Quinn didn't speak as the Black Hawk banked west.
He watched the city retreat beneath them—avenues like dry veins, windows gaping like teeth. Smoke crawled up from Central Park, thick and black, curling toward the cloud-line. The streets weren't empty. Not anymore. He saw them—scattered shapes in motion. Some running. Others just standing.
Watching.
Ryan sat across from him, shoulders hunched, jaw set, his face pale but composed. He hadn't spoken since liftoff, but his eyes tracked everything—movements, sounds, exits. Nora knelt beside him, hand resting lightly on his arm, but her gaze never stopped scanning the cabin.
The interior stank of sweat, steel, and oil. The rotor noise was deafening, even with the headphones. A medic moved between them, checking pulses, jotting notes with a grease pencil on his glove. No words exchanged. Just motion. Efficient. Detached.
Quinn leaned back, bracing against the fuselage. His ribs screamed. He hadn't felt it during the run, but now, the pain returned with interest—deep, stabbing, rhythmic, like a second heartbeat. He gritted his teeth.
Across from him, Reyes caught his eye.
"You gonna keel over?"
"Not yet," Quinn said.
Reyes nodded, but his gaze lingered a second longer. Not suspicion. Not concern. Just the same calculation Quinn remembered from Iraq—how long until this piece breaks?
The pilot's voice crackled through the headset:
"ETA to Greenpoint: eight minutes. Stay strapped in."
Quinn blinked. "Greenpoint? I thought we were heading for the USS American?"
Reyes shifted. "We are. But not yet. Orders changed—we're making a stop first. Picking someone up."
"Who?"
Reyes didn't answer right away. "Someone who knows how this started. Someone command wants in one piece."
Dobbs spoke up. "More like someone they don't trust enough to fly direct."
No one laughed.
The city passed below. A school on fire. A church overrun. The roof was torn off a tenement building, and someone had written in tar across the floorboards:
THEY REMEMBER US.
Quinn stared until it vanished from view.
He felt the weight settle behind his sternum—not fear exactly, but a narrowing. Like the air had thickened. They'd made it out. They were alive. And still it felt like standing on a frozen lake, hearing the first crack.
The helicopter began its descent.
Outside, the East River churned with debris. Barges floated aimless, some half-sunken. The pier was lit with floodlamps, and men in armor patrolled the barricades. Razor wire had been strung between shipping containers, forming a perimeter. Trucks idled. Antennas blinked. A drone hovered like a dragonfly above the camp.
"Touchdown in fifteen," the pilot said.
Quinn looked back toward Manhattan. The Chrysler spire was still visible, silhouetted in smoke. And just below it, the alley. The infected. That rotted half-face burned behind his eyes.
The Black Hawk shuddered as they landed.
Boots hit the tarmac. Orders were barked. Quinn flinched at the sound—too sharp, too loud. A soldier tried to guide him toward the triage tent, but Reyes cut in.
"He's with me."
The medic hesitated, then nodded them through.
The interior of the terminal had been gutted. Waiting rooms turned into bunk areas. Baggage carousels stripped for parts. Cots lined the walls. The smell was worse inside—disinfectant and sweat.
A woman in fatigues flagged them down. "Name?"
"Calloway," Quinn said.
She checked a clipboard. "You're flagged priority. Command wants to debrief."
"Now?"
"Now."
Reyes gave him a look that said: Welcome back.
Quinn handed Nora his box cutter. "Keep him close," he said, nodding to Ryan.
Ryan looked up at him, his expression unreadable. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, voice low but steady.
"You coming back?"
"I always do."
He followed the soldier past the med tents and into a steel trailer that reeked of coffee and ozone. Inside, an officer waited—gray uniform, laptop open, clean-shaven but haggard beneath it. His eyes lit up when he saw Quinn.
"Sergeant Calloway," he said, standing. "It's an honor. Please—have a seat."
Quinn sat, wordless.
The officer didn't speak right away. He shut the laptop and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Before anything else—let me say I'm sorry. About your daughter. I know she's still missing, but... I can't imagine."
Quinn gave a nod. Just one.
The officer cleared his throat. "And I heard about Elena too. I—" He stopped himself. "Hell of a few months."
"Get to it," Quinn said.
The man smiled faintly. "Right. Of course." But his tone softened, reverent. "I've followed your record for years, Sergeant. You were in Fallujah. Helmand. That raid on the Niger compound—Jesus. You're a legend in two branches."
Quinn said nothing.
"I read the citation. The one from the President." He gestured to the wall, where framed photos hung—Quinn shaking hands with generals, standing beside the Commander-in-Chief, medals gleaming on his dress blues. Most of the wall was filled with portraits of other Marines. But Quinn's were front and center. Larger. Brighter. Polished behind glass.
Quinn didn't look.
The officer gave a short laugh, almost embarrassed. "I had to see it for myself. You don't know how many of us talked about you after the Caracas op. You practically ghosted three cartel strongholds solo. Whole thing was off-books. I was just a cadet then, but we passed around the satellite images like baseball cards."
Quinn's jaw worked. "What do you want?"
The officer smiled. "To say I'm glad you're back."
Quinn raised an eyebrow.
"I mean it," the officer said. "We've lost contact with most of the city. Units scattered. Communications scrambled. Command's in triage mode. But having you here—boots on the ground again? That gives us something solid. Familiar."
Quinn didn't respond.
"You'll have quarters near the comms tent. It's not much, but it's quiet. Private. Figured you'd want space."
Quinn stood.
The officer rose with him and extended a hand. "We're lucky to have you, Sergeant."
After a long pause, Quinn shook it. The gesture felt hollow.
"I'll let you rest," the officer said. "Six hours. After that, we'll brief you on redeployment. But for now—welcome back."
He stepped aside to let Quinn pass. The door groaned open behind him.
Outside, the wind slapped cold against his face. Somewhere beyond the lights, a baby cried. Metal clanged. Boots crunched gravel.
Quinn didn't look back.
He walked back toward the tents. He passed rows of faces—gray, sunken, hollow. Some sobbing quietly. Some staring blank. Children curled in blankets. Soldiers smoking in silence.
Nora saw him first. She stood. Ryan was asleep, slumped against her side, one arm hooked through the strap of his pack, like he hadn't let himself rest until he was sure it was safe.
"What'd they say?" she asked.
Quinn looked up at the sky—thick clouds, no stars.
"They're sending me back in."