Cold air scraped against the glass, leaving a thin glaze of frost at the edges of the window. Vibrations from the heavy engine hummed through the floorboards of the black SUV. Deniz Kovar squeezed the thick manila envelope resting on his lap. He could feel the hard, uneven contours of the notebook inside. Outside, Toronto's concrete jungle began to thin, giving way to the gray, wind-swept expanse of Highway 401. People stood on the shoulders of the entrance ramps despite the freezing weather. Some held Canadian flags, their red maple leaves whipping violently in the freezing wind. Others carried different symbols—green, yellow, and red banners that Connor had died under, thousands of miles away in the dust of Rojava. Valerie sat in the front seat, her shoulders small and rigid under her heavy black coat. She didn't look at the crowd. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead on the hearse carrying her only son's remains. "He hated the cold," Valerie said, her voice barely a whisper against the hum of the heater. "Always complained about the Ontario winters," Deniz agreed softly. "Yet he went to a desert only to come back to this," she murmured, her fingers tightening around a damp tissue. --- Memories of Petawawa surged back without warning, sharp and biting like the November wind. Twelve years ago, they had shared a freezing tent during winter survival training. Connor had been shivering, his teeth chattering so hard Deniz thought they might shatter. Still, the stubborn bastard had refused to take Deniz's spare thermal shirt. "Keep your gear, Kovar," Connor had muttered back then, his eyes bright with that fierce, unyielding light. "Suffer now, fight later." That was his philosophy. Suffer through the mundane to find something worth fighting for. Deniz looked down at the envelope again. Scrawled across the front in thick black marker were the words: *PERSONAL EFFECTS - CONNOR RYATT (GABAR AMED).* Below that, a Turkish customs stamp had been aggressively crossed out with a blue pen. Someone in Erbil or Sulaymaniyah had smuggled this past the border guards. They wanted to make sure Deniz got it. --- Bridges began to appear overhead as the convoy gained speed. Every single overpass was crowded. Firetrucks stood with their ladders extended, forming massive arches over the highway. Men in yellow helmets stood on top of their rigs, saluting in the freezing cold. Police cruisers blocked the intersections, their red and blue lights flashing against the gray sky. Deniz felt a lump form in his throat. This was the Highway of Heroes. Usually, it was reserved for Canadian soldiers coming back from official missions, flown into CFB Trenton. Connor had left the regular forces years ago. He had gone to Syria as a volunteer, a rogue element in the eyes of the government. Yet, the people on the bridges didn't care about the politics of Ottawa. They knew a hero when they saw one. "Look at them," Valerie whispered, her hand pressed against the glass. "They remember." "Nobody will forget him, Val Teyze," Deniz said, using the Turkish term of respect he had used since childhood. --- Silence filled the vehicle as they passed under the Port Hope overpass. A group of young men stood there, holding a massive banner with Connor's face printed on it. Beside his portrait, the words *Şehîd Namirin* were painted in bold, red letters. *Martyrs never die.* Deniz closed his eyes, the Kurdish words echoing in his mind. How did a boy from rural Ontario end up as a martyr in the Middle East? Why did the quiet kid who used to help him with his English essays become Gabar Amed? Questions without answers swirled in the quiet cabin of the car. Deniz knew the official story. Media outlets called Connor an idealist who wanted to fight ISIS. Government officials called him a liability. But Deniz knew there was more. Connor had left a voicemail three days before his patrol was hit by a Turkish airstrike near Haseke. *“Deniz, I found something,”* the message had said. Connection had been terrible, filled with the static of a satellite phone. *“It’s not just about the black flags here. It’s about home. They’re tracking us from Toronto. I’m sending you my journal. Don’t trust the liaison.”* Suddenly, the line had gone dead. --- Heavy snow started to fall, fat flakes splatting against the windshield. Deniz’s heart rate quickened. His fingers tore at the adhesive seal of the envelope. Valerie was staring out the window, lost in her grief, oblivious to his sudden urgency. Slowly, he slid the contents out. A small, black moleskin notebook slid into his palm. Its edges were severely charred, the leather cover bubbled and hardened by intense heat. It smelled of diesel, ash, and the unmistakable metallic tang of dried blood. Deniz opened the cover with trembling fingers. First few pages were ruined, the paper fused together into a solid block of carbon. He flipped carefully toward the middle, where the paper was still yellowed but readable. Connor’s handwriting was frantic, a messy scrawl that got progressively worse with each entry. *“July 14, Rojava. The heat is suffocating. We took three villages today. But the weapons we captured... they aren’t Russian. They have serial numbers registered to CFB Petawawa. How?”* Deniz froze. His breath hitched in his chest. Canadian military hardware, meant for their own forces, in the hands of ISIS? He turned the page, his eyes scanning the lines quickly. *“August 2. It’s not a mistake. Someone in the Department of National Defence is routing these shipments. I found a name. A logistics officer.”* Deniz’s pulse hammered in his ears. He turned another page. Attached to the paper with a rusty paperclip was a small, glossy photograph. It was a surveillance photo. Deniz stared at the image, his blood turning to ice. Photo showed a suburban street, covered in light snow. A man was walking toward his car, carrying a travel mug. It was Deniz. Taken from a parked car across the street from his own house in Toronto, just three weeks ago. On the back of the photo, written in a different handwriting—not Connor's—was a single sentence in Turkish. *“Sıra sende, Deniz.”* *You're next, Deniz.* --- Panic flared in his chest, hot and sharp. He looked up, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. Behind their convoy, a dark gray pickup truck had pulled onto the highway, bypassing the police blockade. It was tailing them too closely. Driver’s face was obscured by a low baseball cap, but his posture was rigid, predatory. Deniz looked back down at the photo, then at the rearview mirror again. Highway ahead opened up, but the bridges were still lined with crowds. He reached into his pocket and gripped his phone, his mind racing. Who had sent this package? If Connor was dead, who had put this photo inside his journal? Pickup truck accelerated, pulling up directly alongside their vehicle. Tinted passenger window of the truck began to roll down. --- Deniz held his breath, watching the glass slide into the door frame. Inside the cabin of the pickup, a man leaned toward the open window. He wasn't looking at the funeral procession. His gaze was locked entirely on Deniz. Two fingers pointed directly at his own eyes, then swung to aim straight at Deniz. It was a silent, chilling gesture of surveillance. Before Deniz could react, the truck decelerated rapidly, dropping back into the lane behind them. "Deniz?" Valerie's voice broke his focus. She had turned around in her seat, her eyes red-rimmed but curious. "Is everything alright?" she asked, noticing his pale face and the way his hands shook. "Yes, Val Teyze," Deniz lied, quickly slipping the notebook and the photo back into the manila envelope. "Just... thinking about Connor." "He loved you like a brother," she said, her voice cracking. Connor always said you were the only one who truly understood why he had to go. Deniz felt a heavy wave of guilt wash over him. He hadn't understood. Nights of arguing in a smoky bar in downtown Toronto came back to him. They had shouted over the loud music until Connor had walked out. That was the last time they had seen each other in person. --- Snow was falling faster now, turning the highway into a blur of gray and white. Convoy slowed as they approached the outskirts of Cobourg. More people lined the streets here, holding candles that struggled to stay lit in the wind. Deniz looked down at the envelope in his lap. He needed to inspect the rest of the journal, but not here, not with Valerie sitting right in front of him. Safety was paramount now. If someone was tracking him in Toronto, his apartment was likely compromised. His thoughts raced back to the logistics officer Connor had mentioned. Who in Petawawa had the authority to divert weapons shipments? Only a handful of people had that kind of clearance. He remembered Major Vance, their old commanding officer. Vance had always been overly interested in Connor's deployment records. Could it be him? --- Convoy finally pulled off the highway, heading toward the local funeral home where the service would be held. Escort led them through the quiet streets of the small town. Deniz felt the tension in his muscles tightening with every passing second. Gray pickup truck was gone, but the feeling of being watched remained. As the vehicle came to a stop in the parking lot, Deniz opened his door, stepping out into the biting cold. Air felt like needles against his face. He walked around to help Valerie out of the car. As she stepped down, her foot slipped on a patch of black ice. Deniz caught her quickly, steadying her. "Thank you, dear," she whispered, leaning heavily on his arm. They walked toward the entrance of the funeral home, surrounded by a small crowd of local supporters and members of the Kurdish community. A man in a dark suit stepped out of the shadows near the door. He had an earpiece in his right ear and a small, official-looking pin on his lapel. Blocking their path, the stranger's eyes scanned Deniz before resting on the envelope under his arm. "Mr. Kovar?" the man asked, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "I'm Special Agent Miller, Department of National Defence." "We need to discuss the items you received from the border." "Hand over the envelope, please." --- Deniz took a half-step back, his arm instinctively tightening around the package. "This is personal property," Deniz said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "It belongs to Connor's family." "It's a matter of national security, Mr. Kovar," Miller replied, his hand moving slightly under his suit jacket. Cooperating now would be wise, before this gets difficult. Valerie looked between the two men, confusion and fear rising in her eyes. "What's going on?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Is there a problem?" Deniz didn't answer her. His eyes were locked on Miller's hand, which was now resting on the grip of a concealed firearm. Behind them, the engine of a vehicle roared. Dark gray pickup truck from the highway suddenly swerved into the parking lot, tires screeching against the slush. Doors flew open, and three masked men stepped out, brandishing automatic rifles. "Down!" Deniz screamed, lunging to tackle Valerie to the frozen ground. Deafening blast shattered the silence of the afternoon.

Chapter 1: Bridges