Shepard’s voice was barely audible.
“Vale died in your arms.”
“Yes.”
“And you identified the body.”
“Yes.”
“And I signed the death certificate.”
“I know.”
Margaret tapped the table once.
“Then either you saw a ghost, a double, or someone wanted you to think you did.”
“No,” I said. “He wanted me to see him.”
I lifted the black fabric.
“This was inside the envelope. The mask belonged to the man who burned our extraction point during Night Orchard. We called him the Butcher of Qarah.”
One colonel inhaled sharply.
Richard looked irritated by another name he didn’t know.
“The Butcher died too?” Ethan asked.
I nodded.
“Vale killed him.”
“Apparently,” Margaret said, “death is becoming flexible.”
The room fell silent.
Then Shepard asked the question I knew was coming.
“What happened that night, Claire?”
I looked at him.
“You read the report.”
“I read what they gave me.”
My mouth went dry.
For fourteen years, the story had existed in pieces. Redacted lines. Buried files. Nightmares. A medal I never accepted. A grave I visited once and never again.
I looked at Ethan.
He deserved the truth now.
At least the part that wouldn’t destroy him.
“We reached the convoy after midnight,” I said. “Everyone was dead except the asset and two children hiding beneath the rear truck. We extracted them under fire. The safe route was compromised. Our comms were jammed. Reaper Four took a round through the throat before we cleared the ridge.”
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