Chapter 1 - The Insignia Under My Jacket
The recruit grabbed Mara Vance's jacket and hissed:
"Take it off, sweetheart."
Colonel Nathan Mercer stepped through the doorway carrying a battered black flight case.
Three faded letters were scratched beside its lock:
R-6-11.
Mara saw them.
This wasn't a bar fight.
The phone on the counter was still broadcasting.
That was the first thing Mara noticed after the recruit's fingers closed around her olive-green flight jacket.
Not his smirk.
Not the laughter from the three young men sitting near the jukebox.
Not even Frank Dugan, the sixty-two-year-old bartender, staring from behind the polished wooden counter with the expression of a man who had just watched somebody light a match inside a gasoline truck.
The phone.
Its screen faced the room.
A red LIVE symbol glowed in the corner.
Comments rolled upward faster than Mara could read them.
The recruit leaned closer.
"Didn't hear me?"
Mara looked down at his fist.
His name was Tyler Kane.
She knew that because his friends had shouted it several times during the previous twenty minutes.
Kane was young, broad-shouldered, and carrying himself with the dangerous confidence of someone who had recently learned he was stronger than most people around him.
He had walked into The Rusty Anchor with three friends.
They had noticed Mara almost immediately.
She had noticed them too.
Mara noticed everybody.
That habit had kept her alive.
She had chosen a stool near the far end of the bar where a mirror behind the bottles gave her a view of both entrances.
She had ordered club soda.
She had placed her phone facedown.
She had spoken to nobody except Frank.
And she had hoped to leave that way.
Kane had other plans.
It started with the jacket.
"Where'd you get that?" he'd asked.
Mara hadn't looked at him.
"Had it a while."
"Military surplus?"
"No."
He laughed.
"Sure."
She should have left then.
Instead, she'd taken another sip.
Kane noticed the faded stitching where a name patch had once been.
Then he noticed the outline where another patch had been removed.
That interested him.
"You serve?"
"Yes."
"What branch?"
Mara finally looked at him.
"Air Force."
Kane grinned.
"Doing what?"
"Flying."
His friends laughed.
Mara didn't.
Neither did Frank.
Frank knew enough to recognize when someone didn't want to talk.
Kane apparently didn't.
"Flying what?"
"Aircraft."
That made his friends laugh harder.
Kane's pride had been wounded.
Then one of them started broadcasting.
Within minutes, Kane was performing for the phone.
He mocked Mara's jacket.
Asked for her unit.
Demanded her call sign.
Mara answered none of it.
Then Kane reached for her.
And now his fist was twisted into the front of her jacket.
"Take the jacket off, sweetheart," he repeated, louder this time, "before I strip it off you myself."
Nobody laughed.
Mara's eyes moved from his face to his wrist.
"Let go."
Kane smiled at the phone.
"Or what?"
Mara moved.
Her left hand trapped his wrist.
Her right caught his elbow.
She pivoted.
Kane's smile disappeared.
His body followed his arm before his brain understood what was happening.
One second he was standing over her.
The next, his knee slammed against the wooden floor.
"Ah—!"
Mara stopped the rotation precisely where she wanted it.
Another inch could damage the shoulder.
She didn't need another inch.
"Don't move."
"What the hell—"
He tried to rise.
Wrong decision.
Mara increased pressure.
Kane dropped again.
His free hand grabbed instinctively for her jacket.
Fabric tore.
A seam ripped from Mara's shoulder toward her chest.
Frank knocked a mug from the counter.
It shattered.
Beer splashed across the wood.
Then everything stopped.
Frank wasn't looking at Kane.
He was looking at Mara.
More precisely, he was staring at the insignia exposed beneath her torn jacket.
Black wings.
Silver threading.
A narrow red slash.
And a symbol almost nobody outside a tiny corner of the United States military would recognize.
Frank did.
His face emptied of color.
"Oh my God."
Kane looked up.
"What?"
Frank didn't answer.
Mara immediately pulled the jacket closed.
Too late.
The livestream had caught it.
She released Kane.
"Back away."
Kane staggered upright, rubbing his shoulder.
His humiliation quickly became anger.
"You attacked me!"
"You grabbed me."
"I barely touched you."
"The internet may disagree."
One of Kane's friends lowered the phone.
Mara pointed at it.
"Turn that off."
"It's already got like twelve thousand—"
"Turn it off."
Something in her voice ended the argument.
He reached toward the screen.
Then the entrance opened.
Bright afternoon light poured across the floor.
Colonel Nathan Mercer entered wearing formal Air Force blues.
The room became quieter than Mara had thought possible.
Mercer was sixty-one, silver-haired, rigid-backed, and decorated heavily enough that even Kane recognized he wasn't dealing with an ordinary officer.
But Mercer wasn't looking at Kane.
He was staring at Mara.
Then he saw the torn jacket.
The insignia.
And his expression changed.
Mercer placed the black flight case beside his leg.
Straightened.
Raised his right hand.
Saluted.
"Colonel."
Kane's face went blank.
Mara didn't return the salute immediately.
Her eyes had dropped to the flight case.
R-6-11.
Raven Six.
Eleven.
A combination she hadn't seen written anywhere in seven years.
Finally, she returned Mercer's salute.
"Sir."
Kane looked between them.
"Colonel?"
Frank whispered, "Kid, shut your mouth."
Mercer lowered his hand.
He looked at Kane.
"What happened?"
Nobody answered.
The phone was supposedly no longer broadcasting.
Mara wasn't convinced.
Mercer stepped farther inside.
Kane attempted a nervous laugh.
"Just misunderstanding, sir."
"Did you put your hands on her?"
Kane hesitated.
"I thought she was—"
"What?"
Kane looked at Mara.
"A civilian."
Mercer's eyes hardened.
"And that would make it acceptable?"
"No, sir."
"Then I'm having difficulty understanding your explanation."
Mara closed her jacket.
"Enough."
Mercer looked at her.
"We need to talk."
Mara nodded toward the case.
"About that?"
Mercer's silence answered.
Frank moved around the bar.
"Mara?"
Kane heard the name.
"Mara Vance?"
Mercer turned sharply toward him.
Kane stared at Mara.
Recognition slowly entered his face.
"No."
Mara felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Kane pulled out his phone.
His fingers moved quickly.
"What are you doing?" Mercer demanded.
Kane looked up.
"People online are saying she's Raven Six."
Mercer's expression became dangerous.
"Give me the phone."
Kane didn't.
He stared at Mara instead.
"That's you?"
Mara said nothing.
"Raven Six was a man."
Frank gave a humorless laugh.
"Apparently not."
Kane looked back at his screen.
"They said the pilot disappeared after Afghanistan."
Mara stepped toward him.
"Give me the phone."
This time he did.
The live video had already been copied.
Clipped.
Shared.
Thousands of times.
A freeze-frame showed her torn jacket and the insignia.
Another showed Mercer saluting her.
The caption underneath read:
WHO THE HELL IS THIS WOMAN?
Mara handed the phone to Mercer.
"We have a problem."
Mercer nodded.
"A much larger one than you know."
He lifted the black flight case.
"Back room."
Frank locked the front door.
Kane and his friends were told to remain where they were until military security arrived.
Mara followed Mercer through a narrow hallway into Frank's office.
The door closed.
Mercer placed the case on the desk.
Mara stared at it.
"I watched this case burn."
"So did I."
"Then where did you get it?"
"Yesterday."
"From whom?"
"No return address."
Mara's pulse accelerated.
Mercer entered a code.
The lock clicked.
Inside lay an old flight helmet.
A damaged navigation module.
A photograph.
And eleven dog tags.
Mara stopped breathing for a moment.
She knew every name.
Those were the men she'd flown through hell to bring home.
Mercer picked up the photograph.
It showed twelve people standing beside a helicopter at a remote Afghan base.
Eleven soldiers.
And Mara.
Someone had circled one face.
Not hers.
Mercer turned the photograph over.
Four words had been written there.
HE KNOWS YOU SURVIVED.
Mara looked at Mercer.
"Who?"
Before he could answer, something vibrated inside the case.
They both froze.
Beneath the flight helmet was a phone.
An old military satellite handset.
The screen illuminated.
INCOMING CALL.
No number.
Mercer whispered, "Don't."
Mara answered.
For three seconds there was only static.
Then a man's voice spoke.
A voice Mara had last heard screaming through radio interference in the Hindu Kush seven years earlier.
"Raven Six."
Her blood turned cold.
The voice continued.
"You brought home eleven men."
A pause.
May you like
"But you forgot the twelfth."
The line went dead.
