Langley, Virginia — May 2, 2014 | 7:38 PM | Dylan Travers' Apartment
The soft sound of ice swirling in a glass echoed through the quiet living room, mixed with the subtle hum of the central air conditioning. The orange light of the sunset painted the west wall of the apartment with soft amber and red hues, reflecting off the still-half-open metal blinds. The TV was on, but muted only CNN footage looped about the increasingly delicate situation in eastern Ukraine.
Dylan Travers sat on the couch, his black technical shirt partially unbuttoned, his dark jeans, and his feet bare. The glass of bourbon in his right hand swayed with his slow, rhythmic breathing. His eyes, gray as cold steel, stared at the screen without really watching it.
Beside it, on the rustic wooden coffee table, a stack of open files lay, and a MacBook, its screen still lit, displayed the Directorate of Operations (DO) intranet access credentials. The 39-page report, received that morning, still lingered in his mind like the echo of a gunshot in an open field.
"Khalid al-Husseini," nom de guerre. Former Syrian intelligence officer, defector, and now, according to JSOC analysis, a potential financing operator for Al-Qaeda cells in the Sahel. Satellite imagery, SIGINT intercepts, and human sources pointed to his recent movement to Bamako, Mali.
Dylan lifted the glass to his lips. The bourbon went down warm and smooth, as it should.
"Another ghost to chase," he murmured, alone in the room.
The sound of the electronic lock flashing green snapped him out of his trance. He didn't get up, just watched.
The door opened with a soft click. Amanda Ellis walked in, her brown hair tied back in a high bun, her expression tired but still alert. She wore beige cargo pants, a dark thermal top, and an open JSOC jacket. She carried a leather briefcase and a laptop.
"Good evening, cowboy," she said with a tired smile as she noticed the glass of bourbon.
"You're late," he replied, but his voice was free of criticism. It was more of a dry, direct comment, typical of him.
Amanda crossed the room, took off her jacket, and set the briefcase on the table.
"The briefing with General Kline ran late. They're undecided between sending the Grey Fox or activating the 1st SFOD-D unit."
Dylan huffed lightly and stood. The hardwood floor creaked under her feet. He approached her, cupped her face with one of his calloused hands, and kissed her forehead.
"You look exhausted."
"I am," Amanda said, relaxing against him for a moment. "But there's something you need to see."
She opened her laptop and connected to the encrypted server. Within seconds, a new briefing window appeared.
"OP RAVEN DUSK — TARGET: KHALID AL-HUSSEINI"
Dylan crossed his arms and studied the map on the screen: Bamako. A blinking red dot in a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city north of the city.
"Local sources say he's using a safe haven near the UN compound," she explained. "The latest cell signal interception placed him in sector four. They want to confirm with Ground Branch before authorizing any intervention."
He nodded, processing each piece of information with the cool, methodical mind of someone who's spent twenty years living in the shadows.
"And they want visual confirmation?"
"Yes. You and Benner were assigned to this. Entry via Nouakchott, then local transport to Bamako. Three days to conduct reconnaissance, extract images, and confirm."
Dylan grabbed another glass, poured some bourbon, and offered it to Amanda.
"Are you staying in Langley?"
"For now, yes. But if this guy is who we think he is... maybe I'll go to Ramstein to oversee the link with AFRICOM."
She accepted the glass and sat down. For a moment, they were both silent, watching the hazy evening smoke fade into night through the windows. Dylan went to the kitchen and returned with a simple dish: brown rice, grilled chicken, and steamed vegetables.
"You eat like you're still in BUD/S," Amanda said with a soft laugh.
"A body is a weapon. And a weapon needs maintenance," he replied, sitting beside her.
"You know this isn't normal, right?"
"Nothing about me is."
She smiled tenderly, but without romanticizing it. She knew Dylan's ghosts. She knew the scars he didn't speak of. The muffled screams of sleepless nights. The way he still arranged the furniture to face the entrance. How he never sat with his back to the door.
"Do you still dream of Abbottabad?" she asked in a whisper.
He didn't answer right away. He raised his fork to his mouth, chewed slowly. He stared straight ahead.
"Every week. But the faces change. Sometimes it's Team Red. Other times, it's the ones we couldn't save."
She placed her hand over his.
"You did what needed to be done."
"Yes. And I'll do it again."
The silence returned, thick as gunpowder smoke.
Three hours later, Dylan had already finished his status report for the Chief of Station. Amanda was finally asleep in the next room. He remained in the living room, sitting, cleaning a Glock 19, checking each part like a ritual. An extension of his body. A prayer in metal and oil.
A message arrived on his secure cell phone:
[CLASSIFIED]: OP RAVEN DUSK APPROVED. DEPLOYMENT T-36h. CONTACT BENNER. - HQ
He locked the slide of the pistol, fitted the magazine with machine-like precision.
He got up, turned off the lights, and walked to the bedroom.
Amanda was fast asleep, wrapped in the white sheet, one arm stretched out toward the empty pillow beside her. Dylan watched for a moment. His chest rose and fell slowly.
"The world will never stop," he thought. "But for a few hours... maybe I can."
He lay down beside her. Without removing the gun from his waistband.
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