He was sitting with Javier Carpio, planning out the raid that would take place within the next two weeks. Nautical maps showing Boston’s inner harbor and the shoreline were spread over the table in front of them, and the men gestured toward different spots on the map, considering the options, using as few words as possible as they let the plan unfold organically, allowing the geography to guide them.

He could tell that something was wrong as soon as Juan Suarez came into the room. They had worked together less than two years, but in that time he had seen the man function under some of the most difficult conditions imaginable. They had literally faced down death too many times to count, and Juan Suarez had never blinked. He was as solid and steady a man as Soh had ever encountered. And yet, when Suarez entered the room, Soh could see the shadow on his face—a darkness he’d never seen before.

Suarez crossed the room and whispered the news into Soh’s ear, and as the words slipped out, Soh felt his anger grow so quickly that his normal defenses against the emotion were ineffective. The beast of fury overtook him before he had time to compose himself, and he leaped out of his chair, knocking it backward, and grabbed Suarez by the shirt.

“That is not possible!” he shouted in his native Malay, pulling Suarez close to his face, snarling at the messenger like a lunatic. His hand went for the knife in his back pocket reflexively. Suarez saw the motion and, even though he understood no Malay, he recognized the danger. It was at that moment that Soh could feel Javier Carpio’s eyes on him.

“Problem?” The giant didn’t move. He just sat there, staring. Evaluating the situation.

Soh released Suarez and turned so that he faced away from everyone in the room. He needed a moment to compose himself. “No,” he replied, a little too quickly to be believable. He turned back and looked at the giant El Salvadoran. “A setback, maybe. Not a problem.”

The giant said nothing, but his eyes urged Soh on, demanding more information without using words.

“The Irishman is still alive,” Soh said slowly, feeling the impact of each syllable, as though it hadn’t been real until he spoke the truth out loud.

“How? You told me he was gone.”

“He was,” Soh said. “I saw him shot. I saw him in water, under the flames. He could not survive.”

“And yet he has.” There was a hint of judgment in the tone of the giant that brought Soh back to the reality of his situation.

“It is of no matter.”

“No? You said that he needed to be removed. That will be harder now that he knows you are coming for him.”