What if he's alive but compromised?
Worse possibility. Farid standing on that pier with a handler's gun pressed against his spine, forced to smile while they trained their crosshairs on my chest. I'd seen it before—loved ones weaponized against their will.
What if he's alive and free?
That was the most dangerous thought of all. Hope was a luxury I couldn't afford, but it leaked through my defenses anyway. It was the possibility that Farid had survived after sending me to Matthew, and that we could stand together again instead of wondering whether he was a ghost.
A light turned yellow, and Matthew slowed to a stop.
My memories ambushed me.
I was back in Iraq two years ago, our convoy stopped by an IED that had claimed the lead vehicle. Farid and I crouched behind the engine block of our disabled Humvee while small arms fire snapped overhead like angry insects.
"This is fucking tedious," Farid muttered in accented English, checking his rifle's magazine with practiced efficiency. "These people have no imagination. Same ambush pattern every time."
I scanned the ridgeline for flashes. "Feel free to critique their tactical methodology after they stop shooting at us."
"Where's the artistry? The innovation?" He fired three controlled bursts toward a suspected sniper position. "In Sarajevo, they'd have coordinated mortar support by now."
Even bleeding from shrapnel cuts and pinned down by superior numbers, Farid maintained a sardonic edge that had kept both of us sane through impossible situations.
The light turned green. Matthew accelerated through the intersection and pulled me back to the present.
He glanced at me. "Lost in thoughts?"
"Remembering."
"Tell me what Farid was to you."
I paused and tried to find words that wouldn't sound like a eulogy. How do you explain a bond forged where survival depended on absolute trust?
"Partner, first." I did my best to explain. "You've seen how I operate alone—always calculating angles, always ready to run. With Farid, I could focus forward instead of constantly checking over my shoulder."
We rolled under a freeway overpass. The industrial district sprawled ahead, cranes and shipping containers stacked like geometric mountains against the night sky.
"He was my moral compass when the work got dark. We executed missions where I started losing track of which side we were supposed to be on. Farid never did. He'd look at me across a briefing table and I'd know—this one's clean, or this one stinks, or this one's going to cost us something we can't afford to lose."
Matthew nodded. "Sounds like brotherhood."
The harbor district opened up around us—a maze of loading docks and industrial warehouses separated by streets wide enough for container trucks. A combination of diesel fuel and salt water perfumed the air.
"And Matthew, he brought me to you."
Matthew tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "We need to save him."
"If he's really there." I checked my phone again—no new messages, coordinates unchanged. "If this isn't elaborately staged to put us both in the ground."
Matthew pulled into a parking area beside a chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. Beyond the barrier, Pier 47 stretched into the bay like a concrete finger pointing toward invisible islands.
I saw the meeting point through the truck's windshield—a cargo container positioned near the pier's edge, illuminated by a single flood lamp.
We had three approach routes—the main pier access, a service ladder from the water level, and a maintenance catwalk connected to an adjacent loading facility.
Concealment would be easy among the stacked containers. Potential snipers would have clear sightlines from the surrounding warehouse rooftops.
Matthew glanced at me. "Tactical assessment?"
"Defensible if you're expecting trouble. Terrible if someone wants to trap you." I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Perfect for a reunion that could go either way."
