The Shadow Mission

protect the target?”
“You’re not,” Kit says. “You’re going to track Imran on the ground and find out what the target is. He’s gone completely dark in the past few hours—burner phones included. It’s standard practice for terrorists ahead of an attack, to reduce the chances of being caught or foiled.”
Peggy chimes in. “You have to keep it clean and simple. No fighting, and minimal danger to the three of you. Amber will outline possible strategies as you fly out. And once you know the target, I have a direct line to the Indian ambassador here and we can get the Indian police involved to stop the attack.” Peggy’s long and illustrious diplomatic career has left her with a wealth of contacts all over the world. I don’t doubt she can arrange an intervention in another country, but the whole mission sounds pretty vague.
I stand, suddenly too keyed up to even stay in my seat. Pacing around sometimes helps.
“And what do we do with Imran?” I ask.
“Hand him over to Asif and his neighbors. They’ve been planning to take back their village for some time. The extremists supporting Imran have moved much farther north and his funding is drying up.”
That’s all fine and dandy, but another question is bugging me. “Why is Imran targeting somewhere in India? When he’s over the border in Pakistan?”
“He’s working with a relatively new group called Family First,” Peggy explains. “They are so new we don’t have anything much on them, but he’s referenced them in connection with this upcoming attack, and there is intelligence out of India about them. They are against gender equality, anti-LGBTQI+, and their biggest focus is to stop women and girls being educated or working, because it erodes traditional family values.”
Hala makes a face that communicates her disgust with that manifesto.
“Have they committed attacks before?” Caitlin asks.
“No,” says Peggy.
There’s a brief lull, but it seems like these scraps are all the information there is. Li nods to Amber to deliver the practicalities.
“You’ll be on a private flight to Lahore two and a half hours from now,” says Amber, reading from one of her tablet screens.
“Can’t we leave sooner?” I ask.
“It’s not a walk in the park arranging private planes to places like northern Pakistan,” replies Amber crisply. “I’ve done my best and the plane you’ll take is faster than a commercial flight. You’ll be in the air for just over seven hours. When you land, a stealth helicopter will be waiting for you. Caitlin will pilot. Estimated time to get to Imran’s village is around thirty minutes. Giving you over an hour to get the target details out of him.”
Well, there’s not much margin for error there. The room falls silent, probably because we’re all wondering at the immensity of the task. Only the sound of Li’s manicured nails tapping compulsively on the table fills the air. It’s not a sound I’ve ever heard before from her—the sound of nervous tension. And it doesn’t make me feel great.
“I’m not happy about this,” Li admits, at last. “It’s rushed. But if we do nothing and people die . . .”
There’s a moment’s pause, broken finally by Caitlin. The oldest of us agents, she’s our team leader and often our unofficial cheerleader too. “I think I speak for all of us in this room when I say we never met a challenge we said no to,” she says seriously. “Let’s get our asses in gear.”
“How poetic,” Amber comments. “I think Shakespeare may have said that first.” She packs up her workstation.
“Possibly Maya Angelou?” says Thomas. I snort and even Kit and Peggy stifle smiles.
“Gimme a break, all of you,” grumbles Caitlin, getting up. We all follow her and rise to clear the room.

2
KIT MEETS ME AT HOME, where I’ve rushed back to grab some things before I head to the airfield to board the flight to Pakistan. We live together in an expansive house in Notting Hill, a part of London that Kit moved to fifteen years ago. It’s not as manic as the middle of the city but there are still a ton of great places to hang out, good restaurants, and lots of vintage clothing shops where Kit can satisfy her occasional shopping cravings.
It takes me about ten minutes to pack. Everything I need is within reach, and though the inside of my closet might look like the aftermath of a burglary, I know where everything is. When I’m done, I haul my backpack into Kit’s bedroom, an oasis of distressed wood floors, crisp white linens, and subdued modern art. My mother has lit a couple of citrus candles, sending warm flickers of light onto the pure white walls. The sounds of whale song and ocean waves issue softly through the ceiling speakers. These weird soundscapes are apparently designed to enhance our well-being, but I find it a bit disorienting to hear crashing breakers on some Hawaiian beach when there’s only a little green English lawn outside the window.
Kit is busy rummaging around in the vast expanse of her walk-in closet.
“I have to go,” I call.
My mother hurries out with a pile of shirts hanging over her arm.
“What about these?” she asks.
I sigh. My backpack is stuffed full of plain T-shirts, which vary only in that some of them are white and some of them black. Unsurprisingly, most of Kit’s clothing just looks like it belongs to a music star, and none of it is really my style.
“Seriously, Mum?” I ask. “If you want to help, why don’t you—”
The doorbell interrupts me. I’m closest to the video monitor panel mounted next to Kit’s bed. The image is in color, high definition, crisp and clear. I feel like I’ve seen the man standing there before, also on a screen . . . then I realize where. I’ve seen him on the TV news. Not to mention in person, just once.
“That’s Jake Graham,” I say.
“The journalist?” Kit asks.
“How many Jake Grahams do you know?”
“Bloody hell,” Kit sniffs.
“He trashed you!” I remind her—as if she wouldn’t remember.
During our