Page 76 of Buried Past

Matthew's radio crackled with Marcus's voice: "Over—in posit—. Two heat—on the—" The transmission died completely.

Matthew checked his radio—battery indicator showed red and growled, "Shit. We're flying blind."

We stepped out into the night air. The pier stretched before us like a concrete runway, fog swirling around our ankles as we moved toward the illuminated container.

I kept my right hand loose near the pistol Matthew had given me, while my left maintained contact with his elbow. The bandages beneath my shirt pulled with each step, reminding methat only surgical thread and stubborn determination held me together.

There was no engine noise from the harbor. Not even a distant traffic hum. The water lapped against the pier supports with hushed whispers.

Then—movement.

It was a tall, lean figure walking like someone who'd learned to tiptoe through hostile territory. Hands visible, empty, but positioned where they could reach concealed weapons in half a heartbeat.

I held my breath.

I recognized that walk. He slightly favored his left leg where shrapnel had torn through muscle during an ambush outside Kabul. His shoulders tensed.

Farid.

Alive. Real. Breathing.

He moved closer. I'd last seen him just over two weeks ago, but now he appeared gaunt. More gray threaded through his black hair than I remembered.

Still, it was unmistakably him.

"Zmaa malgari," he called softly—"my friend" in Pashto.

If this were a trick, it would be the cruelest one yet. My heart sprinted before my legs did.

I half-shuffled, half-ran toward him. My coordination was off—weeks of favoring my left side had thrown off my balance. What should have been a jog became an awkward lurch.

Farid opened his arms.

I crashed into him with enough force to stagger us both, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. He felt different—lighter, stiffer, worn down to essential components—but solid. Real. Breathing against my neck while the harbor fog swirled around us.

Pain exploded through my ribs.

I jerked back with a sharp gasp, one hand reaching for my side where fresh stitches had pulled against healing tissue. Farid's hands steadied me.

"Careful," I croaked, breathing through the spike of agony. "I'm stitched together with spite and duct tape."

He offered a half-smile—a ghost of the expressions I remembered. "Some things never change. You always did heal like a wolverine with anger management issues."

I pulled back far enough to study his face properly. He'd lost significant weight, but his eyes remained alert, calculating, and intelligent.

Behind me, I heard Matthew's boots scraping against the concrete as he approached with cautious steps. Farid's attention shifted past my shoulder, and I watched him process what he saw.

I stepped to the side. "This is Matthew McCabe, the medic who—"

"Who held pressure on wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding while I performed my Oscar-worthy death scene"? Farid sighed heavily. "And once my friend."

Matthew stopped just short of comfortable conversational distance. Farid studied him with the intensity he'd reserved for potential threats. Then, moving slowly, he stepped forward and extended his right hand.

"I owe you an apology," Farid said quietly. "For what they made you believe."

Matthew stared at the offered hand. Instead of accepting it, he pushed forward and pulled Farid into a fierce hug.

Farid tensed initially, uncertain how to respond to the unexpected gesture from a man who had every right to hate him. Slowly, his hands came up to rest against Matthew's shoulders.

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