18 - The Diplomats
18 - The Diplomats
The air in the secure briefing room was thick with tension, the kind that settled into the bones and refused to leave. The lights overhead cast a sharp glow on the polished table where four operatives sat, waiting for the man in charge to speak. Thompson, Aaron, Hera, and Shane—they had been in a few missions before, but something about this one felt different.
Jacob Russell, standing at the head of the room, exhaled slowly before speaking.
“We lost contact with multiple diplomats during negotiations with an unknown group,” he began, his voice as steady as ever. “One moment, we were discussing terms. The next, the lines went dead.”
No one spoke.
"I thought America doesn't—" Shane started.
"Now's not the time, Emerson. There are lives in danger." Jacob warned.
“We haven’t been able to reestablish contact since,” Jacob continued. “But before the signal cut out, we were halfway through tracking their location. We managed to triangulate their last known coordinates to an abandoned warehouse.” He tapped on the monitor beside him, and a map flickered to life, a red marker pinpointing a location in the middle of nowhere.
“We think it’s the Calvary,” he added.
Hera let out a slow breath. The Calvary was a name no one wanted to hear. A brutal organization with a history of executions, hostage ransoms, and mass-scale destruction. If they were involved, things had already gone south.
Thompson folded his arms. “What’s the objective?”
“Search the warehouse. Recover any intel. And if there are survivors, you bring them back.” Jacob’s eyes darkened. “If we confirm it’s the Calvary, this mission gets a lot more complicated.”
Shane leaned back in his chair. “So basically, go in, grab whatever’s useful, and try not to get shot?”
“Essentially,” Jacob said.
Aaron, who had been sitting quietly until now, finally spoke. “Not to nitpick, but wouldn’t a warehouse be a little basic for the Calvary? These guys have resources. They’re not the kind to play house in some abandoned dump.”
“You’re right,” Jacob said, nodding. “Which is why I don’t believe this is their primary base. But we need to start somewhere, and this is our only lead.”
A beat of silence.
Then, Thompson pushed his chair back and stood. “When do we move?”
Jacob met his gaze. “Now.”
As Thompson left the command center and stepped into the hallway, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and glanced at the name flashing on the screen.
Jerome.
Sighing, he answered. “I don’t have time right now.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re busy doing whatever you're doing,” Jerome said dryly. “But I got you something.”
“If it’s another bottle of that overpriced whiskey—”
“No,” Jerome cut in. “A session with the therapist.”
Thompson stopped walking. “What?”
“You heard me,” Jerome said. “I told you about Dr. Talia Drake, didn't I? She’s supposed to be good. And, well, considering your whole... situation, I figured you might want to give it a shot.”
Thompson rubbed his temple. “Jerome—”
“Look, I don’t have time to argue about this, man. Just consider it. You need to talk to someone, and I mean someone real, not just sitting in the dark drinking yourself into oblivion.”
Thompson clenched his jaw. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do,” Jerome said, his voice lighter now. “Be safe, Tom.”
Thompson hung up, pushing the conversation to the back of his mind.
\----
Just as they were prepping their gear, a notification flashed on Aaron’s tablet.
Aaron tapped the screen, and Lucas’ face appeared.
“Alright, I found something.”
Everyone turned toward the screen.
“We’re still analyzing what was left in that bunker,” Lucas said, his expression grim. “But it’s looking worse than we thought.”
“Define worse,” Thompson said.
Lucas exhaled. “Protocol Q.”
The air seemed to freeze.
Lucas continued, “We’ve confirmed it’s a chemical, but we’re still working through it's components. If this thing still exists out there…” He shook his head. “It could be bad.”
“How bad?” Hera asked.
Lucas didn’t answer right away.
Then, finally, he said, “The kind of bad that makes everything else look like a warm-up.”
Silence.
“Keep me updated,” Thompson said.
Lucas gave a nod, then turned his attention to Aaron before ending the call. And just before the screen cut off, he winked.
Winked straight at Aaron.
Shane blinked. “...Did he just—”
Aaron shut his tablet. “We’re not talking about it.”
Shane looked at him. Then at the now-black screen. Then back at Aaron.
“…Right.”
The team arrived at the warehouse just past nightfall. The air was cold, their breaths visible in the dark. The building itself was massive but silent, standing like a forgotten relic of something long abandoned.
Except it wasn’t abandoned.
The second they stepped inside, it became clear. This place had been used recently.
Aaron scanned the room. “Well, this is cozy. Very serial-killer chic.”
Thompson shot him a look.
Shane moved ahead, keeping his weapon raised as they advanced. “You guys see that?”
At the far end of the warehouse, a single red light blinked.
Hera crouched beside it. “It’s some kind of communication device.”
Aaron pulled out his tools, working quickly to access its stored data. After a few minutes, he frowned.
“This thing was pinging another location, but it’s encrypted.”
“Can you trace it?” Thompson asked.
Aaron tapped his screen. “I can try.”
The team waited as Aaron worked. The only sound was the occasional beep from his device.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. His fingers hovered over the screen.
His face went pale.
Shane leaned in. “What?”
"I traced the location it's pinging from." Aaron explained.
"Well, put us in as much suspense as you can, why don't you?" Hera said, the impatience in her voice incredibly evident.
Aaron swallowed. “It’s… it’s in…” His voice faltered. Then, finally—
“Alaska.”
Hera's jagged breaths coated her voice as she slowly turned to Thompson. "I may actually sink into the ground if you tell me—"
"I'm sorry Hera." Thompson's voice was low. "But it does look like we may be going to Alaska."
"To Alaska!" Shane cheered.
"I may actually break your legs this time around, Emerson." Hera muttered, throwing Shane a stony stare.
A few hours later, Thompson found himself sitting in the Therapist's office, arms crossed, eyes flicking over the degrees and certificates lining the wall.
Talia Drake.
The name stared back at him from the frames, a list of credentials following it.
He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight in the chair. Therapy wasn’t exactly on his to-do list. Jerome had insisted, but now, sitting here, he was already regretting it.
With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to Jerome’s number. One quick call, a half-decent excuse, and he’d be out of here before she even—
The door opened.
Thompson glanced up, mid-dial.
A woman walked in, her focus entirely on the bag slung over her shoulder. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge his presence—too busy digging through the contents with a quiet huff of frustration.
“I could’ve sworn I had it here,” she muttered, shifting her weight as she rifled through papers and what looked like a leather notebook. She pulled out a pen, frowned, then stuck it back inside. A set of keys jingled next, then disappeared just as fast.
Thompson arched a brow, lowering his phone slightly. She still hadn’t looked up.
Amused, he leaned back. Whoever this therapist was, she was clearly not the picture of precision and order he’d expected.
Another sigh. More searching. “It was right here when I—”
Then she finally looked up.
And the world stopped.
Thompson froze.
So did she.
The room went silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning.
She swallowed, standing unnaturally still.
She looked different. More polished. Hair neatly pulled back. No trace of the warm, casual presence from Grounded. Instead, she carried herself with a sharp, professional edge. Detached. Composed. A woman who had carefully built a new identity.
And yet, nothing—not the hair, not the expensive blazer, not the name on the wall—could disguise who she really was.
Thompson’s grip tightened around his phone. His heart slammed against his ribs, but his voice was barely above a whisper.
“Lena?”