I checked his neck for dog tags. Nothing. No name patches on his chest. Completely sterile.
I began searching his pockets. In the zipped shoulder pocket of his flight suit, my fingers brushed against cold metal. I pulled it out.
It was a heavy, custom-minted challenge coin. I wiped the soot from the face of it, bringing it up to the dim light filtering through the trees.
The insignia engraved on the metal was a skull with two crossed daggers. The Black Daggers.
My lungs seized. It was the unofficial insignia of the 104th Tactical Squadron. A classified black-ops unit that had been officially disbanded fifteen years ago. My father’s squadron. The same unit General Vance had commanded before his promotion to the Pentagon.
My father hadn't died in an accident. He hadn't panicked. He had been flying with these people.
Before I could process the massive, horrifying weight of the discovery, a sharp, electronic chirp broke the silence of the forest.
I jumped, dropping the coin.
The sound was coming from the dead pilot’s survival vest. I reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a heavy, ruggedized satellite phone. The screen was illuminated, displaying the word: INCOMING.
I stared at it. It was encrypted. Untraceable.
My thumb hovered over the green accept button. If I answered, they would know someone had survived. They would be able to triangulate the signal. But I needed to know the depth of the betrayal.
I pressed the button and brought the heavy phone to my ear. I didn't speak. I simply breathed into the receiver.
“Spectre One, report,” the cold, familiar voice of General Vance crackled through the speaker. “Is the package secured? Is Angel down?”
I closed my eyes, a wave of profound nausea washing over me. He wasn't just coordinating an attack. He was checking on a target.
When I didn't respond, the silence on the line grew heavy.
“I know you’re listening, Hayes,” Vance said softly. There was no anger in his voice, only the clinical detachment of a man squashing an insect. “Your wingman diverted because we told him to. You were supposed to follow orders. You just signed your own death warrant.”
The line went dead.
I stood in the clearing, the phone heavy in my hand, the full reality of my isolation crashing down on me. I was alone in the wilderness, hunted by my own military.
Then, my own survival radio—the small unit clipped to my chest harness—buzzed with a sudden, desperate transmission. It wasn't Vance. It was an unencrypted, open-air emergency frequency.
“Any station, any station on this net, this is Angel Detail,” a frantic voice gasped over the radio. “Angel One is down in the valley. We survived the crash, but we are taking heavy fire from unknown ground forces. The President is alive, but we are pinned down. We need immediate assistance!”
I looked down at the compass on my wrist, and then up at the darkening sky.
I was the only one close enough to hear them.
CHAPTER 3