Chapter 6: The Door

Calder stood. “I’m going.” She looked at the room. “Who’s with me?”

Morrow’s voice came from the archway. He was facing out, toward the corridor, toward the reddish fringe where Yoon’s shadow stood. He didn’t turn when he spoke.

“I’m staying.”

The room went quiet. Not the silence of surprise. The silence of something arriving that everyone had felt coming and no one had been willing to name. Morrow, the spine of the squad since the first formation. Morrow, who had adjusted Tan’s pack strap without breaking stride. Who had followed Yoon and then followed Calder with the same wordless reliability. Who held every formation together by being the part that didn’t move. Morrow was not going.

He didn’t explain. His hand found the wall beside him and rested there, the fingers flat against the surface, a man settling his weight into the structure that would hold him. His number explained, or his body explained, or both said the same thing. The minutes with Yoon on the route, the streets, the open ground. The number was the number.

Calder looked at him. The look held for two seconds, and in those seconds was the compression of shared service (entire exchanges conducted in posture and timing, the way their communication had always worked). Then Morrow nodded, once, and Calder turned away.

“Park.”

Park shook her head. She didn’t look up from her display. The shake was small, barely a movement, and it was complete.

“Park, we have to go,” Khouri said.

She shook her head again. Smaller. Almost nothing. Her thumb found the edge of her display and held it, the way you hold something you’ve decided to keep. The red indicator on her helmet rig blinked once, twice, steady. Still recording.

“Someone has to finish the catalogue,” she said. She didn’t look up.

He stopped.

Okafor stood.

The movement was sudden enough that Calder’s hand shifted before recognition caught up. Okafor, who hadn’t stirred from his position since they’d carried Vasquez inside. Who hadn’t spoken. Whose face had shown nothing for days. He rose, picked up his weapon, and looked at Calder. Whatever was behind the blankness wasn’t readable. But he was going.

Calder counted. Herself, Okafor, Navarro, Khouri. Four.

She looked at Morrow. At Park. Four and two.

Navarro packed her handheld. Khouri gathered his scanner (the data from every examination since the first building, Engel’s files still on his screen). Okafor moved to the archway. Calder checked her weapon.

Morrow stepped aside. He moved from the archway to the interior wall, clearing the path with the same efficient motion he brought to every task. Then he settled against the wall where he could watch the corridor and the door. The posture of a man holding a position. The position he would hold until there was no one left to hold it.

Park didn’t look up.