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A coded signal.
But as he helped Dr. Halabi to her feet, his satellite phone buzzed. A text from Delgado.
Korr stared at the burning refinery. Then at the highway. Then at the terrified, oil-slick faces of the people he had just saved. Hidden Strike
“Then don’t breathe,” Korr said, and he meant it as both an instruction and a promise.
The first kill was silent. Korr’s knife found the carotid of a guard checking his phone. The second was not. Singh’s suppressed rifle coughed, and a Chechen dropped with a hole through his temple. But the third guard, hidden behind a fuel drum, saw the muzzle flash. He didn’t shout. He simply squeezed his radio twice. A coded signal
“The engineers aren’t engineers,” Delgado had said over a scrambled sat-phone, while Korr was still buckling his plate carrier. “They’re codebreakers. Three months ago, they cracked a backdoor in every piece of Russian air-defense software sold to Iran in the last five years. Rashidi wants them to reverse-engineer the crack. If he gets that, he sells it to the highest bidder—Moscow, Beijing, whoever. Our entire electronic warfare edge goes up in smoke.”
Korr’s blood went cold. Hidden strike. Not an ambush—a deception. Rashidi didn’t want to capture the engineers here. He wanted to force Korr to lead him to the chip. The general had let them infiltrate. He had let them find the civilians. Because the chip was the real prize, and only the Americans knew where it was hidden. A text from Delgado
He stood on a dune two klicks east, binoculars pressed to his eyes, the thermal glow of the inferno painting his face orange. His men had done their job. The mercenary convoy, hired to escort the last Western engineers out of the war zone, was now a scattering of molten hubcaps and shredded tires. The engineers themselves—four civilians with no combat training—were supposedly dead. That was the official report.