S.A.S.
“And we’ve got a problem with ghosts in old uniforms.”
A beat. “Michelle?”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “Or a very good mimic.”
Gale exhaled. “Get me proof. And Jack—”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t die,” she said. “I don’t have time to replace you.”
He almost smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He looked at Susan, at Pauly, at Bruno, at the crates sweating poison under white lights. At the space where his team used to stand.
“Round three,” he said, too quiet for anyone but himself. “Your move.”
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