his pencil to capture the target building from different angles.
"The guy in front is smoking. He has a sharpshooter's finger—a callus on his index finger. Military training," Benner said quietly.
"I agree. The one in the back isn't a local. He moves like someone from the Maghreb. Maybe formerly of Libya. His gait gives it away."
Dylan gestured with his left hand, adjusting his watch. A microdron, the size of a bee, was discreetly launched and flew above the building.
In less than two minutes, they had mapped the interior: two floors, reinforced windows, a safe on the ground floor. Al-Husseini was on the second floor, a room with dark curtains and three laptops on the table.
"Laptops?" Dylan murmured. "Then he's more exposed than we thought."
Benner nodded.
"Could that be what the DO wants? The hard drives?"
"His head wouldn't hurt either."
Safehouse — May 6, 2014 | 9:33 PM
The room was dark, lit only by the screens. Dylan typed furiously on his laptop, preparing the final report for encrypted submission to the CIA outpost in Ramstein. Beside him, Amanda was in an encrypted conference. Her voice choked with distance.
"Are you going to execute him?"
Dylan hesitated. Then he replied:
"Planning calls for extraction. But it can change at any moment. HQ wants results. Whether digital or organic."
"I understand." Amanda was cool. Professional. But there was something in her eyes, even through the video, that Dylan knew well.
She didn't say "come back alive." Not anymore.
Dylan hung up, took a deep breath, and turned to Mike and Benner.
"Tomorrow, 3:00 AM. Silent entry through the adjacent building. Mike, you stay in the van, with an uplink to Langley. Benner and I infiltrate. If everything goes well, we'll get the data and leave. If not..."
Mike added:
"You improvise. As always."
Dylan smiled slightly. The war never ended. It changed form. It changed address.
But never its soul.
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