S.A.S.
The pilot held them low over the dark water, then lifted to skim rooftops, wringing the radar line like a wet rag.
Phil leaned forward and tapped Michelle’s knee with two fingers. “How many dead?”
“Enough,” she said.
“How many of ours?”
She looked at Jackson. He nodded once, fingers counting silently. “Two,” she said.
Phil’s mouth thinned. “I’ll authorize.”
“No,” she said. “I already did.”
He sat back, pleased. “How is it,” he mused, “that every time I imagine you gone, you come back sharper?”
“Because you underestimate the things you can’t kill,” she said.
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